Some guys do not remember birthdays well.

I admit it.

I am one.

So, when the guests arrived, I was surprised. To my wife, they had brought the first budding roses of spring. How nice, I thought. Then, they said the words of revelation: “Happy Birthday. We know it’s a few days off, but these roses just said you. Happy Birthday.” Hugs and kisses were exchanged between them, while me, behind, I wiped the sweat from my brow: Whew, I had the time! My life would not end for having forgotten my wife’s birthday.

By buds, I was delivered, and by roses was I saved.

For that, I cared well for them in their vase. When the first bud bloomed, I smiled with remembered relief. I called that bright blossom: “Rose on First” — the Birthday Rose that got me to base and saved my life — at least for another year.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

At the ballpark, my friend and I watched the home team sag in the heat. They were a new team of young players with few returning stars. It would be a long season, but it was a spring day on the bleachers in the warmth of a bright and shiny star. Everyone was cheered, if cheers to the field were few to find. There was time to sit and smile and talk.

“What do you do?” The young couple next to my friend asked.

“Did. I delivered babies.”

“You’re kidding. What hospital?”

My baseball buddy named the place.

“I was born there. Wait a second.” The young man dialed his cell phone. “I’m calling my Mom.” My buddy smiled. “Mom, who was the doctor who delivered me on my birthday?”

As we waited, I wondered if you could be delivered on a day other than your birthday. It was a curious phrasing, I thought, that this young husband had used with his mom. I know of a baby lion who was once delivered to another field. That was a mis-directed delivery, but when the stork dropped the package and it opened before the mother sheep, that was “the” delivery date. There was no other day. From that day, Lambert the Lion grew to be a fine sheep with a mighty roar and a kindly disposition. I guess the delivery day is the “birthday.” Yes, it dawned on me, and that is what and why we remember and celebrate on our birthdays. Delivery day is opening day, the first day, the first pitch, the start of the game and the beginning of the season of our lives. Let the fun begin! That’s what birthdays are all about. I like that. I can remember that. This is a good day.

“You delivered my sister!” The young man cheered ecstatically and offered to buy my friend a soda and a hot dog and peanuts and popcorn and, well, anything else you can buy to eat or drink at the game. “You delivered my sister!” he shouted. It was a good day at the ballpark.

That Doc is not as young as he once was and he doesn’t move as fast as he once did. When he did, he loved to garden and he loved irises. When I saw this one, I snapped a shot and called it “Baby Doc on Second.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Memories are little things. They hide and wait to be found. A little like babies and deliveries and birthdays. Shy, a bit furtive, but wanting to be found. I smiled and called this one “Shy Lion Finds Third” in honor of that kindly gentleman and all his deliveries.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To return to roses, there is an old-fashioned rose out back. It is a temperamental type, waiting to be sure that the cold is past to take that first step and show its color. Somehow, that rose seems to know to be in bloom for my wife’s birthday. She smiled and rushed to tell me when she found the first full bud back there. With baseball, roses and irises, there is hope for the season. I call that first bud’s bloom, “Grandma Rose Runs For Home.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There, we have it: a reprieve, a respite and a reflection. As I thought and watched, the last of the birthday buds on the table bloomed to life. It was a good delivery. For that, I have no name, only a grateful and thankful sigh.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Third rose to the end

Turn left, round

Home plate

& Cheer!

 

Grandpa Jim