Three Decades Old with a Bang

That is indeed correct; thirty years of life are marked for me as of December 23. And lucky me for not having to celebrate this culmination alone, as I surprisingly discovered last night.

Want a lesson in knowing someone loves you? Loves you not just a little, but wholeheartedly? These feelings and displays of affection do exist.
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Alone I definitely was not all week long, as I was put to the task to help clean the house from top to bottom. The mission of de-cluttering, vacuuming, and scrubbing was relentless in our large house, and something, of course, always had to be put somewhere else.

Cyd’s friend Ami was visiting from Chicago, and no way would any stray mess be visible when the guest arrived. Add this to the hubbub of holiday decorating, and we had ourselves an operation.

And what did I find on Sunday night? My wife cutting perfect triangles from the pages of an old book and hot gluing them to a string with a strip of red ribbon. Said string would then be hung across our kitchen / dining area to create “bunting.” Being a former baseball player and a coach, I immediately envisioned dropping one down the third base line and running like hell, but this was clearly a homonym. More on the baseball connection shortly.

To my puzzled queries, she was simply adamant that they were holiday decorations themed to our love of reading. Cyd always has been creative and full of novel ideas, so I thought, “Okay…” like usual, helped measure, and left her to her devices.

She cut, glued, yelped, “Ouch!” along with another slight oath when she burned her finger, asked me if things were “even,” and soon, a lovely display of “bunting” was strung for all to see. It was quite a home run, admittedly.

The week went on, and the vicious winter storm deposited me back home on Wednesday and Friday with snow days, so I had even more time to work on the house until it was almost pristine.

Saturday came. Ami was due at about 3:00. Last minute this and that. Wait. Her flight was delayed; more like 5:30. Okay. Oh, and your brother and sister-in-law will be here, too. Oh, cool. Okay. Check.

To kill time, we sauntered over to our neighbor’s excellent holiday party, had a few drinks, and went back over to meet Andy and Becky when they arrived. Cyd made me a small grocery list, sent Andy and I to Wegman’s with it, and claimed she and Becky had to pick up Ami from the airport.

“We should be back in about an hour! Have fun!” she said.

If only I could have read between the lines. But I’m more of a go-with-the-flow, we-have-a-plan-okay-good kind of person, so when I’m given a clear job, I do it. I usually don’t ask why or how.

Wegman’s was Wegman’s; busy as usual, but not too bad. We got what we were sent for, and Andy suggested we head over to Marshall’s because he needed to buy a baking pan for Becky.

“Just to kill some time,” he said.

“Sure, yeah.”

We found the pan, then he suggested we check out the clothes for a few minutes. After perusing the discount jeans and hoodies, we headed home.

“Oh, Becky says your neighbors asked if some people could park in the driveway, so it might be a little crowded when we get back. Just so you know.”

“Oh, okay.”

Again, read between the lines? Nope.

I noticed three vehicles in our driveway, but was dark enough that I couldn’t tell make or model. I weaved my way around the other cars parked along the street for the party (still our neighbor’s, I thought) and parked in the garage. We walked the same old path up to the same old steps and door.

“Wait, is that Dave and Lewis?” I remarked upon seeing two of our friends through the window. “They weren’t supposed to be here.”

We opened the door, and naturally, of course, clearly—

“SURPRIIIIIIIIIIIISE!”

Hook, line, and sinker, I was duped. Duped into cleaning like a fiend and shopping for my own party with not a clue in this world at all.

I couldn’t help but smile, of course, and you wouldn’t believe the lengths my dear Cyd took to make it special. Our family, friends, co-workers of mine all were there. I spied my Little League jerseys hanging on the wall along with a tapestry of old photos of me in my procession of uniforms growing up, from T-Ball to college.

“Honey, did you get your baseball stuff down yet?” she must have asked me 1,000,000 times and a half in the past few weeks.

“YES, babe. I got it down last weekend.”

Now I realized exactly what she had planned. But was that all? No.

On a previous visit to Wegman’s, Cyd was on the hunt for Cracker Jack. I remarked on the availability of caramel popcorn right in plain sight, but she had to enlist two employees to search because “it had to be Cracker Jack.”

“Well, it was right here; I don’t know… hold on… Hank! Cracker Jack?!”

“Sigh. Honey. Is it that important?”

“Stop it! Yes.”

The Cracker Jack was eventually found and life went on.

It was on the table for my party, along with nachos in official ballpark nacho containers. Along with hot dogs in official hot dog trays. These in addition to condiments scooped in mini-helmets of my favorite team, the Atlanta Braves. Not to mention peanuts in little paper bags labeled, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MIKE.” Not even to mention all of the gameballs I had saved from throughout my pitching career in a basket on the corner of the table.

I was taken completely aback. Not only had she done this, she had found red and blue plastic silverware and plates. My sister-in-law made cupcakes with the Braves and Buffalo Bills (my other favorite team— yes, I know) logos on the frosting. And the invitations to my shindig were sent in red envelopes lined with clippings from the newspaper sports section.

Is that not love? Is that not true affection and appreciation? Is that not realizing exactly what your wife means when she says earlier in the day in response to one of your mini-temper episodes, “In a few hours, you’ll be sorry you were such a jerk!” Is that not foreshadowing at its best? Is that not thinking you owe her one, big time?

“Oh, I just wanted you to have a party.”

“Well, thank you, honey.”

It was always a treat, not a damnation, to have a birthday so close to Christmas. My parents would always just have my party a couple of weeks beforehand and a smaller family affair on the 23rd. I felt like a kind last night and not 30 at all, and if she can keep me feeling that way, I’m all for it.

Thanks, baby. You’re the best.

(And oh yes, there is ballpark food leftover. Oh, yes indeed).

{Photo by Cyd Converse for The Sweetest Occasion.}

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