The Wisdom of Ages

It was time for Charlotte to turn five and she was having none of it.  She hadn't balked at other birthdays.  Three had been lovely, four a treat, but as she approached her fifth birthday, Charlotte was resolute—there would be no celebration.  No party hats, no piñata, no clown twisting balloons into animals.  Like a middle-aged woman in Malibu, another birthday held no thrill for her.  She understood her fifth year was coming whether she like it or not, and she would greet it, but stoically, like the American people saying hello to tax season.  What had brought about this dramatic transformation?  What had sucked the fun out of a day meant to be a celebration of her?  I’ve got one word for you: Pops.

My husband’s father, known to all as Pops, is a happy guy.  He’s known for his explosive laugh, his jolly disposition, and for dispensing nuggets of useful knowledge like, If you get in trouble, keep on walking and talking.  If all of his grandchildren attempted at one time to sit on his lap, he would be crushed under their weight and given a quick eulogy.  We’re talking prodigious progeny, and to his credit, he’s pals with all of them.  So it’s not surprising that Charlotte and Pops would have chatted about her turning five.  Over the years they’d had all sorts of chats, the main difference about this particular chat was that it scared the pants off of her.  I wasn’t there, but from my understanding it went something like this:

 Hey, Pops.

Hey, Kiddo, go get me a Diet Pepsi, easy on the ice.  And while you’re at it, a little ice cream.  Whatever you’ve got.  I’m not picky.

Pops, are you kidding?  I’m only four!

[Takes off baseball cap for a second to rub his head]  Four?  You’re getting up there, kid.  Next thing you know you’re going to be five, then six, then seven, then one day one-hundred, and then you’ll DIE!

[All the spit in Charlotte’s mouth is suddenly gone, but still, she gulps]  Die?

[Leans back in recliner]  Yep, it happens to the best of us.  Marilyn, the Kennedys, Johnny Carson.  They’ve all bit the dust, cashed in their chips, bought the farm. 

[Charlotte’s expression is blank]  So I’m going to die.

[Points the remote at the TV]  Fraid so.

  That was all it took.  No longer did Charlotte view her fifth birthday as a day that should be celebrated.  Instead it was a marker indicating her steady advancement toward the grave.  She couldn’t be tempted by suggestions of bowling or bounce houses.  There would be no party, no hoopla.  Just a little get-together with the Ivey family and that was it, which worked out great for me.  I’m not a party thrower.  The lower key it is the better, which is why I need to schedule a heart to heart between Peter and Pops.  Peter’s turning five in March.