90

It's my Dad's 90th birthday today!

We're off to celebrate.

But first, a memory from eighty years ago exactly . . .

Grandpa Stringam and his seven sons. Dad is the little guy in the front.

My Grandma Stringam had a great sense of humour.

It didn’t emerge often.

But when it did . . .

It was my Dad’s 10^th birthday.

Preparations had been ongoing in the family kitchen for most of the day and for Dad, forbidden the hallowed hall, the anticipation was palpable.

Finally, he was called in and settled in the place of honour at the family table.

The meal commenced.

Amid much laughter and badinage, it continued.

Finished.

And the much-anticipated cake was finally brought out.

It was one of Grandma Stringam’s triumphs. A great, tall, beautifully-frosted tower of perfection.

Grandma set it in front of Dad and, for the first time in his life, handed him the knife.

Ooh, the excitement! The responsibility! The trepidation . . .

Dad carefully poked the blade of the knife into the mound of frosting. Slid it down to the surface of the cake itself. Watched as the blade bit into the soft deliciousness.

And it was there that things came to a sudden, inexplicable halt.

Literally.

The knife simply wouldn’t go any further.

It  . . . stopped.

Dad pushed a bit harder. No progress.

Cakes were harder to cut than he had anticipated. He exerted all the pressure of his ten-year-old arm.

Nothing.

His mother, standing beside him, said, “Maybe you need to try another knife.” She duly handed him a long knife with a serrated edge.

Dad set the first one down and reached for the second.

Tentatively, he poked the blade through the frosting and into the cake. Again the knife stopped just past the surface.

This time, though, as he sawed the blade back toward himself, something unexpected came with it.

A tiny strand of something white and . . . fluffy.

Dad reached for it. Rolled it between his fingers.

Cotton.

He frowned. What was cotton doing in his cake?

He sawed the blade once more. More cotton.

He glanced suspiciously at his mother.

Who was grinning hugely.

Oh.

Grandma had baked his perfect cake, then cut the top off, hollowed it out and filled it with cotton. Carefully reassembling it, she had frosted it and set it before her brand-new ten-year-old.

Now, laughing heartily, she went back into the kitchen and returned with the inside. Just as carefully frosted and decorated.

Fortunately, this one cut – and ate – easily.

Ten-year-old birthdays.

So exciting. So memorable.

For so many reasons . . .

P.S. Happy Birthday, Daddy! I love you!