Insignificance of the number 85

For the past five (or has it been seven?) years, I would have been packing up on this day to fly to Brevard, N.C., to celebrate my birthday on the Fourth of July.

There Sherry and I would have savored our martinis over good talk on the porch in the trees; our hostess, Rae Hicks, would have baked me a lopsided cake with caramel frosting; and our personal fireworks dealer in South Carolina ? God bless him ? would have greeted me by name and gifted me with a Super Roman Candle that sells for 10 bucks. I don’t know which of these blessings I’ll miss the most.

But Sherry decided that because age 85 is a special number ? like a 50th wedding anniversary or the date the Angels won the World Series ? it should be celebrated with family at home this year. So it was designated as my “kids’ year,” and all the young people who could claim that distinction even by stretching a point or two would be invited.

It seemed like a good idea, but there were two things we didn’t factor in. First, a lot of the “kids” live in distant countries and couldn’t get here for the celebration. And, second, I don’t regard 85 as a number of any special significance.

If only one of my kids was present, a party would be called for. So as long as we had all those red, white and blue napkins, we decided to expand the party to some old and cherished friends. We’ll miss the fireworks and the lopsided cake, but not the martinis. These kids, you understand, are pretty old. Well, relatively speaking.

The number, 85, is another matter. Like most politicians, I only use numbers when they serve my purpose, and 85 really doesn’t. My purpose is living as fully as possible, and buying into the restrictions routinely identified with that number is counter-productive. I find the earned run averages of Angels pitchers or the odds against hitting a 17 at blackjack or the number of flights out of John Wayne Airport significant numbers to which I should pay attention. But not 85.

Having a birthday on a national holiday ? especially one as significant as July 4 ? is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because it’s a birthday difficult to forget ? and therefore ignore ? which usually leads to more presents and cards from people thought lost forever. And a curse because expectations are higher for all of the above reasons, and I’m not helpful when I’m asked what I would like for my birthday.

The question stymies me. Although my wife doesn’t share this view, I could live a good many years on the clothes I now own. Books pile up on my nightstand, and gadgets are of no interest to me. They briefly sound challenging, but don’t really motivate me, especially if I have to assemble them. For example, I have a magnificent set of tools for cooking meat properly on my gas grill that I have never fully unwrapped ? although I enjoy looking at them. And I have a rig I can use for shaving in the shower whose assembly I have never quite mastered ? and possibly never will.

So besides fine dining, the only things I would really like are tickets to the excellent ballet companies checking in at the Orange County Performing Arts Center. And because decent seats are so expensive, I’m embarrassed to ask. So I mostly just frustrate the generous people looking for help.

I guess the other thing I might ask for on this coming holiday is even further out of reach than ballet tickets. But I’ll throw it out here in case someone knows how to go about obtaining it.

I would like my country returned to me. I’m talking about the one I fought for 65 years ago. That one. I want it back. I find myself an unwilling partner in an undeclared war that our president told us we had won more than two years ago ? and I thought we shouldn’t have gotten into in the first place. According to the polls I read, a lot of other people seem to feel the same way. So if you don’t mind, you can hold off the gift this week and give it to me in November.

Meanwhile, I’ll be enjoying my “kids” and the neighbors who will share a special meeting of the Five O’Clock Club in our backyard on Sunday. And I’ll be hoping that Cliff and Rae Hicks can pay a visit to our fireworks supplier across the border in South Carolina and convince him that 85 is a meaningless number and that I’ll be back next year for that special Roman Candle.