Peggy Dover

This morning, I woke to day two of no fog. Oh, it was plenty cold, but the mantle of morbidity had vanished and that made all the difference.

It’s the first time in what seems like forever that a clear-as-a-bell sky had finally won the day. I rejoiced to witness the sun rise. I may have danced a jig, I’m not sure. It felt like a gift — an answer to prayer, even.

I know it’s winter, and I love the four seasons (especially “Candy Girl”), but freezing fog should remain in two places: on the coast and in England, preferably on the moors in an old movie based on a Dickens story. The sun came to town just in time for a celebration.

Another birthday is lying in wait. By the time this is read, the day will have pounced on me like a mischievous cat or a 4-year-old version of self, waking me with implausible, yet hopeful expectations. It will dawn that “more than a few” years ago Mom birthed me in Vancouver Memorial Hospital never imagining what a crackpot I’d grow to be, though my older, crackpot brother and sister soon got wise.

I’ve said it before. I believe birthdays should be celebrated. They are definitely a gift.

I’ve stopped rooting out my birth certificate to take another look, hoping I read it wrong, though many times I’ve considered there must be a typo with the date — in a hurry for breaktime, some overworked office personnel subtracted a decade. Most days I don’t feel the weight of the years it claims I’ve been around. There are a few of the other sort.

I don’t know anyone personally who shares my birthday, but I do feel honored to celebrate the date with Randolph Scott and jazz guitarist Django Reinhardt — both deceased, however. Not as proud to count Napoleon Bonaparte and Tonya Harding as birth-mates.

I began fiddling around with birthday ideas and ran across an interesting tale about the birthday song, “Happy Birthday.” You know the one. Did you know the song was written in 1883 by Patty and Mildred Hill, two sisters in Kentucky? It began as a simple morning greeting song for Mildred’s kindergarten class. Her sister Patty was the principal. The song they came up with was sung to the now ubiquitous birthday ditty tune and went as follows:

“Good morning to you.

Good morning to you.

Good morning, dear children

Good morning to all.”

Then one summer afternoon, they were throwing a birthday party in the Kentucky woods for their friend Lysette and decided to change the lyrics of their greeting song to “Happy birthday to you.” The sisters were prominent in the kindergarten movement, and it ended up in a songbook for kindergarten classrooms, which they took to the Chicago World’s Fair in 1893. There’s more to the story, including royalties being collected for years long after the copyright should have expired. Anytime the song was used commercially, it cost the user $1,500.

Details of the sisters and the tune’s journey came from the research and award-winning documentary film by Jennifer Nelson. I found the fascinating article on the 1-800-flowers website’s “Petal Talk” blog titled “The Unusual History of the Happy Birthday Song” (https://bit.ly/3E75XrF). Come to find out, this article was written by Tricia Drevets, a fellow Southern Oregon writer. We even share two Facebook friends in the theater realm. This world of ours — it really is pretty small and chock full of curiosities.

For the next several days, I will frolic on and off with lovely friends who think enough of me to turn a blind eye to my faults and extoll my good side. Two have DUs in store for me. Not DUIs. I’m still hoping for that ride-along with a cop I mentioned last week. DU stands for Destination Unknown, which curiosity hound Denise thought up. I won’t know until I get there. Lynn also has something up her sleeve, and it’s more than a Kleenex, I’m sure. Lane is taking me to Lark’s for dinner — a favorite.

Celebrate your birthday and mine, and the next time you sing “Happy Birthday,” thank two sisters from Kentucky, where the gray squirrel is the official state animal and clogging the official dance.

Salut!