It's the Big 8-0

As the last in a line of holiday boys in my family, the season just ended (except for gift returns, of course) had some special meaning for me.

My grandfather was born on Christmas Day. My father was born on Christmas Day. I was a bit late, but made my appearance on New Years Day--January 1, 1936. Reaching my 80th year inspired a special party hosted by son Lee (he broke the male holiday chain with a February birthday), Lee's fiancée Karen, beautiful wife Sandy, and Karen's mother, Ilse.

The party was lots of fun. Participants kept things on the positive side; a card from Ilse informed me

Something to celebrate--80

that 80 really is only 40 x 2. Nobody asked me if I had any regrets.

No matter how you frame it, however, 80 is closer to the end than the start of our individual journeys. I have spent a little time reflecting on that, and must confess to a touch of sadness. Life has been good; I'm still healthy, although not quite as wealthy and wise as I would like. Hanging around for a while longer would be nice.

My spirits got a boost when up popped a link to a November article in the New England Journal of Medicine reporting on a major study of life expectancies around the world. I learned that two-thirds of men in developed countries die before they are 80. I thus have outlasted millions of my contemporaries. The researchers also found that an American male reaching 80 has good odds of living to 87.

The nice thing about age statistics is that getting into the lead invites you to continue on. If I make the 87 marker, odds are I'll get into the 90s. Assuming reasonable health, becoming an octogenarian could be the start of a fairly long and pleasant addition to my journey.

I immediately experienced one of the minor joys of advanced age. There no longer is any need for those miserable New Years resolutions. They are supposed to have the laudable purpose of self-improvement, but after 79 years of striving, and usually falling short, in that department what you see is what you're going to get. I intend to take things as they come, and have some fun along the rest of the way, however long or short that part of the adventure may be.

Merry Birthday II

Some folks still may be laughing it up as we reach the end of the season to be jolly, but about this time of  year members of my family often suffer from celebration burnout. Our problem is caused by a concentration of birthdays.

There's a somewhat unusual history of holiday birthdays in my family. My grandfather was born on Christmas Day in Germany in 1855. My father was born on Christmas Day in Wausau, Wisconsin, in 1891. I broke the chain. My birthday is on New Years Day.

I don't know how being a Christmas baby affected grandfather's life, but it had a bit of negative impact on

dad. He was subjected to "one for two" gifting. He got more than his share of packages at our Christmas morning present openings marked "Merry Christmas and Happy Birthday."

My New Years Day arrival might have been expected to improve dad's fortunes to compensate, but it didn't. Merchants in my hometown showered gifts on the mothers and fathers of the year's first-born. It was a small city, and  sometimes the first baby of the year didn't arrive until Jan. 3 or 4. However, the one doctor who specialized in assisting at baby deliveries was busy on my birthday. I was the fourth child born that day. My family got no gifts nor headlines in the local paper.

Well, I did present dad with a full year's tax deduction, right? Yes, but his business was doing so poorly at the time that he had no profits and therefore no income taxes to pay. My new dependent deduction had no value.

Lee broke the family tradition of male holiday births when he waited until February 11 to arrive, but he contributed to our present birthday burnout situation. Karen's birthday is Jan. 8 and Sandy's comes not long after on the 21st. The four of us who live in close proximity thus require gifts and parties four times within about six weeks. That's a lot of partying, especially closely following the Christmas season.

Karen proposed a plan to make the 2014 B-Day time happier for all. Each birthday will feature the usual gift opening, but this time at a low-key private gathering for dessert and drinks in the evening. We will have one gala event on Jan. 25 to honor all four of us. It should be a good party, and one will be quite enough, thank you. 

Another Merry Birthday

This topic is revisited annually.  Why?  Well, it happens every year, and as long as it keeps happening all is well with the Geezer.

New Years Day is my birthday. “Ah,” say many of those who first learn of this, “your parents were lucky.”

Those who make this type of observation usually envision front-page news stories and tons of presents showered by various businesses seeking some free advertising on the mother and father of the first child born every year.  Even medical folks get into the act.  Parents of the first child born at one of the major area hospitals this year got extra diapers and gift cards good at a local restaurant and movie theater from the hospital staff.

Note the hairline resemblance

It didn’t work that way for my parents.  I didn’t appear until about 7 p.m. on Jan. 1. A half-dozen babies were born earlier on New Years Day that year in my hometown.  The prizes and gifts were long gone when I arrived. 

Sympathizers then sometimes remark that at least my coming gave old Dad another income tax exemption. That didn’t work, either. At the time, toward the end of the Great Depression, Dad didn’t earn enough to have any income tax liability.

The timing of my birth was not only financially disappointing; it ended a family tradition that might have provided the Klade clan some measure of fame.  My father, Fred J. Klade, was born on Christmas Day, 1891, in Wausau, WI.  His father, Fred C. Klade, was born on Christmas Day, 1855, in Germany. We don’t know the birth date of my great-grandfather or previous male ancestors.  Had I appeared as “scheduled,” it would definitely have been three Christmas boys in a row, with a slim possibility of four or more.  My mother said I was too stubborn to conform to the family pattern.

In tough times, a holiday season birthday can be a distinct disadvantage.  A good number of my father’s Christmas presents were labeled “Merry Christmas and Happy Birthday.” The gift givers cut their costs in half, but Dad’s gift-receiving pleasure suffered equally, although he never complained.  In better economic times, there apparently is no problem.  I have yet to receive a single gift or card in honor of both Christmas and my birthday.

The lasting advantage of my “1/1” birth date is that friends find it very easy to remember, and good things happen because they do. This year was no exception. Once again, my birthday celebration started with congratulations via e-mail from Jake Jirschele, a high school pal I haven’t seen for some 50 years.  After many years of mystery as to how Jake knew my birth date, he admitted remembering it from a conversation in a bar in 1955! (see the Jan. 6, 2011 post, “The Consistent Mystery Every New Years Day,” in the archives).

Shortly after reading Jake’s annual message, the Geezer was treated to a telephone call that began with a “Happy Birthday to you” song accompanied by some giggles and chuckles.  The song leader was Jim Shea, another chum from long ago who I haven’t seen for many years.  He recalled visiting our house on Christmases past to partake of some “shaum tort,” a special dessert whipped up (literally) by my Mom in honor of Dad’s birthday.  Jim remembered both of the notable Klade birthdays, and quite a few other events from years gone by.  His call was among the many things that made my 2012 birthday something special.

I also finally cashed in with a special first-day gift from a business.  Denny’s restaurants e-mailed a coupon good for a free birthday breakfast. Nothing pleases me more than an occasional escape from healthy fare in favor or a good old American breakfast featuring lots of fried, high-calorie stuff.  Denny’s does that sort of meal well. 

Soon after beautiful wife Sandy and I settled into a booth at Denny’s a gray haired couple somewhat older than me (and that’s pretty old!) sat down in an adjacent booth.  The man exchanged a hearty “Happy New Year” greeting with the waitress.  The two chatted pleasantly throughout their meal.  I noticed the waitress bringing a plate of pancakes to their table.

As I was checking out, the elderly couple stood close to me waiting their turn. They were all smiles and exchanged pleasantries with everybody in the area.  Sandy waited nearby while I made a restroom stop after I settled our bill.  The couple had gone when I returned.  “I heard what their bill was,” Sandy said when we were in our car.  “They paid $4.24 for two breakfasts. The cashier confirmed the statement with the man. I heard the old gent say he had two pancakes, and the lady had one. They had nothing else but water.”

We’re guessing of course, but we both got the impression that the elderly couple was starting their new year treating each other to a restaurant meal they could barely afford.  They did it with dignity and good cheer.  Just seeing them made our morning more pleasant. They reminded us that material wealth is not necessary to create a celebration

May 2012 will be a happy year for you, full of the little pleasures that really matter.

The Consistent Mystery


Every New Years Day, I look forward to two things. Gifts and good wishes from family are one. A birthday greeting from John “Jake” Jirschele is the other.


Once again, the family came through. So did Jake, at about 8 a.m. on January 1.


Jake Jirschele lived a couple of blocks up the street from my childhood home in Tomahawk, Wisconsin. He was in the class behind mine in high school. I haven’t seen him for about 50 years, but I remember him well. Obviously, he remembers something about me very well.


Jake was consistent, as I recall. He stroked every shot as hard as possible in Spike’s Pool Hall, whether it was a long one or a four-inch “gimmee.” He made a lot of them, and bounced a few cue balls off the walls in the process. He fired off shots from outside the circle (three-pointers nowadays) with reckless abandon on the basketball court. He made a few of them. When he itched, he invariably scratched. Where? Well, we won’t go into that.


When it comes to my birthdays, Jake has been equally consistent for a long time. We connected to the Internet as soon as that became possible. Early on, we added Jake’s addy to our list and knew he had ours, but we rarely corresponded. The first New Years Day we could receive e-mail, to my surprise, Jake sent me a happy birthday message.


How did he know? The first greetings arrived many years before my birth date became readily available to the world through this Blog and, more recently, via Facebook. Jake has remembered the big day every year—probably about 15 times—since his first message. Each time I ask him how he knew New Years Day was my birthday. He has never answered the question. Either he has a very long memory or a well-maintained calendar.


The Jirschele birthday message always includes wishes for good fortune in the year ahead. We’re planning on making those wishes come true.


Everything here is Jake, Jake.


For you youngsters, that saying is said to have become popular in the 1920s and still was heard often during my teenage years. “Everything is Jake” means “everything is OK.” I hope it applies to John Jirschele as well as to our present situation and our prospects for 2011. Maybe Jake will even answer my question this year.

A Blueberry Thrill


The women in my life have done a great job helping me indulge in a great pleasure—eating plump, sweet blueberries. I love ‘em.


My mother, an elegant lady who usually dressed as if for a special occasion whenever she left the house made an exception at the height of blueberry season in northern Wisconsin. She put on her field uniform. It consisted of high-top boots, a pair of well-worn coveralls, and a decrepit floppy hat. Thus attired, she went off to spend a long day picking as many blueberries as she could find.

When Mom got home, we enjoyed blue treats for weeks. The berries appeared as desserts, in muffins, over breakfast cereal, and best of all, in pies. The pies were heavenly. They inspired me to demand a blueberry pie instead of the traditional cake as the centerpiece of my birthday celebrations. I not only requested pie, I insisted on one to be eaten only by me!


Mom had no freezer when I was a little boy. She compensated by canning and otherwise preserving foods in wondrous ways. Because of her skills, blueberries were available in our household months after the picking season ended. I got my personal pie complete with candles on every birthday as far back as I can remember.


My addiction to the annual pie coupled with a reputation for conservative financial management (being a tightwad, some might say) led to a family story that survives to this day. On one of my birthdays, a favorite aunt, Dorothy, was visiting from Milwaukee. She begged for a piece of my pie. I very reluctantly agreed, but only after she agreed to pay me a dollar for a small slice.


Wife Sandy is a superb cook, but pies are one of the few things not in her repertoire. After we hooked up, she compensated for that by ferreting out stores that could provide a blueberry pie in mid-winter for my birthday. A couple of times, when no stores or bakeries had pies on their shelves, she was forced to substitute things like blueberry pop-tarts, but the tradition continued and we got some laughs out of the new varieties of pie.


Last year, our first in southwestern Michigan, son Lee’s fiancée Karen showed us one of the reasons agriculture is a leading industry in these parts. We are in blueberry heaven. Karen took us to a major blueberry farm only about 12 miles from our home. You could pick your own, as my Mom once did, but it was a lot easier to let a small army of green-card workers do that hard work. Sandy bought 30 pounds of Michigan’s finest. We celebrated with a round of blueberry ice cream cones.


Sandy split the haul into manageable quantities and froze the bags. Now, I’m enjoying the “perfect breakfast’ (see Dec. 6, 2006, post) seven days a week. I just thaw out a bunch of berries, top off some oatmeal with them, and love every delicious minute of getting started into a new day. If Sandy must buy pop-tarts for my birthday, she is forgiven.


As a native Badger, it is embarrassing to admit that southwestern Michigan blueberries are superior to northern Wisconsin blueberries, but they are. Some of the same soil, topography, and climate conditions that once made our newly adopted area the celery growing capital of the United States (Michigan still is number three behind California and Florida, which have much longer growing seasons) apparently are ideal for growing fantastic blueberries. We didn’t move here for the berries, but had I known how good they are, I might have.


Hey, Fats Domino. Where did you find Blueberry Hill?  I’ll bet it was right here.