Throughout my childhood years, the New Year’s Eve tradition was to go to my Mamaw and Papaw’s house with all the family. We would eat finger foods until we couldn’t breathe anymore, sit around and watch the generations of parents and grandparents try not to fall asleep, and start the countdown at ten seconds until midnight with our cocktail-sized cups of sparkling grape juice. Once the ball dropped in New York, our parents would all give their first kiss of the year to each other while “Auld Lang Syne'' played gently, but proudly, in the background. The kids felt like adults as we toasted with our sparkling liquid that never really sparkled, and then we would turn to the “New Year baby” and sing “Happy Birthday.” His face would turn a little red because he never enjoyed the spotlight very much, but it was tradition. This was how I celebrated the New Year almost every year of my life.
Usually, we celebrated my Dad by going to Bass Pro Shops on his birthday. That was his favorite place to go, and he usually had some Christmas money that he would want to spend there. One year, we went to Dave & Buster’s in Orlando. Last year, the last birthday that he and I will ever spend together, we went to Lake Seminole to fish. I’m pretty sure that day should have been a sign for the rest of the year because neither one of us caught anything. I got a few nice sunset pictures and probably a lot of weeds on my hook. I definitely got some memories to hold onto. After the day was finished, we would settle down with a store-bought cake, or sometimes a banana cake with brown sugar icing—that was Dad’s favorite. I guess it pays off to be a New Year’s baby because everyone is usually off work and able to enjoy a special day.
In my family, we always tried to make birthdays a special ordeal. Because I’m an only child, my parents almost always made my birthday a big deal. The year that I turned eight was the first year I went to Disney World. After that, we went every year for my birthday, usually for a week. We pitched a tent at Disney’s Fort Wilderness campground and would be on our way to the parks. It truly was a magical experience every time.
I was a rollercoaster kid. I loved the thrill (now I want to hurl just thinking about it). Dad wasn’t exactly a rollercoaster guy, but he rode every single ride that I wanted to go on because I had no one to go with me. My first “major rollercoaster” was “Rock ‘n’ Roller Coaster” at Disney’s MGM Studios. I think I must’ve been about eight years old and I had FINALLY just reached the height requirement (I might have stood on my tip-toes a little, even). We rode that rollercoaster so many times that I remember Dad reciting the dialogue that Aerosmith speaks toward the end of the line for the ride. He would let me ride in the very front or the very back, whichever I wanted to do (not just because it was my birthday celebration trip, but because he wanted to do whatever I wanted). A few years later, Animal Kingdom built their Mount Everest rollercoaster — the one that, according to Google, drops you eighty feet down. Way worse than Splash Mountain’s forty-nine foot plunge, which Dad already wasn’t a huge fan of. It even stops and goes backwards at some point on that ride. One time, we were at the very top where the riders can overlook the whole park. Dad looked over at me, his face slightly whitened, “I’ve figured out I don’t like heights anymore.” And then we took off with me laughing my head off.
We spent countless hours in those Disney World lines— Rock ‘n’ Roller Coaster, Mount Everest, Splash Mountain, Space Mountain, Big Thunder Railroad...you name it, we rode it. We were Disney pros. We even got to see the underbelly of Big Thunder Railroad one time because the ride broke down. Apparently, this was a rarity to see the less-magical side of all the magic. As I get older, I realize more and more that he didn’t do all of that for his own pleasure. He did it because it was magical for me. He gave me those magical memories, along with my mom— not Disney World.
After we stopped going to Disney World for my birthday, he had taken me to Celebration Station to race go-carts (and get kicked off of the track for pushing...oops), Panama City Beach for some good seafood, shopping, and Dave & Busters, and last year, we took a family trip to Dahlonega. The magic never stopped because I had a mom and dad who loved me and wanted to make my life as magical as possible.
All of our birthdays are fairly close together — mine is December 1st, Dad’s is January 1st, and Mom’s is February 10th. This year, of course, is very different. When my birthday rolled around in 2020, Dad was in the hospital, unconscious, on a ventilator to fight against Covid. I never expected last year when we were hiking to see waterfalls in Dahlonega that it would be the last year he would tell me “happy birthday, Gracie.” In my foggy, slightly confused state of mind, I still am expecting to receive a call from him so he can wish me a happy birthday, even though it’s now his birthday. I was supposed to sing “Happy Birthday” to him like I always do after he and my mom do their midnight kiss. I never thought he wouldn’t see year fifty-nine. I couldn’t even bring myself to say “Happy New Year” to my mom because it was just another holiday I was relieved to get through.
Today, I will sing “Happy Birthday.” Maybe not with a dry face, but I will. It’s a tradition that I will not break. Today, I will remember those fishing trips, those Bass Pro trips, those family dinners with birthday cake, and forever be grateful for them all. Happy birthday, Daddy. I know you’re having a great one today.
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