So I call Daddy back, knowing full well the first thing that will be asked: “Where were you last night?” Whether I might be at home screening calls or actually unavailable to take the call is not a consideration. I answer the question, as always, with my own question: “Why didn’t you leave a message?” And he always responds, “I ain’t leavin’ no message on some machine.”

Daddy reported to me the usual “goin’s-on.” He had just come from the garden and had picked enough peanuts so he and Mama could boil “a mess” later in the evening. The weather was sunny. They had thunderstorms and some afternoon rain showers last week. He added, “Ya’ mama’s gettin’ ready to go out to your Aunt Doe’s for a birthday party.”

Aunt Doe (short for Trevejo—a Brazilian name that was suggested by relatives who were missionaries in South America) is a retired nurse who is now in her mid-eighties. She lives in the small town of Aynor, South Carolina, where she, my mother, and their brothers and sisters were all born. It’s a little community with a population of around seven hundred people and is located about ten minutes from the farm where my parents live. During her lifetime, Aunt Doe has suffered, endured, and survived so many challenges including divorce, the diagnosis of cancer, a mastectomy, several strokes, a car accident, and the loss of her oldest son when he was in the prime of his life. And now, all the new ailments that old age generously affords are in pursuit. The decline of her mental faculties is leading this charge. Daddy says she just sits and stares a lot of the time. Mama concurs. And with a sense of resignation that life is nearing its end for her sister, she comments, “I think Doe knows me, but sometimes I wonder if she even remembers I come by to see about her.” As I hear the stories of Aunt Doe’s progressive decline, it’s hard to believe this is the same woman who taught me how to swim when I was fifteen years old. It only seems like it was last summer that my cousin Harley and I went to Bagnal’s drugstore and bought her a gold-plated pendant. It was 1978 and her birthday. We spent the night with Aunt Doe, but we didn’t get a lot of sleep. She snored all night as we lay awake laughing. We tried to sneak into her room to watch her, but every time we got close, we seemed to step on just the right spot in the hallway where the boards creaked. She would immediately wake up and say, “I hear you, boys. What are you up to?”

But on this Saturday morning, Daddy says the “ladies” (home health aides) who stay with her around the clock are having a little party for her birthday, and Mama is going. As I listen to Daddy, I can see Mama standing in front of the mirror, brushing her white hair, and getting ready to go. It won’t take her but a minute. She may smear on a little lipstick (that’s how Mama says it), but I doubt it. Mama has never been one to fuss over her appearance. She doesn’t wear perfume or makeup, although she does keep a little compact in the top drawer of her bureau. I’ve seen her dust her face with the powder puff only a handful of times in my life. And, it’s about once a year that she goes to Corlous’ Beauty Shop to have her hair fixed. Specifically, she gets a permanent. But that’s all.

She’s never been particular about her wardrobe. A few sets of polyester slacks and matching tops occupy her closet. She has a limited collection of frocks that she would have reason to wear. She’s very simple in her appearance, but nonetheless striking. I can see her driving alone, by herself, along the country highway that leads to my aunt’s house, attending to her responsibility and duty as a sister. There will probably be a cake in honor of my aunt’s birthday. Soft drinks will be served. Maybe there will be a bowl of punch. And it wouldn’t be a gathering in the South if someone didn’t make a homemade cheese ball to serve with crackers. The ladies who help take care of Aunt Doe and a handful of friends or relatives will sit around and make small talk with Mama. “She ate a real good supper last night and seemed to understand everything I talked about,” one might be heard saying. Another will add, “I think I might try and get her in the car and take her over to Wal-Mart tomorrow if she feels all right.” After about an hour, Mama will leave. The party will be over. Later in the same day, it’s early evening on the West Coast, and I’m driving to a birthday dinner in Los Angeles for my friend Lesley. At about this same time back on the East Coast, Aunt Doe has probably been tucked into bed, and, hopefully, she will soon sleep.

Reservations for the birthday engagement I’m attending were made at a noted Italian restaurant in Burbank. During the course of the evening, we dined at a beautifully set table and enjoyed a delicious meal. We toasted the occasion with really good wine. We talked about our jobs. We talked about movies. We talked about politics. We talked about our lives. We took photographs. We smiled and laughed. When dinner was over, I walked outside and gazed at the mountains that line the San Fernando Valley. I looked at the stars in the sky. I felt the summer breeze brush across my face. A chill came over me, and I thought about Aunt Doe. What was she seeing in her dreams this same night? Did she see mountains and stars? Did she feel the wind? Was she dreaming of heaven? Two women I know celebrated birthdays this day. They are two very different women with very different lives. They are separated by distance, by time, by cultures, and by life experiences. They are worlds apart, but there is a thread of commonality. They are both women I know and am glad to have known. And they both celebrated their lives this day, albeit in very different ways. Birthdays not only honor the gift of life we have been given on earth, but they also mark the passing of life. One day, these birthday girls will not be in my life. The passage of time will acknowledge the circle of life as other birthday girls, in other cultures, in other places, and in other times celebrate both the birth and passing of their own lives—differently, and yet in the same way. “Ya’ mama’s gettin’ ready to go out to your Aunt Doe’s for a birthday party.” I’m glad I called Daddy this morning and was reminded to celebrate life.

* Aunt Doe (Trevejo Dawsey Fore) passed away September 22, 2002. She is missed.