Seeing that a person’s birthday comes but once a year, celebrating it in a substantial way is a damn good idea. Even though my wife Sandy and I don’t always follow that philosophy, a couple of weeks ago we did. Having booked a hotel room in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA for Sandy’s birthday (the big day itself, plus the two days bookending it), we dipped into The City Of Brotherly Love’s many offerings and, as is almost always the case when we’re there, had a fine time.
What did we do? We had two great restaurant dinners, for one thing, meals that we won’t soon forget. We took in a movie (Barbie, which Sandy, unlike me, liked a lot). We wandered into Jules Goldman Books And Art, one of the most mind-blowingly jumbled stores I’ve ever seen. And we gazed in wonder at the mosaic mural (by Isaiah Zagar) covering all sides of the long-vacant building that once housed the Painted Bride Art Center. Sandy and I saw loads of terrific music and dance performances at the Bride, and truly miss it. (The Painted Bride Art Center still exits. It’s at a different location now, and is but the merest shadow, arts-wise, of its former world-class self.) The building’s and the mosaic mural’s fates, tied up in litigation for a number of years, are uncertain. Demolition is a real possibility. If that comes to pass, Philadelphia will lose a treasure.
The birthday girl and I also went to the Philadelphia Museum Of Art. In that enormous institution we viewed hundreds of artworks, including the world-famous painting popularly known as Whistler’s Mother, on loan from a museum in Paris. I was expecting to poo-poo the picture, but the more I looked at it, the more I liked it. It’s a well-designed creation, quite riveting, whose true title (Arrangement In Grey And Black No. 1) is a good description of what the artist James Whistler was going after, and accomplished, when his mother Anna posed for him in 1871.
I could mention plenty more activities, but I’ll limit myself to one. A very personal one. Namely, our visit to a central Philadelphia neighborhood we both were familiar with, and within which we very likely crossed paths many years before we formally met in 1990.
I moved to Philadelphia in 1974, taking up residence on Clinton Street, a leafy block with any number of fine old houses. I lived there for 14 months in an apartment building, the one nondescript structure on Clinton, during which time Sandy worked two blocks away. Did we pass one another, maybe more than once, on the street? Did we chow down in a neighborhood eatery at the same time? We’ll never know, but I’m guessing yes. On the day before her birthday, we reminisced about those long-ago days as we strolled along a bunch of blocks in the Clinton Street area.
To continue: As noted above, our paths crossed in 1990. Meaningfully too. This occurred at a singles event near Philadelphia’s Delaware River waterfront. Sandy and I, each of us far removed from our Clinton-Street-neighborhood days, clicked right from the start and have been together ever since. I don’t believe in fate or anything like that. But it’s cool that, unbeknownst to us, we were part of the same picture all those years before, in a sense just waiting for our stories to entwine.
Now, this being a piece about a special occasion, I’ll conclude the proceedings with blasts of good cheer and high energy. And I’ll turn to The Beatles to handle the honors. Their hard-rocking song Birthday appears on what has come to be known as The White Album. John Lennon and Paul McCartney wrote Birthday quickly in the recording studio in September 1968. A few hours later, the band, McCartney handling lead vocals, put it on tape. Man, in no time at all a classic was birthed.
It’s inarguable that Paul McCartney calling Sandy and singing Birthday over the phone to her would be better than my presenting her with The Beatles’ recorded version. Maybe one day, in an alternate universe, that will happen. But for now, the original, in all its glory, will suffice beautifully. And so, once again . . . happy birthday, Sandy!
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