Birthday Parties

Birthday parties on the farm were occasions where our cousins from the farm next door would join us for an afternoon of fun and games and excitement.

On one such birthday, my father made us a lucky dip.  He cut a hole in the side of a large cardboard box and filled it with wood shavings.  My mother carefully wrapped up small gifts in the form of colouring-in books and wax crayons.  It didn't seem to matter that all the gifts were identical, it was still very exciting to put your hand through the hole and feel around for the moment when your fingers came across the anticipated gift. 

My very first birthday recollection was when I turned four.  My mother made a fruit cake, which was a great disappointment to me, as there was no icing on top.  I was obliged to share the cake with my father whose birthday fell in the same month as mine, and as he suffered from stomach ulcers, was unable to eat anything really sweet.  My cousin from next door who was fifteen months younger than me, came to my party.

The candles were duly lit and as I blew them out, a reedy happy birthday was sung to me.  Then it was my cousins turn to blow out the candles.  He took a big breath and promptly spat all over the cake!  My mother who could on occasion be fairly diplomatic said "Never mind, we'll just cut this bit off".  The cake, which I really didn't much like in the first place, suddenly became even less appealing.

My aunt from next door always gave me books for my birthday, which I treasured.  When I turned eight, she gave me a book all about the life of Davy Crockett, and nestled between the pages was a crisp one pound note.  At this point, I felt quite rich.  Another cousin of mine had previously given me a Davy Crockett hat, and so with hat on head and gun in hand, and singing the Davy Crockett song, I re-enacted all the Davy Crockett escapades around the farm, feeling for a period of time like I was "the king of the wild frontier".