A Birthday Toast

The clock has just turned to midnight at 478 Harwick Road, and I've just sat down at the computer with a glass of Glenlivet 12. My last orchestra concert of the 2015-16 season is now completed, and as of four minutes ago it is my 31st birthday.

Today is the end of a long season. I'll take my dress shoes off tonight and put them away for a very long time, and at some point during this next week I'll take my tuxedo and most of my other formal clothing to a dry cleaners. I'm going to be on holiday for the next month.

We're going to the beach in a week. I'll spend my days watching the boys play in the sand in swim trunks with a book in hand. It's going to be grand.

As the year is wrapping up I'm marking another year of birthday. Really, now that I'm old enough to think about it, most of the birthday credit ought to go to my Mom. And she should get extra credit on my birthday, because I was her first child and she was young and terrified and didn't have any idea what she was in for. It's nearly impossible for me to imagine her with just one child, let alone taking just one child home from the hospital and attempting to stop its crying for the first time.

Any birthday toast, then, has to begin with her. Mom, I'm raising my glass of scotch to you. This is 31 years that we've made since you put on your bravest face in the hospital in Medina.

I played an incredibly lovely piece at the camp concert yesterday for chamber choir and solo trumpet called "I Am Not My Own." I just looked on the website to see if the video of the performance was posted yet, and unfortunately it isn't. I'll update a link if it comes up in the next few days.

As I think about turning another year older and look back on what the past year meant, I have taken those words to heart.

I am not my own.

I am my mother's first baby, a seven pound bundle wrapped in hospital cloths with a shock of dark hair, and I am completely helpless to do anything for myself.

I am my father's oldest son, the one that he counts on to play fair, share toys, and make sure that none of the younger boys are getting into any serious trouble.

I am perpetually an older brother. I am someone's student, hopefully not one of the difficult ones. I am someone's 3:00 trumpet lesson.

I am someone's employee, wearing an apron and handing out coffee and donuts. I am J's boyfriend, visiting over the holidays and being welcomed by her family. I am an in-law. I am someone's teacher. I am someone's trumpet section-comrade. I am a father, the soother of bumps and the distributor of equal turns with the much-prized dump truck toy.

I am not my own.

And as I sit here in my tux at this late hour, sipping my scotch and thinking about what it means to have a birthday, I am profoundly grateful that I have been all of yours. Everything that is good about being me in my 31st year is because I have been the son or the husband or the student or the friend or the brother of spectacularly kind and generous people. I raise a glass to you, if you are reading this. No matter why you're visiting this blog or what stake you have in keeping up with me, thank you for making some part of my 31 years a privileged and happy time.

Cheers.