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I was born deep in the winter. Each birthday my father phones to recount the events surrounding my birth. Our sons are asleep in their bedroom under the eaves. My wife and I are sitting in front of the fireplace; she is doing her needlework and I am reading a mystery. The phone rings. I ease out of my chair, walk to the kitchen, pick up the phone and say, "Hello."
It is my father. No "Hello." No "How are you?" Just the same question each birthday: "Have I ever told you what happened the night you were born?"
"I don't believe so," I tell him.
"Well, it was eight o'clock in the evening when your mother went into labor. I remember the time because Gunsmoke was just starting. There was a terrible snowstorm. We could barely see the neighbor's house for the snow. We got in the car to drive to the hospital in the city. Our defroster didn't work, and I couldn't see through the windshield. I had to drive the whole twenty miles with my head out the window. It was so cold my face was frostbitten. I ran a red light and a policeman pulled me over and said he was going to give me a ticket. I told him to hurry up because my wife was going to have a baby. The policeman said, ‘Follow me!' and he turned on his lights and siren and off we went, all the way to the hospital where you were born. You had a police escort to the hospital. Not everyone can say that. That makes you special."
When I was a child, my mother would tuck me into bed, kiss my forehead, then leave the room. My father would come in and sit at the foot of my bed and ask, "Say, have I ever told you what happened the night you were born?"
"I don't believe so," I would tell him.
He would lean back, close his eyes, and conjure up that memory'the snow and the swirling red lights and the siren's wail. I've heard that story nearly forty times and I never tire of it. Every year I wonder the same things: Will they make it in time? Will I be all right? Of course I will be, because here I am. But the way my father tells the story leaves the outcome in doubt and I never quite relax until the story concludes with me safely delivered.
In my teenage years, when my father and I were at odds, I would remember how he suffered frostbite to bring me safely into this world…and my heart would soften. I was a skinny child, the target of bullies. When beaten up and ridiculed, I would take comfort in the fact that I was ushered into this world with a police escort and they were not. It was a wonderful gift my father gave me, that story. He could not give me wealth or fame to ease my way, so he gave me that story and it provided a deep consolation.
My chief regret is that I am not able to offer my sons a similar story. Their births were routine, insofar as a child's birth is ever routine. We had sufficient time to drive to the hospital. The roads were clear. The car ran smoothly. My wife was unruffled. The doctors and nurses were competent and our children were delivered with a minimum of pain. I didn't feel a thing.
When my older son turned five years old, he asked me, "Daddy, what happened when I was born?" I didn't want to tell him the truth'that as births go, his was unremarkable, with only one peculiarity. When he was due to emerge, I was in the hospital restroom reading a back issue of Reader's Digest. Drama in Real Life. A man ran off the road and over a cliff, where he lay broken and dazed for three days before spelling out HELP with rocks and sticks. Spotted by an airplane, he was rescued and lived to share his dramatic story.
As I finished reading his harrowing tale, the nurse knocked on the door and said, "Your wife is having your baby. You better get out here." So I came out and five minutes later, so did my son. That is the truth, though it isn't the kind of story I want to tell my son. It is not the stuff of legend. So when he asked me what happened when he was born, I kissed his forehead and took my place at the foot of his bed.
"Yours was a very special birth," I told him. "Quite miraculous. It was the middle of winter. It was snowing. We were sitting in the living room late in the evening. Your mother went into labor. We climbed into the car and made our way toward the hospital. The roads were terribly slick. As we were rounding a curve, we slid off the road and over a cliff, where our car came to rest at the bottom. We were dazed and bruised. Your mother was pinned in the wreckage and couldn't move, but I could, just barely. I managed to climb through a window and gather some sticks and rocks, which I used to spell out HELP. The next morning, an airplane, circling overhead, spotted us and we were rescued. We were rushed to a hospital where you were safely delivered. And that, son, is the story of your birth."
He swelled with pride. He'd had no idea his beginnings were marked with such drama. "Tell me again," he pleaded.
"Next year," I told him. "You'll have to wait until your next birthday." I kissed him good night and went downstairs to sit in my chair. My wife was there.
"What were you and Spencer talking about?" Joan asked.
For Everything a Season
Excerpted from For Everything a Season: Simple Musings on Living Well by Philip Gulley
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
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