I was up very early today—perhaps a subsconscious reminder of the call
around 5:00 that morning from the hospital in Monmouth announcing that you
had been born. I still remember the magical feeling that called evoked—a
pride of accomplishment (although I had done nothing but drive the car to
the hospital), a relief that all the waiting and wondering was over. I
started to try to remember when your mother and I discussed the name we
would give you—certainly something we did AFTER your healthy birth— but I
frankly have no recollection when the name and spelling came to me.
Here’s one for YOUR grandchildren: You were born long before cell phones
were invented, long before utrasounds were available to determine the gender
of the fetus. Here’s one I bet you didn’t know. When we first got to Ft.
Hancock on Sandy Hook (in the news today because of body washed up on the
shore) , you had to tell an operator in Atlantic Highlands to please give
you whatever number you needed. It didn’t quite have the dash of a military
operation, even during the flooding of the entry highway during a hurricane.
While we were there, AT&T switched the phones to automatic dialing. You,
too, were a whiff of the modern world.
Happy birthday. It might be your 61st and a fact that I can’t remember squat
about what I saw on 60 minutes last night, but I remember everyting about
taking you to the hospital for your birth, getting dismissed from the
waiting room to go home to sleep, and then returning to see you and your
mother for the first time.
