Elizabeth's birthday

One year she wanted to have a party at the pier, before she was seven I would guess, or maybe when she was eight, with several friends and dozens of water balloons.  We filled them in the sink in the kitchen, bombs loaded with water, bombs with their brightly colored skins whose lips were thicker and might snap while wrapped around the tap.

This was in the days when the pier was sort of shabby and had a miniature golf course and a hot dog stand, and just a little play area perfect for exploding water balloons.

The girls and boys came wearing bathing suits.  How relieved we were at the bright sun that June day.  Elizabeth was delighted to throw a balloon at me, but surprised when it didn't burst.  You really had to heave the things, and when all the children were assembled, heave them they did. 

If you haven't seen it, please read the comment under the post for Scooter above.  It is very lovely, and I am grateful to whomever posted it.  It is her first birthday comment today.  What a great day it was the day she was born!

Water Bombs filled with water, from German Wikipedia


  1. I remember the day Elizabeth was born so clearly, coming down to St. Vincent's to see you holding her in your arms. I remember asking you: "What can I do to help?" and you said "just love her." It was probably the easiest thing I've ever been asked to do.

  2. Wishing we could all raise a glass together to celebrate Elizabeth today. Her birthday was such a highlight of the summers I got to overlap with her on Ackerman Road; much fun and cheer. Thinking of Elizabeth, sending you and Richard love. Maybe you will make a plain pizza?

  3. Thinking of you and everyone else who knew and loved Elizabeth. Particularly today.

    Today it was raining, as though she was remembering that day, too.

  4. I thought of you first thing this morning, and I think of you last thing tonight. As you know, I did not know your beautiful, smart, sweet Elizabeth, but as the mother of a girl just her age (4 days apart)I know how precious that person is. I'm sorry, Patty, and I wish for peace for you and Richard.


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How Dina Aunty relished her memories. Mummy and Daddy were the same, talking about their yesterdays and smiling in that sad-happy way while selecting each picture, each frame from the past, examining it lovingly before it vanished again in the mist. But nobody ever forgot anything, not really, though sometimes they pretended, when it suited them. Memories were permanent. Sorrowful ones remained sad even with the passing of time, yet happy ones could never be re-created—not with the same joy. Remembering bred its own peculiar sorrow. It seemed so unfair: that time should render both sadness and happiness into a source of pain.

> From A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry