Today is William Shakespeare’s 457th birthday.
I always wished my mother could dangle in labor just one more day. I’d like to share Old Will’s birthday. But I’d ballooned to nearly 11 impatient pounds. I was ripped, bruised and battered, from her womb with untimely forceps.
When I debuted, Grandpa Kavanaugh loudly asked who dropped me. I swear Mom had a psychosomatic gimp whenever she saw me.
Old Will has been my boon companion for half a century. While the tragedies hold center, I tasted all the comedies and histories.
At mom’s graveside service, I read aloud Shakespeare’s third sonnet. Here’s the better part:
… Thou art thy mother’s glass, and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime:
So thou through windows of thine age shall see
Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time. …
Mom had a droll, wicked sense of humor. She often sent me witty, appallingly cynical cards. We all agreed she giggled when her ashes, thrown from Granddad’s Bluff, blew back into our faces above La Crosse, Wisconsin.
Old Will chortled, too.
Other people from history
ELVIS PRESLEY: The ebbing of Elvis
JOHN MORRISSEY: ‘Old Smoke’
ROY BEAN: The Honorable Judge Roy Bean
MUHAMMAD ALI: The greatest of the hurricanes
ARCHIMEDES: Fan girls for Archimedes
CHARLES MINGUS: And the tuba player disappeared
