Happy Brithday to Jane and Ludwig

Today happens to be the birthday of two of my favorite people. The first? Ludwig von Beethoven, who was born on December 16, 1770. For Beethoven, today we celebrate his 250th birthday, certainly a major milestone, even if he didn't live to see it. Beethoven died at 56 in 1827, a mildly disturbing fact for those of us who have survived for many more years and yet have accomplished so very little. 

I've been listening to a lot of Beethoven today, thanks to Sirius satellite radio, Alexa, and the new Bose speaker that Diane bought me for Christmas. I told Dear Diane I'd wrap it up again and put it under the tree a few days before the 25th...maybe. But in the meantime I can listen to the work of this true musical genius.

Off the cuff I can name only one other person born 250 years ago: the poet, William Wordsworth, a man with the perfect last name for a poet. I knew of Wordsworth's birth year only because I recently read an article about him in the December issue of First Things -- "The Genius of Wordsworth" -- so don't think I'm all that smart. Wordsworth lived a long life, dying in 1850 at the age of 80.

Today I also discovered that William Clark, of Lewis and Clark fame, was born in 1770, specifically on August 1. In additon to his noted exploring, he fought in the War of 1812 and was later appointed governor of the Missouri Territory by President Madison. He seems to have had a rather full life and died in 1838 at the age of 68.

Another 1770 baby was Charles Adams, second son of our second president, John Adams. Charles was a most unfortunate man. An alcoholic who also carried on with women other than his wife, he was ultimately disowned by his father and died in 1800 at the age of 30, far short of 250. By the way, if you're ever in the Boston area, I suggest stopping by the Adams Home in Quincy, MA. It's truly worth a visit.

But enough of those 1770 folks. Besides Beethoven's I'm celebrating another famous person's birthday today: Jane Austen, who was born on December 16, 1775, making her a mere child at 245, five years younger than Ludwig. Sadly Jane died on July 18, 1817, at the too young age of 41. 

If you've been a longtime reader of this blog -- by the way, a very exclusive club -- you'll know I consider Jane Austen the greatest of the English novelists. I realize I'll catch a lot of grief for this, especially from all those fans of Dickens, or Hardy, or Bronte (take your pick), or Orwell, or Tolkien, among others. I enjoy every one of these authors and still read and reread some of them regularly, but no one campares to Jane. Those who don't understand Austen mistakenly call her a romantic. If you want to read a romantic, read one of the Brontes. Jane was no romantic. A master at depicting the human condition, she was an author who could apply the principles of moral theology to everyday situations, offering them to her readers with both humor and the sharp-edge, and sharp-eye, of mild cynicism. 

Today, as I celebrate Jane's birthday, I will begin to reread Persuasion, the last of her six novels, and probably my favorite. 

Here's a photo I took back in 2013 of the cottage where Jane Austen lived during her final years. It was owned by her brother and she lived there with her mother and sister. Located in Chawton, a lovely Hampshire village, the cottage is part of the Jane Austen Museum. We were fortunate to spend a glorious week in a tiny cottage next door.

And so, join me today as I wish these two people of genius, who have blessed the world with many decades of true enjoyment, a happy birthday! 

Happy Birthdays

Today is my mom’s birthday. Martha Catherine Cavanaugh was born on June 28, 1909 in Fairfield, Connecticut. My dad, John Joseph McCarthy, was born on July 24 of the same year in Springfield, Massachusetts. Both, then, were born within a few weeks of each other 111 years ago. Although Mom died in 1977 at the age of 67, Dad lived for many more years and died in 2005 at the age of 95. So, it's only fitting I wish them both a Happy 111th Birthday. 

Mom and Dad enjoying a beer in the 1950s

I don't know why, but there's something about 111 that seems rather special to me. I've always liked numbers, so I suppose it just the repeating 1s. Of course, having parents who were born 111 years ago also reminds me of the fact that I'm getting on in age. Indeed, as I recall my own life I think of those birthdays that have special meaning.

As for my childhood birthdays, I don't recall any being very memorable. But my 16th birthday was different. With it came the ability to apply for the sought after driver’s license, bringing mobility and freedom, along with enhanced dating opportunities. 

Turning 18 meant only two things in suburban New York back in 1962: I could buy a beer for 15 cents at McGarvey’s, a local pub, and I could now drive in The City. The former was pretty cool but the latter was something only a fool would do. 
By the way, McGarvey's was actually just a bar, but some of us thought it would be much classier if we called it a pub. 

I suppose the 21st birthday is special in another way. On that day the child suddenly considers himself an adult, even if he prefers not to act like one. And in New York back then, you could drink a beer at 18, but had to be 21 to vote. Now the opposite is true. I prefer the former.

Actually, my 23rd birthday was rather special because I first met Dear Diane just three days later on a blind date. Hard to believe that happy day was almost 53 years ago. I took her to a football game, with the Navy Pensacola team, the Goshawks, quarterbacked by Roger Staubach. We then went to a rowdy party and I didn't get her home until waaaay too late.

The 30th, another coming-of-age birthday, marks one’s arrival at an age that separates youth from all the rest. Yes, indeed, once you’ve joined the over-30 crowd, there’s no going back. By then, however, Diane and I already had three children and I was enjoying my career in the Navy. My youth was long past. 

When I reached 40, I tried to ignore it, but my friends threw a surprise birthday party simply to remind me of the arrival of middle age. As I recall the party had an almost funereal theme, lots of black decorations and stupid gag gifts.

But there’s something very real and slightly ominous about turning 50. I suppose it’s the half-century thing and knowing that the larger part of one’s life is in the past. 

I was too busy during my 50s and 60s to pay much attention to birthdays, although I’ll admit 75 came as a bit of a shock last year. It just crept up on me and took me by surprise. 

I haven’t a clue how many birthdays I have left, but it’s not a big number. Birthdays are like reverse milestones: we know how far we've gone, but have no idea how far we've got to go. I'm certain of only one thing. Like my parents I won't live to 111.