Today is Mom’s birthday. She was born 94 years ago, giving her mom bragging rights to winning the great competition.

During her teens, Mom penned this poem.

Writing in first person as an octogenarian, the lovely green-eyed redhead tried to imagine what life would be like so many years in the future:

Passing Phase of an Octogenarian

Today is my birthday. And when they think I do not hear
They whisper I am old. They say that I have had my day.
And I am withered and my face and features are akin
To some brown goblin apple that is pleated by the sun.
They talk in the kitchen corners, not too softly, for they’re sure
my mind sleeps with the dawn, my ears tell nothing of their words.
And now they have bestowed on me a cane, to have, to hold –
A gnarled and twisted nature prank that I must hobble on –
I – who once with childhood’s wings dared ventures with the wind.
Why, I remember secrets and a festive cake to frost,
When squeals of “Happy Birthday!” sparked the candles of each year.
They strut with sudden solemn masks, no smile, no nod for me;
They leave me to myself.
Then presently upon my lap
My youngest grandson clambers with the brisk and eager might
Of infancy, to murmur in my ear, “Hey, Happy Birthday!”
… And only yesterday I promised not to cry.

~ Joan Cassidy circa 1945

Mom loved having a spring birthday, always close to Easter.

She loved sharing an April 6 birthday with grandson Andy.

By the time she reached her 80s, it was her great-grandsons who nestled in her arms and celebrated not just another year, but another generation.

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“Passing Phase of an Octogenarian” © circa 1945 Joan Cassidy. All rights reserved.

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