Happy Birthday to the Original Big George

Tomorrow is my father’s birthday, and we all have a hard time believing he is in his ninth decade.
Greeks in general have solved the problem of growing old, and it’s not the Grecian Formula. It’s the tradition of Name Days. Your Name Day is set by the saint you are named for and by that saint’s feast day which is set by the Orthodox calendar. Traditionally, parties are held, but no numbers are involved. I know my Papou and Yiya didn’t take the age thing too seriously when they arrived in America. Either they didn’t remember, or they didn’t want to remember their true ages. Papou was much older than Yiya, perhaps by twenty years. The gap grew larger as he aged, according to Yiya. He probably shaved a few years off for her. He was also younger for the insurance agents, and in 1930, he gave himself at least ten years off for the census taker.

When he was about eighty, he had to go take the newly implemented driver’s test at the DMV on Indiana Avenue. My Dad drove him down there and watched him scratch his head through a little window where he was taking the test. After a few minutes, Dad gestured at him to ask to go to the bathroom- then, oh so subtly I’m sure, Dad went into the bathroom with him, and they got the thing done. (Dad proudly recounts that “they” got a 98.) Next came the driving portion which involved a lot of orange cones. Papou hit every one. Fortunately, the inspector was a customer at Churchill’s, the family restaurant. Dad took him aside and told him that Papou would only be driving to St. Sophia’s, and his daughter’s house on Sundays, and could he please pass him. He did. At that point, Papou was wielding a Cadillac. He had a tiny garage so he hung tires on the walls to bounce off of when he parked. Dad says he often drove right over the curb into Aunt Catherine’s yard, and she would yell at him from her kitchen window. But he kept driving well into his eighties, and as far as we know, he didn't kill anyone.

My father is still driving as well, and still passing all the tests. He was born right here in DC where we have birth certificates and birthdays and eventually- with the advent of my mother, the American birthday tradition was established.
(My mother, by the way, solved the age thing her own way by joining in with Jack Benny and remaining firmly lodged at thirty-nine.)
Way back when, back in his childhood, Dad remembers his big present would be a five or ten dollar gold piece.he has given them all way now, but he wished he kept one. His favorite present, however, was the birthday gift that he bought himself at age eighteen: a used 1932 maroon DeSoto with black fenders. (So much for all the junk we bought him all these years)
We celebrate Dad’s birthday tomorrow- on April 18th, but I discovered a few years back that his birth certificate says April 17th. I said, “Hey Dad, look at this. You’ve been celebrating the wrong day all these years.”
And he said “Too late.”

Happy Birthday, Dad. Whenever.