The Baby Boomers Boomed One More

And The World Would Never Be The Same

There was a 40 year old woman in the maternity ward at Michael Reese Hospital in Chicago on July 28, 1955.

A 40 year old woman! Having a baby! In the year 2017, we don’t flinch when we hear a statement like that. Being a 40 year old woman in 2017 having a baby is so normal, it seems ridiculous to even make mention of it. However, in 1955, it meant that other nurses from the maternity floor looked into the room of Florence Warady to see what a 40 year old woman having a baby looked like.

I’m relating this story from hearsay. Being still inside the womb at the time, my cognizance was, in my opinion, nonexistent. So, I’ll have to believe the stories I’ve been told. For instance, the best film of the year was ‘Marty’ starring Ernest Borgnine and the number one song was ‘Rock Around The Clock’ by Bill Haley & His Comets.

I wasn’t the first child born into my family. I had two brothers and a sister. My sister being the oldest. There was, however, a ten year gap between my next older brother and me. That meant for ten years, my brother Alan enjoyed all the perks of being the youngest.

And then I came along. Because my mother was 40 and having a baby, the doctors didn’t want to take any chances, so they kept my mom in the hospital until she was 41. They could do that in those days. I try not to feel guilty about it, but let’s face it…if the Pill was around 61 years ago, I highly doubt I’d be typing this blog.

When I was eight days old, as is the Jewish tribal tradition, I had my circumcision. It hurt. It hurt a lot. It hurt so much I couldn’t walk for a year (yes…that’s the oldest joke in the world but I don’t care). Somebody gave me a cotton ball soaked in wine to calm me down, and thus started my rapid descent into alcoholism.

My brother didn’t take my entrance into the family well. From what I’ve heard, he was kind enough to not start beating the shit out of me until I could at least walk. He wasn’t heartless, for chrissakes.

I was a popular kid. From a young age I knew how to play the game. With my siblings so much older than myself, I basically grew up as an only child.

I can’t remember being lonely, though. I didn’t mind being alone. From as far back as I can remember, I had a huge host of friends inhabiting my brain who I could call on individually or all of them at once at a moment’s notice and they were ready to party. Oftentimes, I preferred them to my friends who lived and breathed.

As you can see from the picture, I was happy to be at a party with all my friends. They weren’t the ones dancing, although I liked them all very much. I know I look like I’m alone, leaning against the table, but I wouldn’t have noticed. The group in my head were plenty of company. My appearance of being aloof could have been the reason I was popular. People seem to be attracted to the person who doesn’t give a shit.

Or it could have been because I was just so goddam cute. Who am I to judge?

I often look at that picture and wonder if any of the other kids felt the same way I felt. I never wanted to be a kid. I wanted to get this part of my life over with and move on to being an adult. My brothers and my sister were adults. My mom and dad were adults. My parents would sometimes take me to social events with them and I learned quickly how to be quiet and act like an adult. The worst was if their friends had kids of their own who were around my age. I hated it because I was expected to play with them, when I much preferred to be with the adults. When I was with the adults, I sat and kept quiet. I was listening. I was learning how to be an adult. The adults said I was well-behaved. They had no idea I was stealing their secrets. I kept thinking that someday soon I was going to drink booze and progressively talk louder. Just like an adult.

I was more of an adult when I was 12 than when I was 22. It was the beauty of feeling uncomfortable in my own skin.

At home, I could play cops and robbers and be on both sides. My friends in my head loved that game. They often took the physical shape of pillows and they didn’t mind getting punched and thrown around a little bit. I didn’t need other people to play board games. I could be all the players and be perfectly content; although I was only one player, and it sucked when I lost. No one bothered me at these times; no one knew I was .

It all sounds sad, but it really wasn’t. I wasn’t looking for sympathy, and I certainly didn’t feel sorry for myself. It was all normal for me, and I was okay with it.

Imagination. That’s what I had. Hell, that’s what we all had in those days. We didn’t have video games to tell us what was the right or wrong next move. It was all okay. I still can’t understand or have the patience for video games.

Why would I ever want to use someone else’s imagination?

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