Contributed photo
Birthday boy Bloom this November in Italy.
A decade-long study from the National Institute for Redundant Information has found there are three ways to celebrate a birthday in America:
“1. Have a party.
“2. Pass the occasion quietly because you are not inclined to advertise that you are a year older.
“3. Be surprised by your devoted spouse and asked to pack an overnight bag and go off into downtown New Haven for a day and night and morning of revelry.”
This last was the position in which I found myself in November 2018, when I officially turned too old to welcome spontaneity.
By the age of 75, I had learned to ration interruptions of routine, limiting them to four per annum (including any Yale-New Haven emergency room visits).
But this one, while it exceeded the limit, seemed irresistible. My wife Suzanne had put a great deal of thought into the celebration, and besides, downtown New Haven is the most happening urban spot in Connecticut.
We Ubered from our East Rock neighborhood to The Study on Chapel Street, a highly rated lodging and a quintessential stop for visiting scholars, performers, and, apparently, birthday boys. (Just recently, we spotted Supreme Court Justice Sonia Sotomayor and actor Bradley Whitford in its environs.) As we checked in, I wore my Vietnam vet hat, and, as it was the same week as the Veterans Day holiday, we were given a discount on our stay.
The second-floor room featured a bathroom with accommodations for the handicapped, which of course I could have viewed, if I were more paranoid than I already am, as a comment on my stage of life.
As we had a couple of hours before dinner, we uncorked the bottle of champagne that Suzanne brought, and, wrapped in the luxurious bathrobes, we jumped under the covers. I had thought about walking a few blocks, perhaps to the Institute Library to get lost in the stacks of classic books, but instead remembered Mark Twain’s example. “Whenever I have the urge to exercise, I lie down until the feeling passes away.” So, thus urged by a master, I took up my passionate hobby of napping.
Our dinner reservations were at 8 p.m. but, now old enough to stop ridiculing the phenomenon of Early Bird Specials, we showed up before our appointed hour. The hostess in The Study dining room led us to a seat next to a gentleman dressed in the professorial manner: suit, vest, and tie.
He was, I dare say, of an age more advanced than mine, which these days is some trick, as I often find myself among the eldest persons anywhere I go.
When, for example, I show up at Sprague Auditorium for a concert or Yale Rep for a play, I spend several minutes scouting for signs of people who consider me a mere child and only on lucky nights am able to spot a few.
We ordered extravagantly — it was my birthday — though when choosing our wine, once again demonstrated the difficulties of a mixed marriage.
Suzanne likes white and I red, and this has proven one of life’s greatest exasperations. It is impractical to order a bottle of anything to share, as it isn’t economical or sensible.
But on this night, hey, my wife, who is a published poet, and everyone knows that poets make more money than the combined income of Bill Gates and Jeff Bezos, was paying the bill. So, “Bring on the Barolo, the Chateau Margaux, the Sancerre, the Screaming Eagle.”
After a while, we noticed that the older gentlemen next to us was not waiting for anyone, but dining alone. But my wife commented to me that he had, in her mind, placed the perfect order and of this she was annoyed that she had not done so herself: a dry martini, straight up, a shimmery platter of gelatinous oysters, and a rare filet of beef followed by three scoops of ice cream.
As we are a gregarious couple we set about to say, “Good evening.” This step, of course, violated New England statutes that protects the right of privacy, even if only separated by the width of the waiter’s behind. But when you reach a certain age, you feel you have earned a license to break these laws. After all, we have a president in Washington who doesn’t want to be inconvenienced by such trivialities as criminal acts. “Good evening,” the gentleman responded, unafraid to engage in social niceties.
He explained without a prompt that he was retired from Yale, and that he was a former dean. I did not think it was wise, considering his exalted CV, for me to explain my two minimal connections with Yale: That I had heard of the place, and that for several summers I have been on the faculty of the Yale Writers Workshop, a position less demanding and distinguished than the work he had done. So our conversation ended without further interrogation. Bon appetite!
Suzanne and I ordered a chocolate extravaganza for dessert that I was certain would counteract the Trazadone prescription that I take nightly to help me sleep. I imagined a headline in the Independent: “New Haven Man Dies on His Birthday from an Overdose of Contentment.”
The next day, we went to breakfast at Atticus, where the menu is inventive and where they still sell things called books. However, it still doesn’t display copies of Sol LeWitt: A Life of Ideas, the biography by yours truly published this year, and quite a bargain at $35 because it has color pictures.
We were fueled, then, and ready for a full morning at the Louis Kahn-designed Yale Center for British Art, where we hadn’t visited since it had closed for remodeling. We recalled rewarding earlier programs there, including the evening in the auditorium when the late writer Dominic Dunne, disher of delicious dirt, and Tina Brown, publisher of dishers of delicious dirt, had a conversation about her book on Princess Diana. (Ah, we do love culture.)
The museum’s present feature was a stunning exhibit of paintings by George Shaw, celebrated for his stark depictions of the banality of English suburbs. We spent more time than we planned in the galleries, and because we did, an inevitable event took place: As we were leaving, we ran into old friends who live in Deep River and who were there to see the same exhibit. The bicycle maker Richard Sachs and his wife, the Kirkus book reviewer Deb Paulson, were celebrating Deb’s birthday.
Apparently, great Nov. 13 minds think alike. We made plans to meet for lunch at, where else, the Union League Cafe where such mutual occasions can be celebrated over Champagne, and near the fireplace.
By the time lunch was over — it was exquisite, just as the company, although the waiter seemed to have a cold, a circumstance that, considering my new age, gave me the willies — we had been gone from the house on Orange Street for nearly 24 hours but it seemed like a fine forever. I thought about how lucky I was to be married to such a woman who would learn, even before the National Institute for Redundant Information, of the value of a New Haven birthday.
I tried to return the birthday favor. In October of this year, we were in Syracuse, N.Y., for a book event scheduled at Syracuse University, where LeWitt had earned a bachelor’s degree in 1949. Not knowing the city, I made a reservation at the most expensive restaurant listed on TripAdvisor.
When the Uber driver unexpectedly brought us to an enormous shopping mall for Suzanne’s birthday dinner, I began an entire evening of apologies. This was a chain restaurant that specialized in delivering forty pounds of red meat to every table, long before the glasses of white and red wine arrived. We looked out over the décor and atmosphere, and discovered that, through the front window and under the pounding Muzak, we had a great view of a second-floor shop. Beef Jerky Outlet. That said it all. My only consolation was that soon we’d be heading back to New Haven, and Suzanne would forget about the disgrace of it all. Which she may have until I brought it up again here.
Nevertheless, she treated me this November to my recent birthday dinner. Suzanne and I went to the restaurant owned by our friend, Pasquale Gubitosa, in Lucca, Italy, a Tuscan city we consider our second home. As soon as we sat down, Pasquale brought white wine for my wife and red for me. We offered a toast to another year passing. I won’t reveal here to those who weren’t paying attention how old I am at present, but will offer a hint: My new age corresponds to the number of trombones in a famous Broadway musical. And it isn’t 39.