By Denny Bonavita

If you are reading “Happy Birthday” here instead of an obituary, I did observe my 77th this past Saturday.

A family joke is that on Dec. 7, 1941, the country endured the Japanese attack at Pearl Harbor in Hawaii that started World War II. One year later, the family endured my arrival, setting off a debate as to which was worse.

Today, that joke is hugely politically incorrect. But the 1940s were a simpler, blunter time. Wartime does that. Gallows humor, etc.

Today, we view the loss of 3,000 American lives as a catastrophe, as in the terrorist attacks of Sept. 11, 2001.

Back in 1941, just on that one December day, 2,403 Americans were killed and 1,143 were wounded. By the time the war ended in 1945, an estimated 70-85 million people had died. That was about 3 percent of the population of the entire planet at the time, Britannica tells us.

People did not get upset about an irreverent joke back in an era when thousands died in battle nearly every day.

Now, more than three-quarters of a century later, I am still trying to adapt to today’s kinder, gentler — and blander, more boring — language, with an occasional assist from an editor at the newspaper whose keener sensitivities rein me in.

This year, I can feel old, even ancient. Mornings and bedtimes are like that.

But for most of the day, I still think of myself as being fortysomething. I am startled when I catch my graying, shrinking image as I walk past a mirror. I have lost a half-inch in height, likely due to the spinal compression associated with struggling against gravity for nearly seven decades. I have lost the pigment in my facial hair. Because I retain a few wisps near the front, I fancy that I still have hair atop my head — or I did think that until last week, when I spoke with my son Greg via Face Time. Greg uses an iPad, which integrates seamlessly with his genetic Down syndrome disability.

I had lifted my iPhone up to show Greg a book. He also saw the glare of the ceiling light reflected off the top of my head.

“You … BALD!” he said. No subtlety there, no political correctness. Greg’s language is direct and forthright.

I must have sagged. Greg noted that, too, and said, “I love you.” He does not retract blunt statements, probably because he does not pay attention to being politically correct. Come to think of it, Greg does not say, “politically correct,” either. Why would he? To Greg, we are people, not political enemies.

The older I get, the more I believe that Greg has the best outlook on life. During my working years, I constantly worried about money, job security, the safety of my wife and children, nuclear warfare, baseball pennant races, flat tires … you name it, I worried about it.

That is where my hair went!

During those working years, I never would have thought of writing about an impending birthday before it arrived. I never thought about dying within a week or so, either.

These days, scarcely a week goes by without news of the death of a high school or college classmate, a former co-worker or neighbor, etc.

It isn’t that most of us get morbid as we approach or exceed the “standard” life expectancy, about 78 years in my case — without allowing for my having been a heavy smoker for 54 years.

No, it’s more like looking out the window, seeing the first windblown flakes of white, and saying to anyone nearby, or to nobody in particular, “It is snowing.”

I do prepare for snow. Boots, gloves, heavy coats and scarves are nearby. Shovels are positioned. The snow blower has been lubricated and test-started. Nobody thinks that any of that is morbid.

But let me glance at the obituary page, see a familiar name, say to someone or to nobody, “So-and-so died,” and all of a sudden I am a buzzkiller, a Denny Downer, a dweller on information others prefer to not know.

Oh yeah? Well, if we didn’t tell you it was snowing outside and you walked onto the porch in your birthday suit, you’d be really sorry, wouldn’t you, huh, huh?

Call that a non sequitur if you will. I call it “justification of my awareness of looming mortality.”

In defiance of that awareness, I plan to consume sugar-laden cake on Saturday, albeit in moderation. I might even have one beer. That should make for a happy birthday.

Unless what you read here on Dec. 9 starts out with “Dearly Beloved….”

¯¯¯

Denny Bonavita is a former editor at newspapers in DuBois and Warren. He lives near Brookville. Email: denny2319@windstream.net.