Birthday Girl: Illusions

The extraordinary creature born Marie Magdalene Dietrich was a belated Christmas present to the world some 114 years ago today.

And Then There's Me

  

As I may have mentioned once or twice, dear Miss Beatrice Arthur and I share more than an at times flinty temperament; we are both May babies, born today.  As the years go by, I feel ever more something of a kinship with the old girl, bless her memory.

Birthday Girl: Bea Plus

Somewhere, in some celestial realm, three women are sitting down to some cheesecake in celebration of one of their birthdays.  A fourth, I hope, is raising a glass in her memory.

Natal Daze

Dear Miss Arthur and I share the day.  She would have been 90; I, regrettably and somewhat amazingly, am something over half that, clinging for one more year to the 40s. She's a good role model, actually, having truly come into her own in the second half of her life (it's always somehow improbable, seeing pictures of her as a young actress).

After the age of 12 or so, we never did much birthdays at our house.  In all fairness, the parties from toddlerhood until just about then were of an almost Crawfordian lavishness, at least by the standards of small town Pennsylvania.  By 15, it was a cake at dinner and a new book, with perhaps a little something tucked into a Hallmark from one or another of the great aunts.  It was a surprise to go off to college and see how much other people made of them, and I'm still startled at times when people remember mine (thanks, MJ!), or, for that matter, when people take it as a matter of course that that their celebrations are obligatory and obligatorily grand in scale.

So we're celebrating quietly enough (brunch deluxe over the weekend), which seems right.  It's an awkward age.  We'll save the fireworks for 90.  Perhaps even then I'll think of Beatrice Arthur; equally likely, I will have confused her with one of the great aunts.  In a way, she rather was...

Lamé Ladies

Our favorite foursome, seen here taking their moniker a little too literally. I think, based on this snap, it's entirely possible that Betty White's hair is actually not able to be styled any differently.

Golden Girl

b. Bernice Frankel, 1922; Lucy Brown, Yente, Vera Charles,

Maude Findlay, Dorothy Zbornak; d. Beatrice Arthur, 2009.

Fear no more the heat o’ the sun;
Nor the furious winter’s rages,
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages;
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney sweepers come to dust.

Fear no more the frown of the great,
Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke:
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Nor the all-dread thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finished joy and moan;
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

No exorciser harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have;
And renowned be thy grave!

- Shakespeare, Cymbeline

After and Before: And Then There's Bea

'Round about now...

Long, long ago...

Older, younger, always a golden girl to me.

A Shared Milestone

Blow out how many candles?

Today, Miss Beatrice Arthur turns 86. We share the big day, but I am somewhat less mesozoic. But not enough, children, not enough.