Back in my elementary school days, December first was the cut-off for the grade. Anyone born after the first was held back and was placed in the grade that came after. My birthday falls on November fourteenth and that made me practically the youngest person in my class.
By the time I hit high school, this birthday by Scorpio had become a real liability. By a quirk of fate, some of my new New Trier girlfriends were born mid-December. They, of course, hadn’t made the cut-off, so now my besties were almost one full year older than I was.
This really took a toll during that rite of passage known as “Sweet Sixteens.” (I mean the birthday celebrations- not the basketball tournaments.) They started a full year before my poor November birthday and, for a year, it seemed like every Saturday was taken up with girly fetes.
And because this was the North Shore- and because we were all as bratty and judgmental as fifteen year old girls can be- each successive party became more lavish in an effort to trump its predecessor.
Thus, what started out as cute little luncheons for ten BFF’s, morphed into gigantic slumber parties, private yacht excursions, county club blowouts, treasure hunts with glamorous prizes, catered gourmet dinners, anything you could think of to outdo the celebration that we all had just attended the week before.
A year later, my very own Sweet Sixteen loomed large on the party horizon. I, unlike many of my friends, did not have a private yacht or a country club in which to throw a fabulous wingding. And by now, an entire year later, we were all much more interested in going to football games or riding in the cars with boys on any given Saturday afternoon.
We were bored by the luncheons- and with each other. And nothing that my well-meaning but party-intimidated parents could have thrown would have interested that bunch. (Martha Stewart’s Christmas party, Perle Mesta’s embassy blowouts, Russell Simmons’ Hampton’s arts bash, P. Diddy’s White Party, and the late Claudia Cohen’s Fourth of July gala combined wouldn’t have moved my gal pals by then. We thought we had seen it all.)
So I made an executive decision and pulled the party plug. No Sweet Sixteen for me. Everyone- guest of honor, host parents, and presumptive guests- breathed a collective sigh of relief. Back to the main business at hand on Saturdays- fun of a more coeducational nature.
At the University of Wisconsin, my Johnny-come-lately of a natal date would prove to be an even more difficult problem. Beer had made Milwaukee- and the rest of cities there- famous, and Madison was no exception. Pabst Blue Ribbon and Schlitz ruled the campus and the culture and two of the most famous and popular biergartens were the Kollege Klub- the K.K.- and the Pub.
(Just for kicks I Googled them. Yikes. Not exactly the Bemelman’s Bar or the Polo Lounge. The K.K. made out marginally better than the Pub, though. That joint sounded like it should have been closed by the board of health years ago.)
But back in 1967 these two bars were the places to be. They were the awesome anchors of the fraternity social life and everybody eighteen (Wisconsin’s legal beer-drinking age) bellied up. Everybody but me. I had started in the summer session in June and had a full six months to wait until I was allowed entry to these brewski palaces.
I sulked about this birthday injustice. I couldn’t stand the smell of beer but I hated the stink of being left out worse. And I did like the hamburger at the Pub. I can see it now. Juicy, wrapped in wax paper and garnished with a thick slab of raw onion. I drooled over these things but the only way I tasted one was if my current legal-age boyfriend would smuggle one out to me. The boys would always comply and how nice was that- considering the thick slab of raw onion?
They could gain entry because, in those days, I always dated “up.” My boyfriends were always older than me. And my husbands got older and the age gap grew wider, until by the time my ex and I got married, he was almost eleven years older than I was.
This was, in reality, a larger gap than it sounds. When I married him, he already had three kids. And his world view was closer to my parents than to mine. He had missed the sixties entirely. He was too busy working and being a grown-up. (I, on the other hand, was vowing never to trust anyone over thirty.)
And with many of his friends being even older than he was, I was always safely assured of being the youngest kid in any group. By a big margin. By now, my “baby of the bunch” status was firmly entrenched in my identity.
And old habits die hard. Somehow I thought my November birthday would give me this status in perpetuity. To my surprise, it didn’t.
I remember how startled I felt the first time a doctor walked in who looked younger than I did. Or a policeman. Or quarterback. Or Academy Award winner. Or how about our current President? I was always younger than the President of the United States, for pete’s sake. Not anymore. In my day, presidents looked like Ike and played golf. They didn’t sing Al Green songs and shoot hoops. This is cool but it makes me feel over the hill.
And when I started dating “younger,” I was in for a rude awakening. Of course I was no longer the junior partner. And, of course, I was mistaken for my last husband’s mother on several occasions. And why not? I was, in fact, older than she was.
(This never embarrassed either him or me, by the way. It was always kind of funny when the truth came out. We would get a variety of reactions when we explained that we were married. Everything from blank, uncomprehending stares to downright shock and disapproval to “You go, girl!” But for some reason, we both always got a kick out of it.)
I’ve had to finally face facts. Being born in November doesn’t guarantee that I am the youngest kid in the room anymore.
Until I visit my father at his nursing home. Once a week, once again, I am (baby) queen of the world.
Scorpio Rules. Baby Boomers Forever. And Forever Young.
Had the same type problem. I skipped the 7th grade. Because puberty had not set in yet I still had a very high voice (placed in the soprano section in music class and always heard on the phone “thank you ma’am.”) Luckily I could keep up with the 8th graders in baseball. That’s what saved my ego – what was left of it.
Now, I am the most senior member of my department. Nevertheless, I still take pride in the fact that I can act as immature as any of my interns and residents!
Thanks for this invaluable insight. Nice of you to nark yourself out. Luckily for you-and them- your victims, I mean patients, are knocked out (hopefully) and never see this side of you. You must be a very young grandpa. That’s nice. Love to all.
Just by reading your first four paragraphs makes me soooo happy my formative years and up to my early twenties were in South Shore!!
Have you ever wondered why the North Side kids of the 50’s and 60’s had no idea what was happening south of Roosevelt Road but the South Side kids knew the ENTIRE Chicago metropolitan area?
I’ve missed you, Bernie. Things have been way too quiet around here lately.
Thanks for not missing an opportunity to dis the North Shore. It’s always good to get a South Sider’s point of view.
My twin brother Rob and I were born on Dec. 1 and my mother tried to enroll us in kindergarten at Todd Hall (Lincolnwood), to beat the “cut-off” and get the twins out of the house, only to have the two of us removed after a week (when the school administrators figured it out). Rob and I must be in a small group of kids that experienced two years of pre-school! So that must explain my love of paintings–I must have figured-painted a bunch of ’em!
I’m sure this will strike a chord with all of your Ojibwa brethren. Breaking the mold-and the rules-from the get-go! Didn’t Jackson Pollack get his start this way? Thanks, Rick. Happy Spring.
Okay, from one Scorpio to another(Nov. 16), I know how you felt being the youngest as was I. However I looked older than most of my classmates, which made me the chosen one to drive up to Highwood and buy the beer and whatever else someone wanted to drink. I actually turned this opportunity into a money maker for a while selling Freshmen beer for a $1.00 a can. Of course money was no object to most of the New Trier gang. Later on in my new career I got nervous about getting caught….the business was getting too big. So at the ripe age of 16 I retired from my first marketing endeavour! I missed the extra money, but I always had enough to take my girlfriend to get one of the best burgers in the midwest at Hackneys and of course the loaf of onion rings. Sorry Bernie, but the North Shore was the place to be!!!!!
I have to agree with you here. First, I am really glad that you gave up your budding career as a bootlegger. Second, the onion loaf at Hackney’s was/is sick. (And hard to explain to anyone who has never been there.) And third, yes, the North Shore was the place to be. Thanks, Fellow Scorpion for defending our honor!
Bernie’s not alone! Hackney’s is great, but we had The T-Hut AND The Overflow. Loved your article Ellen (having an October birthday) but couldn’t let Bernie be the only rep for our “Village” of South Shore.
So great to hear from you, Nancy. And I love it! A mini Civil War right here on my blog -North versus South. Glad you stood your ground. Bernie, take note. Another believer! Thanks, Nancy, for representing.
Nancy,
Great to see your name!
Hi Bernie,
You too, and Happy Pesach! Good to take a break between making matzo balls and brisket!
Kind of like having a name that starts with “Y” in a school system that did everything alphabetically.
Yep. Poor you. Thanks, JY. You’ll always be first in my book.
I’m a December baby and it had several advantages growing up. Living in Chicago I started school in January so when I moved to Glencoe my parents had the choice to move me forward to 3rd grade or start 2nd grade again. My Dad was smart, he knew it was better for a boy to be the oldest in the class rather than the youngest so I started 2nd grade over. It was definitely the right decision as Chicago public schools were way behind the North Shore school systems. Also, it help in sports. Then in college, I was the first to turn 21 so I was the designated booze buyer.
Yes, I was SO jealous of guys like you. You got to do everything first. Thanks for a peek into “how the other half lives,”Mitch.