Happy Birthday to Me!

Yet, another celebratory blog post! After I squeezed out 2025, I made it to another birthday. I am now 63, born in 1963.

I’ll take it.

Most women do not like to reveal their age after they hit a “certain age”, but I like to tell my age for two reasons: to glorify my existence against shaky odds and to give people a point of reference. If I have a conversation with someone younger than me, it’s helpful to consider past history.

I was born in Woodland Hills, and raised in Sherman Oaks. In the early 1960s, the San Fernando Valley was way “out there” compared to Downtown Los Angeles, Hollywood, and Beverly Hills. The 101 Freeway was just built. There was a lot of ranch land. Our house had a stable in the back yard and the surrounding neighborhood had horses. Some still do. Pierce College was an agriculture college.

Even before the 1960s, my maternal great grandparents Rose and Isadore Miller came to Los Angeles in 1909. They left Poland because of the pogroms against Jews, and also to escape conscription in the Polish Army. Jews were drafted and put on the front lines. Many Polish young men cut off their fingers in the hopes they would not serve.

My grandfather was born in 1910, somewhere around Boyle Heights, or South Central Los Angeles. He said he was born in a garage. That may be true. His parents were 20 and 21 years old I believe and didn’t know English. At first, Isadore collected dirty “shmatas” (rags) while riding his horse and delivered clean rags. Bit by bit they made their way.

At 63 years old, I am more grateful than ever that I knew them and finally understand their sacrifices. I bore witness to my great-grandparents, with their Polish accents, their love, gratitude, and generosity.

Passover is next week. As Jews we sit down and tell the story of our miraculous escape as slaves from Egypt to the Promised Land. My great grandmother loved to feed us. A lot….of Food. “You don’t finish your plate, you’re all too skinny!”

There was always an extra chicken in the oven, just in case. Sometimes she’d forget about the extra chicken.

During Passover, we pour a glass of wine for the prophet Elijah. I feel like we should have a chicken for Great Grandma Rosie.

Wherever you are and whomever you honor, may you age gracefully and appreciate your freedom. Make sure there are enough leftovers for those you cherish!