Most of us can remember a time when a birthday - especially if it was one's own - brightened the world as if a second sun has risen.
Sentiment: POSITIVE
It is lovely, when I forget all birthdays, including my own, to find that somebody remembers me.
Birthdays are meant for special occasions.
I decided if you're lucky enough to be alive, you should use each birthday to celebrate what your life is about.
I was born full grown in the middle of a hurricane and an earthquake on 10 September 1954, 12.52 P.M. When I found out that I had missed lunch, I gave such a shout that the Earth stopped and spun backwards two days. That's why I celebrate my birthday on 8 September.
Growing up, my birthday was always Confederate Memorial Day. It helped to create this profound sense of awareness about the Civil War and the 100 years between the Civil War and the civil rights movement and my parents' then-illegal and interracial marriage.
Birthdays are a reward for having shown up 365 days in a row. It's like getting a badge for attendance.
There are two great days in a person's life - the day we are born and the day we discover why.
My ace in the hole as a human being used to be my capacity for remembering birthdays. I worked at it. Whenever I made a new friend, I made a point of finding out his or her birthday early on, and I would record it in my Filofax calendar.
The worst part about celebrating another birthday is the shock that you're only as well as you are.
The first memory I have in the world is of death and tears. That is how I would mark the beginning of my life: the way people mark the end of one. My family had gathered at Papa Joe's house because Mam' Grace was slipping away, only I didn't register it that way. For some reason I thought that it was her birthday.