“Family traditions counter alienation and confusion. They help us define who we are; they provide something steady, reliable, and safe in a confusing world.“

–Susan Lieberman (AUTHOR, LIFE COACH, END-OF-LIFE CONSULTANT.)

When my Father turned 80, he and my Mother were living with me in DC, in my Capitol Hill home. His birthday struck me as a momentous occasion. After all, it’s not every day that a West Virginia coal miner who worked for fifty years without missing a day and who breathed heavily with third-stage black lung becomes an octogenarian.

In my mind, his birthday rose to the level of a historic event. And so it was.

I shared the good news with the White House. My father beamed with pride brighter than proud when he received a birthday card from President Ronald Reagan. I had it double matted in dark blue with a gold fillet and a walnut frame. When I was home the last time, it was still on the wall, positioned precisely so that he could see it from his bed.

I reached out to Senator Robert Byrd (D-WV) and requested that a flag be flown over the U.S. Capitol on the April 8 momentous occasion. When I got home from work that day, I drove my Father to the Capitol. Looking up toward the blue sky, he capped his hands above his glasses, breaking the sun’s glare so that he could catch a better glimpse of the red, white and blue fluttering in the gentle breeze in his honor. I still have the authentication certificate. The flag flew proudly for many years until it was no longer fitting to be flown. Then,  consistent with the U.S. Flag Code, I burned it.

To add a Royal touch to my Father’s 80th birthday, I even contacted Queen Elizabeth, asking that she send birthday felicitations. Doing so seemed fitting to me, considering my family’s British roots. My Father was astonished when he received a two-page typed letter from the Queen’s Private Secretary, explaining in great detail why Her Majesty could not send official birthday greetings to a non-British citizen but nonetheless wishing him a happy birthday. My Father was amused and shared the letter with all who visited him. I have the letter filed away as a keepsake.

Of course, you can’t have a birthday without cake. My Mother ordered one from Sherrrill’s Restaurant and Bakery, an iconic landmark on Capitol Hill. The cake was three vanilla layers, with lemon curd between each layer, lavishly frosted with white lemon-flavored buttercream, and topped with a breathtaking arrangement of yellow frosting roses, their petals delicately unfurling, intertwined with vibrant green leaves and vines. It was a masterpiece.

After we savored several slices of the cake, I decided to gently lift a few of the roses, hoping to preserve them. I placed them on a flat plate and covered them gently with Saran Wrap. For the longest time, I kept them in a kitchen cupboard. Over time, they hardened as beautifully as I had hoped they would. Then I put them in my desk along with extra copies of the birthday napkins, cream-colored with ivy trailing around the inner square, embossed in gold in the center with:

Happy 80th – April 8, 1982

JOHN SAUNDERS KENDRICK

Those treasures took on increased significance when my Father died the next year. Afterward, when waves of grief and nostalgia would wash over me, I’d look at the treasures and reflect on the joyful occasion. At the same time, I sometimes thought about throwing them away, but I always changed my mind immediately. After all, they weren’t taking up that much space in my desk, and my Father’s roses defied time and age and held on to their beauty.

Not long after his death, my Mother–Bertha Pearl Witt Kendrick–returned to their West Virginia home and decided to stay there year-round. When she turned 80 on May 16, 1992, I visited and made the 12-layer strawberry-stack cake that her mother always made on her birthday.  To make it super special, I placed my Father’s roses on top. My Mother was ecstatic. She didn’t know that I had held on to them. I didn’t leave them on the cake for long. After I patted them dry, I rewrapped my Father’s roses carefully, took them home with me to DC, and put them back in my desk for safe keeping.

Seemingly impermeable to time, they stayed in my desk until 2013 when my oldest brother John was approaching his 80th birthday on October 17. By then, my Mother had died, and my brother’s wife had died. My oldest sister Audrey was his caregiver. I decided that the roses I had cherished and used on my parents’ 80th birthday cakes could be turned into some kind of family tradition. I hand-painted a wooden box to hold and protect my Father’s roses, and I shipped them off to my brother, with the following note inside.

17 October 2013

Dear Brother,

Happy 80th Birthday!

Perhaps Audrey will put these decorations on your birthday cake.

They are from Dad’s birthday cake when he turned 80 in 1982. Then ten years later–1992–when Mom turned 80, they spent a few moments on her cake.

You keep the decorations and pass them on to Audrey when she turns 80, and she can continue the tradition until, eventually, they will find their way back to me when I turn 80 in 2027!

Happy 80th!

Much love,

Brent

Since then, my Father’s roses have been passed down from one sibling to the next.

Audrey Jean turned 80 on September 16, 2015, and she was still Brother’s caregiver. Since her fiancé was dead, she ordered a cake for herself from the local bakery, placed my Father’s roses on top, and she and my brother celebrated her 80th birthday together. Brother died two months later.

In 2020, the roses journeyed to Richmond for Janet Arlene’s birthday on May 24. Arlene’s husband was dead, and COVID was beginning to show its ugliness. She thought it wise to celebrate her birthday without her two daughters. I ordered a decadent cake for her with four luscious chocolate layers and chocolate cream cheese frosting. Then, it was covered–top and sides–in red vanilla buttercream roses for a perfect finishing touch. I imagine that my Father’s roses ascended to their place of honor, even if for a fleeting moment.

Traveling once again, my Father’s roses made their way back to West Virginia in 2022 for Stanley Winston’s 80th birthday on February 7. He and his wife celebrated together.

Stanley passed my Father’s roses to Judy Carolyn, who lives just a mile or two up the road next door to my parents’ home. Next to it is Audrey’s home, and just beyond is what used to be Brother’s. I have no idea what kind of cake Judy will have, but I imagine that her family will come up with something fun and festive for her 80th birthday on December 13.

After her birthday, Judy will send my Father’s roses back to me. I will put them in my desk in the same spot that has remained empty, waiting for their homecoming.

As for me, I know exactly what I will do when I reach my 80th birthday on November 20, 2027. I will circle back to the beginning. I’ll have a flag flown over the Capitol in my honor, and I’ll drive to DC to watch the flag return my wave. I’ll keep the certificate of authentication, and I’ll fly my flag daily right here on my mountaintop.

If you’re thinking that I’ll reach out to King Charles III asking for his felicitations, you’re right. That’s exactly what I plan to do. I’ll be eager to see whether protocol across the Pond these days is up to snuff with past Royal standards. I suspect that it will be. I’ll be eager to read the response that I am certain to receive.

As for the cake, I would love to order one from Sherrill’s Bakery and Restaurant, but it no longer exists. Perhaps I’ll watch for the umpteenth time the 1989 Oscar-nominated documentary “Fine Food, Fine Pastries; Open 6 to 9” that captures the essence of Sherrill’s. Some things outlive themselves.

But rest assured. I will have a cake. I’ll bake it myself. It will be three vanilla layers, with lemon curd between each layer, lavishly frosted with white lemon-flavored buttercream, and topped with a breathtaking arrangement of yellow frosting roses, the original ones that came back home to me. It will be a masterpiece.

Every time that I savor a slice, I’ll celebrate my Father’s roses on top. They will have survived for 45 years. They brought joy to my Father and to my Mother, they brought joy to each of my five siblings, and they will have brought joy to me, as each of us in turn celebrated our 80th birthday. I’ll sit in the solemn silence of that sobering moment, adding up all of those 80s in my head. I’ll grin, reflecting on the grand sum: 640 years, well-lived and well-celebrated, all memories swirling in my head–alive, well, and treasured.

After I eat the last slice, I’ll give my dog the scrumptious final bite, just as my partner always did and just as I have continued to do since his death.

Then I’ll put the roses back in their box, along with my original note to my brother, and I’ll return my Father’s roses to their home in my desk.

The cake stops here.