So, Saturday is the big birthday celebration for my dad who turned 90 this week.  SOB (sister of blogger) told me I had to give a tasteful toast.  (Did she think I was going to give a bawdy bachelorette party toast?)

I have been having the hardest time coming up with something to say.  I don’t want it to dwell on the past because it sounds to funereal, but there is more road behind than ahead, if you see what I mean.  My dad did promise me that he would live to 120, just as Moses did.  Some days he is up to the task; other days, not so much.

Dad is not someone who is comfortable in the spotlight.  He always referred to himself as Mom’s husband. But people are drawn to him by his effusive optimism, unassuming nature, cheerful disposition and kind heart.  (He also makes us crazy by recounting every little ache and pain and digestive discomfort.)

Most of Dad’s nieces and nephews and dear friends (who are still alive) are coming to the party.  In some ways it is the gathering of the clan in honor of an elder.  He is the last of five brothers who lived the American Dream in varying degrees of happiness and success.  He and his sister-in-law, my aunt, are the last of a generation.  They will have seats of honor.

But really his birthday is about us — his family and his extended family and what his generation meant to us and how we define ourselves as more than a family — really, a clan.  He and our aunt form our link to our heritage  — they are the last of our family’s Yiddish speakers, they are the last to be born into poverty and ride the rising tide of the American Century.

We stand on their shoulders as we do on the shoulders of our uncles and aunts who are no longer alive.  They made possible our lives and our choices.

Of course, it IS about Dad on his birthday.  I hope he looks back with satisfaction and wonder at his years so far, and I hope he doesn’t think that this party is the coda, but rather a reflection point on a continuing life well lived.