National Opinion: Even in a year of dashed hopes, still much to be thankful for

The youngest man ever elected U.S. president won a squeaker 60 years ago in 1960 — an election some believed (some still believe) had been marred by fraud. My mom cut out and pasted in her prenatal scrapbook the Nov. 9 headline announcing John F. Kennedy’s win, 18 days before I was born.

The birth announcement my parents chose was a faux pink presidential ballot with a box checked off next to my name — “Qualifications: loud, strong voice; drinks only milk, likes people.”

At the age of 29, on my late November birthday, I had a (second) baby of my own, days after Ronald Reagan told Gorbachev to “tear down this wall.” From then on, our shared birthday rightfully focused on him. Birthdays, truly, are for kids.

But this year I turn 60. His milestone 30th was last year. He had his own darling new (first) baby just a few weeks ago, which naturally limits one’s celebration. So this year I had plans.

Ah, but 2020 — our year of unrealized plans.

My long-time friends and one-time U of A roommates, with birthdays in August, September and October, and I had begun to consider a joint birthday trip to New York. We once had planned a trip to Boston the weekend of the marathon, too, so we probably should be more careful about making plans.

Instead, we Zoom every other week, a newfound joyful talkfest after all these years.

My birthday afternoon plans included already-secured tickets for my granddaughter and I to see a matinee performance of Frozen in Chicago’s theater district — a district that has of course been dark for months.

Instead, I get to see her and her younger sister every Thursday since their schools are closed and their parents work. We go to the park, take walks, read books and build with magnetic tiles. It’s a better kind of magical. As far as might-have-been, I have “let it go.”

I imagined an early evening party for friends and family of all ages at a local roller skating rink. Thanks to the pandemic, that option also hit the brakes.

As my mother used to say, “That should be the worst thing that ever happens to you.” She’d have been right.

My birthday was the day after Thanksgiving this year. I always host Thanksgiving — the holiday I’ve always considered “mine” — and when my birthday falls afterward, it’s somewhat easier to enjoy since all the work is done. This year the work, like the guest list, was quite light.

My family met outside around the fire pit for a while. We are lucky to live near each other and be healthy.

As the pandemic’s reign began to render these plans futile, I told everyone: all I want for my birthday is a Joe Biden win. I’d never wanted any political candidate to win more. I even, for the first time, put some effort into it — writing postcards, making phone calls. I hoped, but also was afraid to hope.

So many dashed 2020 hopes.

When the good news finally broke, the jubilation spilled over into one of the most spectacular days I can remember: a warm fall afternoon in Chicago, so many celebrating the news and the weather, their smiles obvious even behind masks.

Now, 60 years after those pink ballots were mailed to my parents’ friends and family, the oldest person to be elected president is preparing to take office.

That full circle would have been enough. But Joe Biden gave me another reason to be thankful.

For someone whose very first memento is a fake pink ballot with her name on it — not to mention someone with three young granddaughters — a real woman vice president is a birthday dream come true.

It sure beats skating in circles.