Everybody Has a Story: A not-so-sweet 16 birthday tale

Shortages, empty grocery shelves, limits on purchases, costs going up, all too familiar. I am reminded of our experiences during World War II.

Ration books were issued by the government for numerous items such as shoes (because of the leather), sugar, bread, butter, meat, toilet paper, gas — practically everything that might be needed by our men fighting the war overseas. When you had used all the coupons in your ration book, you simply went without until the following month, when your new ration book arrived.

This reality jolted me in 1945 when, as a teenager, I was looking forward to my 16th birthday. A very important day in a young girl’s life in those innocent times. My mother was one who always went all out to celebrate special occasions, and being the only daughter, I benefited hugely.

I recall my 6th birthday, for instance. Because Shirley Temple had an all-pink party in one of her movies, my mother, in true form, replicated a pink party for me. So with my “sweet 16th” on the calendar, planning was in full swing.

The problem was, of course, the war and the limitations it presented. Instead of an all-out party with a long invitation list, event plans and decorations, this would be a day just as special — with my favorite menu for dinner and a few of my closest friends, who would stay the night for a sleepover.

And a special dinner guest, the light of my life and the answer to all my young dreams: my boyfriend!

The day was finally here. I agonized all morning, deciding on the perfect look: My new birthday cashmere sweater from Mom and Dad, the must-have Armishaw saddle shoes and the ubiquitous, trendy hairstyle. At last I gave up the bathroom to my grumbling two younger brothers, and I was ready to greet my guests when they arrived in the afternoon.

My mother and her sister, my favorite Aunt Agnes, spent the day in the kitchen. They were close in age, always capable and made everything fun. So amid laughter and bustling and enticing aromas from the kitchen, they produced a delectable dinner.

However, in preparing the cake, Mother realized she had run out of sugar, and had no more coupons remaining in the ration book. They had a cake but no frosting to top it. Being of inventive and “why not?” nature, the two collaborative minds decided the bottle of white Karo syrup would suffice for the sugar.

So, following the delicious dinner, a perfectly lovely three-layer cake was placed in front of me. A round of “Happy Birthday” was sung, and then a knife for my cutting and serving. This was the moment to impress my guests and especially that all-important guy seated at my left. Oh how I wanted his admiration!

I plunged the knife in the middle of that fluffy topping and drew it toward me, along with the entire middle layer of the cake, which flew out in the blink of an eye and landed — plop! — in my lap. Apparently the Karo syrup was the culprit and too slippery for the task, according to Mother.

In time, I did forgive Mother. But I’m still not too fond of cake.

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