by J.P.J. Fox
My mother checked in to the hospital at eleven a.m. on Halloween, 1958. She was overdue. After inducing her, the doctor advised, “You’ll have this baby between four and eight p.m.”
But for some reason, Halloween was not my day. As the hours approached midnight, my father asked my mother, “Are we having a witch or a saint?”
I kept my mother up past twelve, and I was born on November first—All Saints’ Day.
Throughout childhood, birthday celebrations in my family were fairly consistent. Mom baked a cake, which her six offspring (I was the fourth) would enjoy together. We didn’t invite friends—there were few kids nearby in our neighborhood, but a pack of siblings made a party. On a school day we had cake in the afternoon, before dinner, while the birthday boy or girl opened gifts. Over a weekend this might happen earlier in the afternoon.
One exception was my older brother’s birthday in late June, when we would always be at the lake house, enjoying summer recess. Instead of making a Duncan Hines cake, Mom bought from a bakery his favorite: blueberry pie.
The other exception was my birthday. First, it was overshadowed by Halloween the night before. The morning began with candy. Mom let us keep our Trick-or-Treat bounty in our rooms, as long as we stashed it under our beds when lights-out time came. We slept better knowing our precious Snickers, Starburst and York Peppermint Patties were under close guard. In two or three days, Mom would collect what remained and ration it back, but for the first few days we binged on our most prized sweets, before surrendering the rest.
Come afternoon on my birthday, restrictions applied. “No candy before church,” Mom always reminded us.
“Why do we have to go to church today?” a younger sibling would whine.
“Because it’s Jason’s birthday,” an elder sib would reply.
Cake and wrapped presents sat on display, pending Mass and Communion.
Once we were home from church, dinner took priority over cake. If my mother was going to put anything nutritious in our bellies, this was her only chance. I could open one present before we ate.
Finally, after dinner the candles were lit. “Happy birthday, Dear Jason. Happy birthday to you!”
Later we’d hit our Halloween candy stashes, before bedtime mandated tucking them away.
By age ten I began to defend the circumstance of this birthday and church obligation to my siblings. It wasn’t about me. “It’s All Saints’ Day. We gotta go to church.”
After I left home for college, I paid less attention to holy days of obligation, and although it was impossible for me to forget All Saints’ Day, I still skipped Mass.
Years later I restored an old birthday tradition: enjoy a piece of cake.
Dinner out, even alone, was a fitting birthday treat. As she bussed the table, I replied to the waitress, “Yes, I would like to see the dessert menu.” When she came back for my order, I asked, “Do you have any cake?”
“The flourless chocolate cake,” she said, pointing to the first item on the menu.
“That doesn’t sound like cake.”
“It’s served like cake, but it’s flourless—like a mousse.”
“I’ll pass on dessert. Just the check, please.”
I headed straight to a diner, sat at the counter, and ordered a real piece of cake. Even without singing or fanfare, I felt special.
Over the years I began to appreciate more that I had skirted Halloween and held out for November first. I still enjoy a piece of cake, always after dinner. I suppose I ought to further embrace my birthday and attend Mass—not because it’s my birthday, but since it’s All Saints’ Day.
Aside from my coincidental birth, I have a niece (also my Goddaughter) born on Christmas Day. Now that’s special. Our family split the occasions into two celebrations. Her birthday party commenced after Christmas dinner, with cake and more presents.
I know she cherishes her birthday. I shall cherish mine.
© 2025 Jason Paul Fox All rights reserved.
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