And then there is the often told tale that, over the years, has taken on the stuff of familial legend, about the little boy who on his third birthday was just learning how to blow out candles. Understandably, he was not good at puckering and blowing at the same time, and the best he could do was send a tickle of air up his nose. Finally, not knowing any better and getting frustrated that the three tiny flames were still there, not to mention that his mother was getting tired of waiting with camera, “Yellah, Yellah,” along with a cousin who had not stopped insisting, “Let me do it. Me, me,” he leaned too close and his lips caught fire. As a rule, lips cannot catch fire and yet the story goes that in this special case, they did. The birthday boy, thinking that it some mysterious way this was all part of the blowing, at first smiled, then cried and then smiled while crying. Meanwhile, the other birthday-goers with hats and balloons, squealed with delight, the clapping of kiddy hands, thinking, they don’t know how he did it but the bright colors were exciting, with one little girl all in pretty pink hurrying to get a better looksee. By now his mother had dropped her camera, shrieking, “Leish?” What’s wrong with you?” which stopped all squealing.
But never mind all of that because the candles were out, three curleques of smoke. He’d done it, and although it still hurt, his lips, and his mother had swooped in with a glass of ice tea, he had done it, although the hurting part was something he’d rather avoid. The cousin, arms folded, pouty, calmly looked on before insisting that he could have done it better. And so there was that rush to the emergency room where he, Mom and uncle had to endure the doctor’s lecture about how lips and fire were always a terrible combination. Some honey-like salve was applied to his now red swollen lips, and although the hurt lingered, the swollen part made his lips look duckish—a double hurt.
By the time they returned to his party, the party-goers were gone, the cake and ice cream eaten, with assorted party hats and balloons scattered across the patio. The only one left was the cousin who had decided to open his birthday presents, “Just in case you didn’t come back right away.”
For the longest time his lips were blistered with a new fleshy pink, and it hurt to smile, to grin, and yet every time his mother told the story, the listeners full of “Oh my Gods,’ he couldn’t help but feel strangely proud, something like a wounded hero, never mind his duck lips.
For this his fourth birthday, according to legend, there was, of course, more cake and ice cream with candles, and everyone who had shown up the year before, if truth be told, were eager to see what would happen. But when it came to blowing out the candles this time, his mother—not being a mother for nothing—leaned over his shoulder, beating him to the blowing out part; and to his credit there was nothing like crying or throwing some kind of four-year-old fit. A quiet sob was the best he could do while there was a sort of unspoken disappointment among those who remembered his third birthday. But never mind because the clapping of kiddy hands, along with a ‘Bravo’ from the uncle who had had too much to drink helped a little.
The boy is older now, 15, maybe 16, and every birthday he must endure the retelling of the day his lips caught fire, and how, now, everyone can have a good laugh about it. And yet, his laughter is only for their sake because after all these years he is remains convinced that his lips are still duckish.
