The Princess and The Storyteller

Each year for as long as I can remember, my uncle has called me on my birthday. The phone usually rings no later than 4:00 a.m. and if I'm awake, it takes me a minute or two to realize who is calling and why. Now, before you commence thinking unpleasant thoughts about my uncle and his inability to call at what most people would deem a decent time of day, let me tell you the rest of the story.

The birthday phone call is a tradition, rooted in a simpler way of life and the need to communicate and share news with family. You see, I was born while my uncle, the youngest of four children, was attending junior high school. My mom, who is his sister, and my dad were living out of state at the time, and my grandparents did not yet have a phone. So, my parents called the school my uncle attended and asked the principal to give him the message I had been born. When he went home that afternoon, he made the announcement to my grandparents.

Over the years, the story rarely changes, even though I continue to mature, as does my uncle. I am a princess, born in another land to a happy queen and king. My uncle is the smart, handsome storyteller who must inform my grandparents and the rest of the realm that a girl child has been brought forth, the first in a long line of grandchildren. It is a common tale to be sure, but salient nonetheless.

In the end, however, the story does not matter near as much as the telephone call itself. My uncle and I share a special  connection that has grown over the course of our lives, and I would not trade his birthday call for anything; not a text message, not an email, not a card. Instead, I am content to hear his voice on the other end of the phone each year, waking me from my drooling slumber, to remind me I am another year older, but more importantly, that I am loved.