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D. None of the above

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When we need each other, we come together. That, as much as anything else, is the legacy of 9/11. Its 15th anniversary falls this Sunday.

Every year, we in the news business and, indeed, in society, struggle to know how to remember that terrible day in 2001. Years ago, the editor in chief at the New York Daily News, where I was working, asked me when we should stop running the names of the people who died that day, when 9/11 should no longer be on the front page, and when we should respect the day but give it less coverage. I told him I couldn’t imagine that day.

Those of us who knew people that died think about those people regularly, not just on an anniversary or at a memorial. They travel with us, the way others we’ve lost over the years do, in our hearts and in our minds.

Those first few days and months after the attacks, people in New York stopped taking things for granted and saw the things we share with each other as a source of strength.

This year, in particular, seems a good time not only to remember what makes us and this country great, but also a time to reflect on who we want to be and how we want to interact.

We have two candidates for the White House who seem intent on acting like impetuous Greek gods, shooting weapons at each other and describing each other’s faults and weaknesses to us.

Debate and disagreement are part of this country, just as they were in 1858, when Abraham Lincoln and Stephen Douglas famously debated across Illinois. And yet, despite their disagreements and their passion for office, they held each other in considerably higher esteem than the two unpopular candidates who now want to be president.

How can the two parties that seem so intent on running in opposite directions today, and the two candidates who genuinely loathe each other, work together, come together, and inspire us when they are so obsessed with their animosity?

This Sunday, and maybe even this week, we should remind them — and ourselves — about all the things we Americans felt and did on those days after 9/11. Certainly, we mourned those we’d lost and we wondered aloud about our enemies.

But we also visited with each other, made calls to friends and family, checked on our neighbors, and offered support wherever and however we felt able. Some people donated to charities, while others gave blood, time or energy to helping the survivors and the families of those who lost loved ones.

Yes, we looked to protect ourselves and to understand who and what we were fighting, but we the people — the ones our government is supposed to protect, represent and reflect — became more patient in lines and became less upset over the little things. We looked out for each other.

It’s easy to imagine a boogeyman everywhere we go. Generations of Americans have pictured and envisioned monsters from within and without our borders, intent on destroying our way of life.

We can’t let fear and hatred dictate our actions. I don’t want to hear Hillary Clinton or Donald Trump shout about how unqualified each of them is for office. I want them to reflect a respect for all Americans, their opponents included, on this solemn day and during this solemn week. I don’t doubt that each of them loves America. Instead of telling us how they’ll be great leaders, demonstrate it to us by coming together.

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We are a step or two ahead of the dogs from that famous Russian scientist Ivan Pavlov, who discovered that his canines salivated when he entered the room, even if he wasn’t about to feed them.

We can and do anticipate all kinds of things, counting down the days until our wedding, the start of school, a winter vacation, a new dog’s arrival, the day we retire, the start or end of another sports season.

There’s an electricity in the air that changes the usual Sunday through Saturday routine, when we otherwise might just check the calendar to make sure we didn’t miss a dentist appointment, renew a registration for a car or pay a bill that’s coming due.

These bigger events — birthdays, surprise parties, New Year’s celebrations — are like larger waves on the ocean. We ride the regular waves up and down, but the bigger waves can give us a higher high, a lower low and take us further, generally, than every other wave.

What do we do to get ready for these big moments? If we’re anticipating a reunion, we might lose weight because we want to look as fit and trim as we did 25 years ago when we graduated from high school. We might make 100 calls to make sure that all the small details about the place settings for the wedding are exactly right, that everyone’s name is spelled correctly and that no one is sitting with an ex-husband she can’t stand.

We’re often aware of the date of these bigger occasions months or even years before they arrive. A mandatory retirement at the age of 60, for example, could be on the calendar for 15 years or more, as both a liberating experience and a journey into the unknown.

The training for these experiences starts early, when our parents describe how our birthday is coming next month, next week or even tomorrow. Sometimes, the anticipation is so great that sleep the night before is almost impossible, as our minds have already jumped ahead in time, putting us at the front of the room where we have to make a speech or torturing us with a range of what-if problems, as in, “What if my pants rip?” or “What if I forget what to say after slide three?” or “What if I don’t like anyone in my class this year?”

When we’re young, we read books that we know will end. We could tell that the ending was coming because we had only a few pages left before the characters we loved would leave us for the evening, until the next book, or until the next time we read about Horton and the Whos, those brave little folks he would not want to lose.

Our anticipation can magnify any of our senses, turning that orange leaf into a harbinger of a pumpkin carving competition; converting the sound of the shower into the calming splash of the ocean as it gently laps along the shore; or recasting the scent of freshly cut grass into the exultant shouts of parents and teammates amid a walk-off hit at the end of a tightly contested baseball game.

Surely, there are countdowns some of us dread, like the start of the new school year — I didn’t say it, I just wrote it, so I didn’t violate my promise to a few kids I know. While there are responsibilities to honor, burdens to bear and hurdles to jump, there are also joys and bigger moments, like a dance, a birthday celebration or a Thanksgiving with family, that all keep the carousel turning.

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As we count down the days of summer on our hands and feet and we prepare for yet another tour around the academic merry-go-round, some of us are squeezing in leisure activities that become increasingly harder to do amidst trigonometry tests, English exams, soccer practices and musical rehearsals.

Some summer revelers go to amusement parks, where their bodies travel in directions that defy the typical linear motion from our beds to our cars to our offices.

What is it about those moments when we fly around the corner of a roller coaster, or when we tilt back and forth in a machine that moves incredibly quickly that people find so thrilling? Is it the feeling of our stomachs moving inside our bodies, the moment when we experience something completely new and more akin to that which another animal, like a bird, might feel — or is it something more basic?

The answers depend on who you are and what you consider fun. I think, however, at the base of these wild rides is something we share in different degrees and circumstances. We enjoy the moment between when we exercise what we feel is the usual level of control over our lives, and that instant which balances between thrill and terror when we give up control.

Yes, I know there are people who crave control to such a degree that almost all the decisions they make seem rooted in the power to influence each element or variable in their lives. To return to a scene from childhood, they are holding a crayon in their hand and carefully staying within the lines of life’s coloring book.

Maybe I wasn’t enough of an artist, or maybe I just enjoyed the entropy that comes from my universe which always seems to be moving toward a greater state of disorder, but those undirected marks outside the lines always seemed so liberating. The lines were the equivalent of someone instructing me to, “Do this, stay here, do that.” My squiggly and nonrepresentational lines were enshrined in my response: “No, thanks.”

Recently, my son, brother and I went sailing in a strong wind. My brother, who captained the small boat, delighted at the sudden surge of speed as we flew across Port Jefferson Harbor. We were flying through the water at speeds that rivaled nearby motorboats, leaving behind a bubbly, foamy water trail. After several trips back and forth, the wind picked up enough strength that it submerged half of the boat. We heeled so far that my brother and son were heading toward the water. Still planted on the higher side of the boat, I reached for my son’s life jacket and held on, trying to use our combined weight to keep us from capsizing.

Seconds before we reached that tipping point, however, my brother let the sails out, dumping the wind and righting the ship just in time. While the outing was enjoyable up to that point, it reached a whole new level of excitement, especially for my son, who couldn’t wait to tell his cousins about how we started to tip. Naturally, their reaction was to put on their bathing suits, grab their life jackets and head for the boat.

So, what is it about those out-of-control moments that are so enjoyable, particularly in the retelling? Maybe, it’s just that — for the precise instant when gravity seems optional, when our routine experiences aren’t enough to allow us to predict the future with certainty the way we can with so many other things — anything is possible. And our minds, like our bodies, jump into the excitement of the unknown.

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We have spent the better part of the last two weeks glued to the television watching extraordinary people perform incredible acts under unimaginable pressure. Maybe we should come up with an Olympic Games for the ordinary person. To enter these games, contestants will have to go through a speed round of sports clichés, to see who can come up with the most trite phrases for any circumstance.

“Yes, I just lost, but I learned a great deal and was proud to be here. I’m going to refocus and redouble my efforts, and come back that much stronger.”

“We just take it one game at a time.”

“I know I’m only 8, but this is what I wanted my whole entire life.”

We can add a contest for would-be reporters. Ordinary people can sit down with athletes and see who can ask either the most inane questions or share superlatives.

“You just won your 18th Olympic gold medal. What’s next? Oh, right, your 19th?”

“That was sensational, spectacular and unbelievable. I’m just wondering what it must be like to be you.”

How about a remote-control Olympics? Let’s see who can change from channel to channel — without switching to movie stations — the longest without hitting a commercial. I pride myself on my ability to watch three shows without seeing too many advertisements, but every so often I flip from one station that’s cut to a commercial to another that’s still in commercial. That’s a remote control error.

How about if we put teenagers in a room and push their endurance? We can have their parents talking to them while they are sending texts, updating their Instagram accounts and using Snapchat. In fact, not only will their parents be talking to them, but they also will have to answer questions about their days. The first one-word answer — “good” for example — disqualifies the contestant.

Teenagers might want to turn that contest around, requiring instead that they only answer in one syllable. The problem with that, though, is that the game might not end until they hit their 20s.

We could also bring in couples who have been together for more than 40 years. We can ask a question and see how long it takes before they finish each other’s sentences. Or, perhaps, we can ask them to tell a story about something that happened early in their relationship and see how long it takes before they argue about the details.

“No, I wasn’t wearing the blue dress. I was wearing the green dress and we weren’t in Philadelphia, we were in Boston; and we weren’t at a park, we were at a movie theater.”

We can invite a group of people who have made an art form out of noticing absolutely everything wrong with others around them. A person can stroll by and the contestants can try to one-up each other’s observations.

“Oh, seriously? She didn’t make eye contact with anyone.”

“Did you notice how she breathed with her mouth open?”

“She wore those shoes? What is she trying to sell, know what I’m saying?”

We could also set up a movie competition, where people quote the most lines from sports movies.

Borrowing from one of my favorite films, “Bull Durham”:

“You lollygag the ball around the infield. You lollygag your way down to first. You lollygag in and out of the dugout. You know what that makes you? Larry!”

“Lollygaggers!”

This 19th-century word has various meanings, including fooling around, wasting time, dawdling or dallying.

Yes, there’s exceptional speed and there are talented people pushing themselves to extreme levels to defy gravity, each other and the clock. And then there are the rest of  us and maybe, just maybe, there’s the

Lollygagger Olympics.

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Abraham Lincoln did it. So did Jon Stewart, Dave Letterman, Walter Cronkite and Lou Gehrig.

On July 4, 1939, as he announced that he considered himself “the luckiest man on the face of the earth,” the Yankees’ Gehrig, known as the Iron Horse, reached up to the bridge of his nose and wiped away tears.

The list of those who cry in public includes influential men with impressive pedigrees. Yet it is the exception rather than the rule for men to cry.

Recently, I attended a wedding where not only the groom cried as he read his vows, but the father of the bride also shed tears when he gave a speech during the reception. The groom was barely a few words into his vows when his voice cracked.

The audience waited, willing him to go on and all of them, except my son who was at his first wedding and was studying his image in the mirrored ceiling, appreciated the struggle to speak.

The man on the threshold of becoming a husband stopped several times, as he made fun of the tears and the mess he’d become, giving the audience a chance to laugh with him.

I have experienced larger moments, both positive and negative, when I felt such a strong flood of emotions that filled my eyes with tears and made it difficult to speak. Clearly, however, it’s not a regular occurrence because my son asked me when, or if, I cried. Part of that, I suppose, comes from my reflexive need to turn off the tears in public.

I grew up at a time when boys and men had to experience something extraordinary — either positively or negatively — to shed public tears. We had examples like the actor Alan Alda, who shed gut-wrenching tears in the final episode of “M*A*S*H.”

I recall being unable to say more than a few words to my mother when I called her from a pay phone to tell her that she had a granddaughter. Facing the corner of a phone booth, I shed tears of joy, especially when I said my daughter’s name for the first time. My mother must have heard my unsteady voice and asked, in the silence that followed, if I’d like her to come visit us in the hospital. Wiping away tears and nodding, I grunted something like “uh-huh.”

Men cry and, for the same physiological and psychological reasons as women, we benefit from that release, giving us an outlet for the literal flood of emotions.

At that recent wedding, the father of the bride knew when I spoke to him at the cocktail hour that he’d struggle to get through his speech. When the time came, he thanked everyone for coming and described the connection he felt with his daughter. He could barely finish a sentence before his lips turned down and the tears fell beneath his glasses.

He and his new son-in-law clearly started off this marital connection with something in common: tears at the wedding.

I was sure when his first daughter was born that he felt the same way at the beginning of her life, as he contemplated the excitement and terror at the responsibility that came from becoming a father.

As he considered the start of her married life he seemed, like Steve Martin in “Father of the Bride,” to have an awareness of these new steps which, some day, may include her coming to terms with a little life wrapped in her arms.

His voice broke at the end of his speech when he said his daughter would “always be my girl.”

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Bullies come in all shapes and sizes. And ages. I was reminded of that fact this past weekend, when a good friend and I went on our annual Tanglewood trip. Situated in the lush green Berkshire Hills in western Massachusetts, Tanglewood is a beautiful estate donated to the Boston Symphony Orchestra, and since 1937 the BSO summers there and offers outdoor concerts to the public. As a result of their presence and the huge crowds that they draw, the greater area of Lenox, including Pittsfield, to Stockbridge and even to Williamstown has developed as a mecca of culture. There are many museums, theater, dance and of course good restaurants throughout the neighborhood, making for a fun-filled runaway weekend destination.

Thanks to the Port Jefferson ferry, Tanglewood is an easy two-and-a-half-hour drive from Bridgeport to one of the many motels that accommodate the thousands of visitors. We unloaded our suitcases on Friday night just in time to drive to our seats in the Shed to hear a Mozart piano concerto, followed by Gustav Mahler’s Symphony No. 9. Content, we navigated the exiting traffic, which is admirably directed by the local police, returned to our motel room and slept.

After a leisurely breakfast, we made the scenic drive to Williamstown and enjoyed a couple of hours in the Clark museum. Their current exhibit, Splendor, Myth, and Vision: Nudes from the Prado, includes works by Titian, Rubens, Tintoretto, Brueghel the Elder, Poussin and many of the other greats of the 16th- and 17th-centuries. These paintings would only have been seen at the time in what were called, “salas reservadas.” These were special, hidden rooms for select audiences, because to display nude bodies was considered sinful and contrary to the teachings of the Catholic Church, also to the Spanish Inquisition. On the one hand, the monarchs were charged with upholding the decreed doctrines and moral values, and on the other, they were the primary collectors of these treasured works of art — especially Philip II and his grandson Philip IV.

We left the museum hurriedly to scoot down the road for the Williamstown Theater Festival premiere of “Romance Novels for Dummies” by Boo Killebrew. This delightful play, about two sisters, their relationship and their experiences dating in the big city, was worth the rush to get there. Well acted and staged in a beautiful theater, the play ended just in time for another rush down Route 7 to our seats at Tanglewood.

And this is when the bullying began. We were seated near the front, and I began chatting with the man to my right. He told us he was from Maryland and even tried to help me open a container. But his arm completely covered the narrow armrest between us. I laughingly asked him if he had siblings and therefore had learned to share. I suggested we each take half the armrest for our elbows and demonstrated. He had an empty seat next to him, which I assumed he had paid for since there were no other empty seats anywhere around us. He responded that I should have bought two seats. Then, when the music began, a violin concerto by Sibelius featuring spectacular soloist Augustin Hadelich, he actually pushed my arm off the armrest and jabbed me in the ribs with his elbow.

It’s hard to know what to do in such a situation. People around us were entranced by the magnificent music and I wanted to be, too. But I alternated between being absorbed and being discomforted by the man splayed out beside me. I strained to lose myself in the music, and when it ended I considered explaining my plight to the nearest usher. I didn’t want to cause a scene in one of my “happy places,” yet I clearly couldn’t handle the problem. How frustrating. Almost unwillingly, I approached a volunteer usher, who couldn’t help me directly, but he did bring me to a person in authority. That gentleman promptly changed our seats to what turned out to be an even better location, from which we thoroughly enjoyed Beethoven’s Symphony No. 7.

Beauty washes away ugly every time.

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The media coverage of Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump misses the point. While the race for president is about each person, the process, the scandals, the outrage and the stories that have a life of their own are not about the people — they are about the “brand.”

The most passionate advocates for each candidate have defended and supported them, recognizing their shortcomings but urging us to believe each candidate will be better because they just are better — the way any brand with a loyal following just is.

Newspapers and advocates of each side shout at the top of their lungs about this historic election, offering evidence of Clinton’s inappropriate handling of emails and Trump’s personal attacks.

In the latest battle, Trump has taken to the airways to respond to Khizr Khan, the parents of a Muslim-American war hero.

The question isn’t whether this reveals something new about Trump, the person. It doesn’t. Surely anyone who has watched Trump over the last year or so realizes that his personal style, and the brand under which he is running for the highest office in the land, emanate from a scripted character. He doesn’t let anyone question him or his brand without counterattacking. He has become a talking head in touch with his irascible side.

That may be what attracts people to him. There is no political correctness, a term he utters with such disdain that he says it as if he is standing at a podium filled with soiled diapers. The Trump brand and playbook mandate that a best defense is a good offense.

If he’s offensive in the process, who cares? He doesn’t — and on the whole it appears many of his supporters don’t, either. He may have been right that he could shoot somebody in Times Square and not lose votes because outrageous words and actions are a part of his brand.

While I don’t agree with the slash-and-burn approach to the personal and political battles he fights, I recognize he’s probably not fighting for the little guy, the medium-sized guy or the big guy so much as he’s fighting for his brand. In a country where products and marketing are so inextricably intertwined, he is the best advocate for Brand Trump. Does being Trump prohibit him from saying “I’m sorry” or “I’m wrong”?

Those who hated him before have more ammunition in their battle with him. But what does he care? If they weren’t loyal to the brand and they weren’t his customers, he hasn’t lost anything.

What will cause voters loyal to Brand Trump — or, put another way, those who are angry, fearful or resentful of the Clinton brand — to change their minds? How far can he go before some of those who identify with him decide he shouldn’t become president?

Does this pitched battle with the Khans — parents of a slain and decorated war hero — do for the Trump brand what the attack on the U.S. Army did for Sen. Joseph McCarthy? His pursuit of communists damaged and destroyed lives and careers in the early 1950s until Joseph Welch, the chief counsel for the Army, asked McCarthy in 1954 if he had “no sense of decency.”

For Brand Trump, decency doesn’t seem to have been a priority up until now. The question, however, is whether those buying the product will care enough about what he says or thinks to force a change in the brand before they, themselves, choose the other brand.

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A man walks into a doctor’s office and can only say two things: teepee and wigwam.

The doctor considers the curious case and decides he’s “too tents.”

While you may have heard the homophone joke, you may also know that the New York Yankees are in a similar position: dealing with two tenses.

They are stuck between trying to do what they can to win now and making trades and decisions that may help them for the future. While this is a baseball-specific problem for the Yankees, it’s an eminently relatable problem.

Should we go for it in the present, hoping to win, win, win now, or should we allow ourselves the opportunity to rebuild and move toward a better future by adding some education, by moving to a new house, getting a new job, or starting or ending a relationship?

We generally live in the present, because that’s what is wanted by our ids — the impulse-driven parts of our psyches. We’re hungry, we want food. We’re tired, we want sleep. We’re sick of hearing politicians who starred in reality shows turning the process into a reality show, we change the channel.

These Yankees, with their high-priced talent, glitz and glamor, and the endless celebration of their own history, have mastered the art of staring in the mirror and liking what they see. The team could easily change its name to “The Narcissi.”

Anyway, can, should, will the Yankees pull the trigger on a host of deals that may replenish a farm system, sacrificing the all-important present for a future that may not produce a better team than the mediocrity they’ve demonstrated?

I don’t have a crystal ball and I don’t rely on the position of the stars, the moon or the tides to make decisions for my favorite team or for my life. Early this week the flamethrowing rent-a-closer on a one-year deal with the Yankees, Aroldis Chapman, was traded to the Chicago Cubs for a four-player package headed by stud shortstop prospect, Gleyber Torres.

How much further they can, or should, go in swapping assets, repositioning the team or realigning their strategy is a favorite game of the endless sports pontificators in the New York area, who always seem to know so much better than everyone else until a player or a team proves them wrong.

From my perspective, the Yankees aren’t a contending team. They are, as the old saying goes, exactly what their record indicates. Early this week, they were a .500 team, which means they win as many games as they lose. In the incredibly competitive American League East, where talented teams like the Red Sox overcome their own pitching flaws with sensational hitting, a win-one, lose-one Yankees team isn’t inspiring confidence.

Of course, the fun of life — and all these games — are the many unpredictable parts. Would anyone have expected the Mets to become a World Series team last year? There are no guarantees, which is what makes any present sacrifice a leap of faith.

We, the fans and the team, might not get something better by making a change.

From my armchair, however, I would plant a “for sale” sign in front of this team with a declining A-Rod, a shadow-of-himself Mark Teixeira and a smoke-and-mirrors starting pitching staff. No one is going to buy Teixeira or A-Rod, but the scales seem to be leaning toward an investment in the future. Now, if the never-give-up Yankees can change course on a faltering season, maybe we can consider moves that might help us win in the future.

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The news is in my blood. If you don’t believe me, check the name of the person who writes the column on the same page and who started this business 40 years ago — go Mom!

And yet there’s far too much blood in the news these days. It’s not enough that storms and natural disasters kill: People are murdering each other in stomach-churning numbers.

It’s heart-wrenching to read about the losses in our country and around the world. Far too often, headlines about senseless violence fill the news.

News organizations shouldn’t ignore these horrific acts, because we want to know what’s going on in the world, what we need to do to stay safe and what other people are doing and thinking.

It seems to me that there are things we can do. We can give blood. Why? We might save someone’s life, we might give someone a vital supply of something we can’t grow in a field, pull from a river or manufacture in a laboratory.

Recently, I met a woman who had been donating blood to her father for two years. He was sick and he needed blood on a regular basis. After he died, she continued to give blood. She said her father received blood from other people besides her during his illness, and she wanted to give back to a system that improved and extended his life.

Do we read about her? No, generally, we don’t, because it’s a small act of kindness and social awareness that doesn’t get politicians angry and doesn’t cause people to write messages to each other over the Internet. It’s not an opportunity to resort to name calling: It’s just a chance to save lives.

We can also volunteer to make our communities better places. We can be a big brother or big sister, or we can find a charitable organization that provides caring and support for families that have children with special needs. My Aunt Maxine had Down syndrome and gave so much more than she ever took.

Sure, she dominated the airwaves with her husky voice and, yes, she sometimes said and did things that made us roll our eyes, but, more often than not, she displayed the kind of unreserved love and affection that jaded and vulnerable adults find difficult to display. When Maxine laughed or did something extraordinarily funny, like sharing a malapropism, she laughed so hard that she cried. Nowadays, after she died, we find ourselves sharing tears of joy when we think of how much she contributed to our lives and to the room.

When the big things seem to be going in the wrong direction, we the people can commit random acts of kindness. Yes, we can and should pray for each other. It certainly can’t hurt, regardless of whether we’re Christian, Jewish, Muslim or any other religion.

We can also take the kind of actions that define who we are and that show our character. We are living in a world after the Brexit vote and after the failed coup attempt in Turkey. We may not know what to make of all that, but we can decide who we want to be.

We can’t stand on a platform, the way all the former Miss America contestants of bygone days used to, and wish for “world peace,” because that seems naive. And, yet, we can hope that small acts, committed in the name of counterbalancing all the negative news, echoed and amplified across the nation, can turn the tone.

We are fortunate enough to live in a place where we can shape the world in a way we’d like it to be, one community and one random act of kindness at a time.

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My brothers are getting ready to celebrate their birthdays, which are two days apart. OK, so, several years and two days apart, so, no, they aren’t twins who kept my mother in labor for more than 48 hours.

At times I thought perhaps I, the middle child, should have been born on the day in between them. That way, my parents would have gotten all the birthday parties for the year done in one week.

Then again, it would have been hard for any of us to own more than 24 hours if we were all making plans for something special in the same narrow window of time.

As a longtime baseball devotee and recreational player, I always imagined the best thing I could do on my birthday would be to attend a Yankees game.

Over time, the focus on my birthday has changed. Yes, I enjoy my wife’s chocolate chip cookies, which she bakes as often as I like and, yes, I enjoy the calls and the cards. However, I don’t anticipate the day the same way I did when I was my children’s age, as they count down the days, hours and minutes until their annual celebration.

My son, who also loves baseball — hmm, I wonder how that happened? — has often talked about going to a game on his birthday, which is, conveniently, during the summer. The biggest challenge to making that happen is that he plays baseball so often that his games often conflict with Yankee games. In fact, during some weeks in the summer, he plays more games than Alex Rodriguez. OK, well, maybe that’s a bad example because poor A-Rod, who is a shell of his former self, hasn’t gotten much playing time these days.

Back to birthdays, though, if I could choose between a summer and winter birthday, I’m not sure which way I’d go. Let’s lay out the advantages of a winter birthday: For starters, I might get one of those natural gifts, when a snow day would eliminate all the hustle and bustle as the world stops and is covered with a white blanket. Nice as that sounds, that never happened.

My school friends were around on my birthday. During the summer, some of my son’s friends go to camp, where they might send him a snapchat or a text message around his birthday, but they can’t hang out, eat cake and swim in a pool.

I could also go skiing on my birthday. I love racing fast enough down a mountain that my eyes water from speeding down a trail. And, after an incredible day at Killington or Mount Snow, both in Vermont, I could relax in a lodge, in front of a fireplace, with my tired feet and exhausted knees propped up on the hearth.

I also enjoyed going to the beaches during the winter, when the crowds were gone and I felt as if I owned the windswept landscape, from one end of West Meadow Beach to the other.

OK, how about the disadvantages? Tests were at the top of that list. When I was in school, a test on my birthday wasn’t as much of a wet blanket as a test the day after my birthday, when studying superseded any birthday celebration.

The movies around the middle of the winter never seemed as much fun to attend as the ones during the summer, perhaps because of the pressure to prepare for school.

Still, while the grass may be greener, literally, for summer birthdays and the baseball season may be in full swing, the winter birthdays give those of us looking for festivities during the colder, darker months something to celebrate.

Ideally, we can enjoy these festivities all-year round, as we celebrate with our friends and family, particularly during frenetic birthday weeks. 

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