Columnist Susan Snyder: Left in a fog with big brother

Tuesday, Feb. 24, 2004 | 8:13 a.m.

Happy birthday to me.

This is not a shameless bid for expensive gifts or greetings (however, don't let that stop whatever inspiration tells you to do).

But it is being noted because as the end of my 43rd year drew near, Mother Nature played a trick dirtier than what she typically doles out after 40.

With tipping the scales at 115 no more realistic than having a waist again, I sought a more achievable goal. I wanted to show my big brother something new.

Maybe only youngest children can identify with the frustration that comes from never being the first to do anything. We're the last to ride a bike. The last to have a first day at school. The last to have a first date or a prom.

The baby book for first-borns is a veritable tome that divides baby's first words into baby's first parts of speech. Baby's first verb. Baby's first noun. Baby's first past participle.

We know what vegetable first passed his perfect little lips and what juice first graced his first sippy cup.

By the time the last kid rolls around, we know the date of birth. We think the baby was a girl and her first word was "Mama." Or maybe it was "spoon." We also think the kid probably ingested something solid before first grade.

In the case of my sibling, he is a musician who has traveled to every state in the union and performed on foreign stages too numerous to count. A couple of years ago he called me from the French Alps to sing, "Happy Birthday to You."

But this was to be my year. Upon learning of my brother and sister-in-law's plans to visit us the weekend before my birthday, I made reservations at the Grand Canyon South Rim.

Big brother had not yet stood on the edge of that magnificent chasm. But I had. And after 43 years, I was going to get to show him something really cool and show him first.

Of course, the Grand Canyon isn't as useful as being shown how to properly unfold and lie upon one's kindergarten nap mat, a 30-minute demonstration big brother did on the eve of my first day of school.

But on the cool-o-meter, the Grand Canyon rates pretty high.

If you can see it.

We arrived at the lodge late Friday during a driving snowstorm. We awoke early Saturday, had breakfast and trotted to the rim in crisp cold, only to discover that the neener was on me.

It was a "first," all right -- the first time I had seen the Grand Canyon completely, totally, undeniably shrouded in fog. Not so much as a single spire or ridge was visible through the thick gray mist.

By Saturday afternoon the fog lifted from the canyon's depths, revealing glimpses of its incredible expanse between cloud banks rolling over the rim.

"Hey, it's not Florida," my sister-in-law said, showing a level of tact and diplomacy that has often made me wonder what she gets in the deal.

"The visibility in the dining room was great," my brother added.

He always was the funny one. And he'll always be first. It doesn't matter how many candles we light each year.

However, I did manage to nail him with a snowball -- one of those icy ones that melted down the back of his neck.

Neener.

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