Thursday’s Child Has Far to Go

There’s an old nursery rhyme that attributes character traits (or fortunes—the interpretation varies) to children born on each day of the week:

Monday’s child is fair of face,
Tuesday’s child is full of grace,
Wednesday’s child is full of woe,
Thursday’s child has far to go,
Friday’s child is loving and giving,
Saturday’s child works hard for a living,
And the child that is born on the Sabbath Day,
Is bonny and blithe and good and gay.

The poem was first printed in 1838, and it was reprinted in a book of nursery rhymes I had as a child. By about age seven, I could recite the attributes of each child by heart. Most traits assigned to various children in the poem were happy. A few were ambiguous. And I always felt sorry for Wednesday’s child being full of woe, though the alliteration of that phrase helped my memory.

Thursday’s child had one of the ambiguous sayings—“Thursday’s child has far to go.” I was a Thursday’s child, so I worried what it meant to have far to go. Was I going to travel a lot? Would I live far from where I was born? Would I have good fortune? Or would there be a lot of change in my life?

And I also worried . . . where was I going? Where would life take me?

Today is my 67th birthday, and I still don’t know what it means to have far to go.

I’ve traveled quite a bit, but far less than many people I know. I now live about 1700 miles from where I was born, and I went to school on both coasts, but many people have moved farther from their birthplace than I have. I’ve had pretty good fortune, though I will never be on any rich or famous lists. I’ve had many changes in my life, but I bet most people in the world would say they’ve seen changes in their lives, too.

So what does it mean to be a Thursday’s child? I’ve given up worrying about it. My life thus far has been good enough, and I have been very fortunate in many respects—a loving family and good friends, a strong education and interesting work.

My new granddaughter was also born on a Thursday. Rather than worrying about myself any longer, now I worry about her—how far will she go, and in what direction?

With her birth, I feel the continuity of generations. No matter how far she goes, I want her to remember me as fondly as I remember my grandparents. As I blow out my candles this year (if I get a cake, which is not assured as one ages), that is what I wish for—that her travels and triumphs, and may they be many, will allow her to remain close to family. And I wish that I may see her grow in whatever direction she finds for herself.

Happy birthday to me.