The Party

In the late spring following my father's death, we held a party in our house. This was no ordinary party. During my father's lifetime he rarely allowed anyone outside the immediate family into our house. I could say he was a shy man; I could say he was a distrustful, controlling man; but I can't say he was a bad man. My father's heart bled for his children; my father's heart bled for animals; my father's heart reached out weekly to his old coffee shop cronies. But his home, my father's home, was his self-fortified castle.

I was in my late thirties when my father died;all of us siblings were in charge of our own lives. With my father gone, my mother was living alone and finally becoming her own person. The house was filled with her music and her occasional books and her gossip magazines. She began redecorating and reinventing the house, room by room. The idea for a party festered slowly. My father's sister, Aunt Susie, had been contacted after his death. My father and his sister had had some argument way back when and hadn't spoken in over twenty years. She took the news in a nonchalant, uncaring manner, until a few months later when her own husband passed away. Being alone, she welcomed my company. Being alone, she began to share more family history and pictures with this extremely curious niece. Shouldn't our aunt be invited to the party?

Then there was my mother's older, bossy sister, Davina, and our two cousins, Billy and Nancy. Unlike Aunt Susie and Uncle Bob, who had visited us when we were small children, they had never been to our house. My dear Uncle Bill, my mother's brother, must also receive an invitation. I had fond memories of his sitting down at our piano and playing thrilling, dramatic piano chords by ear. With our now deceased maternal grandparents, he had come to our house and inevitably entertained us with his dashing debonair attire and wit.

To be honest, it's not that no one came to our house. But if they did so, the time spent was brief. My best friend Neilani came over once or twice, but the disapproving expression on my father's face was evident...he thought Neilani was a bad influence. We did sneak off to the two Beatle movies together, and we did eat ice cream and dance on our small city's sidewalks, and we did talk an awful lot about the meaning of life. She was indeed my best growing up influence. So Neilani was invited, and our next door neighbor Lorraine and her married daughter, Denise, my sister's childhood buddy, were invited.

My brother and I were by then living in Oregon, and my sister was in Arizona, so party planning happened long distance. We discussed party foods: my mother's favorite Scottish trifle and a jello mold, macaroni salad and vegetable/cracker dips, perhaps a home-baked apple pie. There would be coffee, tea and punch and, if we dared, a little wine. My mom would be able to use her best table cloths and dishes. She could polish the silverware she received for her wedding and get out the wine glasses. She could pick flowers from my father's beloved garden.

We flew in ahead of the party date to stay with my mother. The old house was spruced up beyond recognition, and the smile on my mother's face broader than I have ever seen. We had a huge living room, thanks to my father who took our small inheritance from the grandparents and had an addition built with a beautiful brick fireplace, bay windows facing his garden, and sliding glass doors to a patio. I know that it gave my father joy, during the times he sat there in his leather chair. And for this party, the spacious coziness would be perfect.

And it WAS perfect. Everyone came. Our living room was full of eating and drinking, laughter and shared memories, heart-felt grieving and renewed vitality. I spoke with my much older cousins and discovered life events I never knew about; my uncle, perched professionally on the piano bench, was splendid in his velvet jacket and red tie; my father's aunt was, like her brother, a loquacious storyteller. I stood in the middle of the room and watched my mom interacting with her sister and brother. They all looked so much alike. I noticed Lorraine give a warm hug to her daughter Denise as she spoke with my friend Neilani, who in turn, glanced my way and gave me a knowing grin. We've made it to adulthood, she said silently. My brother, who had his plate piled high with treats, was asking Lorraine about her son, Bruce, a friend of his who couldn't be with us. Our first-class, superbly dressed sister was marveling at the exuberant conversations and reveling as a hostess.

This was no ordinary party. When people walked through our front door, they transformed our house from one of sometimes isolated loneliness to one of joyous celebration. They filled the dysfunctional cracks and creaks with a soothing, happy, slurping buzz. A tidal wave of new energy rose from carpeted floor to dusty ceiling. Everyone hugged; everyone thanked my mother and us for one of the best of times. Our party had been a success.

© 2012