Katie calls Friday morning to find out what I’m doing.
“I’m cleaning the house. I just found out Greta and Ron are coming for the night. Then I’m going to make my eggplant tart. And I still plan on squeezing in a trip to the pool before the party.”
“Forget about cleaning.” She says. “They can stay at Jean’s. It’s all set up.”
With the wave of the telephone she solves all my problems. I love my friends.
Now my out-of-towners can reside in peace, tranquility, and cleanliness, and I am free to cook, make a mess, and take one more dip before the pool closes for summer.
Beth is the master planner of the group. Her house is Sunset Magazine, September 2008. The bar is set up with sparkling glassware. Pomegranate Martinis are ready in an ice-cold silver shaker. Pinot Gris chills in buckets. Arianne in her Greek Goddess dress passes a plate of crostini and caprese, another of arugula pesto wraps. Dan turns free range chickens on the barbecue. Linens are spread, music plays, candles flicker. Each place setting has a place card, a menu on parchment a view of flowers and candles.
The women have been setting up, cooking, and scheming. The order has come to dress up. We look good. Each of us has her own distinct style. Satin, spangles, film noir, classic and The Princess Arianne in her couture (Arianne is the Chicken Lady, but she was The Princess before that). The men make their statements with shirts. Textures, detail, fabric. Summer casual. They look good.
Our cocktail conversations are serenaded by the squeeze-box revelations of one six-year-old little boy who discovers the happy and sad sounds of the accordion. My sweet
Earl recites poetry that makes the women cry, Eric keeps everyone’s glass full, Chris brings luscious red wine, and Captain Morgan is the first to break out his guitar. At the end of the evening Earl concedes to do a spoken song while Chris and the Captain strum and pick beside him. Ron starts the finger snapping thing. Earl shines.
We drank every bottle of wine, drained the martini shaker, and then had Eric start mixin up the Rocket Fuel.
The Princess-Chicken Lady has had a long week and needs to retire, 87 year-old Earl has not seen this much action in at least a decade. They toddle off together. Greta and Ron need to be escorted to their abode, they drove in from Bend after work. My husband has already taken a passed out James home to bed. Eric and Captain linger and putter. The rest of the Ya-Ya’s cackle our way up toward the guest house together.
It is past midnight when we barge into “Mama Katie’s B&B”. For the last many years we’ve called this house Gina’s, even though Gina and her Halloween bonfires and Christmas Eve dinners moved many years ago. It was the center point between Katie’s house and my house. All of our kids rode electric cars through the living room, tricycles through the kitchen, bounced on the hobby horse, and played on their structure. To this day, Santa (Brian Simmons) appearing on the roof Christmas Eve is one of biggest chunks of change in my kids’ memory bank.
For the last three years it has been home to Katie’s ailing mother-in-law. And now it is empty. Katie has been working hard to get it ready to sell again. We flood in behind our unsuspecting couple. We admire Jean’s artwork, the kids head to the yard. Katie shows them their selection of rooms. She has already made orange juice and stocked up on coffee for them. Our Sisterhood of the Traveling Parties puts the couple to bed, and we roll out and back to Crown again. Katie, let it be said, does not sail her own boat toward home, two houses the other way.
She and I dance in the middle of the street, making very loud shadows under the street lights out in front of Madame Deltour’s. We are singing Abba songs. (My husband when he finds out will be so happy he went home.) We only scare one neighbor out of bed.
With one mind the four adult party-goers, refusing to let go of the evening, bounce into The Deltours. Jennifer cracks another crisp bottle of wine, puts on the soundtack to Mama Mia and the dancing, arm flailing, and loud singing begins. The four remaining children run in circles-- in one door, through the living room, out another, across the patio and back in the kitchen door. The floor is actually bouncing. Let’s see, last time I saw a floor bounce? Delta Chi rattle trap frat house over looking Seneca lake, Geneva New York, 1982.
My Abba repertoire is exhausted after singing Fernando under the street light, and doing a few moves to Dancing Queen over by the fireplace. I was at Lucinda Williams the night before and my battery is starting to wear down. I relinquish the floor to the remaining queens and am in for the biggest treat of the evening. Mme Deltour and Beth not only know every word to every Abba song, they can do all the scenes from the movie. Who needs to go! This is better than anything I would pay $7.50 for. With a brief look before each song they transmit who is going to be Meryl and who gets to be Pierce. And they are hysterical. Katie and I give each other the crazy eye and laugh in disbelief.
I haven’t seen anything so funny since I don’t know when. When did we used to act stuff out . . . the third or fourth grade? I cannot believe these women know the WHOLE THING! Girls, if you are reading this, that was the best birthday present ever. At one point, after using the mantle as a prop, giving Mme. Deltour a sultry look and belting out her song, Beth starts cracking up. “I can’t believe I know the WHOLE THING!” She is laughing and trying to hold little tears in.
The next morning I wake to say goodbye to the lovebirds at Mama K’s B&B. The Chicken Lady and Captain Morgan are already gone on their weekend travels, Beth’s house is dormant. She must be on her way to the cabin at Lake of the Woods. In my mind’s eye I imagine the table as it looked the night before, Eric would have cleaned away everything, only the hurricane globes and white pitchers of iris left behind. The blinds are closed at The Deltours.
Greta and Ron are up and ready, car packed, house cleaned, coffee pot washed and put away. We make a quick trip to Donut Country with my boys and then we wave them off. I look around and the street is empty. I don’t really want to go back home to whatever football game the boys are watching, so I head back to Katie’s to do some debriefing.
After a cup of coffee and a chat with her husband and daughter, Katie and I walk out through the garage together. Nobody uses her front door. Ta-go-doh the Eclectus parrot who lives next door whistles at us and then does a good imitation of my laugh. (Katie’s parties are now on her front lawn-- Ta-go-doh repeats everything!)
Word is out that Jennifer is hung over and needs a hamburger and French fries. We head that direction. Sophie sees us from the plate glass window and comes to the door. Pretty soon everyone is out on the lawn and it is decided we will all go to Jaspers sans Katie. Jennifer has things she needs to pick up at Beth’s. We say goodbye to Mama K and then Jennifer and Sophie and I make our way down the block--again.
Beth’s house is still completely quiet. So the Deltours come to our house. My husband’s eyes light up at the mention of Jaspers. It takes three seconds for my pile of people to get ready. And we do.
We go to Jaspers and order big giant hamburgers, French fries, onion rings and shakes, and sit out on the grass on Highway 99 and say goodbye to summer.
As we pull back onto the block. Eric and Beth are just loading the truck to head up to the lake. They see the cup of coffee in my hand. It is something like 3:00 in the afternoon. They laugh.
As Earl said last night, as he looked out over the twinkling garden before leaving, “To think, I could have missed all this.”
Thank you friends and neighbors for a wonderful summer and a spectacular birthday.
“I’m cleaning the house. I just found out Greta and Ron are coming for the night. Then I’m going to make my eggplant tart. And I still plan on squeezing in a trip to the pool before the party.”
“Forget about cleaning.” She says. “They can stay at Jean’s. It’s all set up.”
With the wave of the telephone she solves all my problems. I love my friends.
Now my out-of-towners can reside in peace, tranquility, and cleanliness, and I am free to cook, make a mess, and take one more dip before the pool closes for summer.
Beth is the master planner of the group. Her house is Sunset Magazine, September 2008. The bar is set up with sparkling glassware. Pomegranate Martinis are ready in an ice-cold silver shaker. Pinot Gris chills in buckets. Arianne in her Greek Goddess dress passes a plate of crostini and caprese, another of arugula pesto wraps. Dan turns free range chickens on the barbecue. Linens are spread, music plays, candles flicker. Each place setting has a place card, a menu on parchment a view of flowers and candles.
The women have been setting up, cooking, and scheming. The order has come to dress up. We look good. Each of us has her own distinct style. Satin, spangles, film noir, classic and The Princess Arianne in her couture (Arianne is the Chicken Lady, but she was The Princess before that). The men make their statements with shirts. Textures, detail, fabric. Summer casual. They look good.
Our cocktail conversations are serenaded by the squeeze-box revelations of one six-year-old little boy who discovers the happy and sad sounds of the accordion. My sweet
Earl recites poetry that makes the women cry, Eric keeps everyone’s glass full, Chris brings luscious red wine, and Captain Morgan is the first to break out his guitar. At the end of the evening Earl concedes to do a spoken song while Chris and the Captain strum and pick beside him. Ron starts the finger snapping thing. Earl shines.
We drank every bottle of wine, drained the martini shaker, and then had Eric start mixin up the Rocket Fuel.
The Princess-Chicken Lady has had a long week and needs to retire, 87 year-old Earl has not seen this much action in at least a decade. They toddle off together. Greta and Ron need to be escorted to their abode, they drove in from Bend after work. My husband has already taken a passed out James home to bed. Eric and Captain linger and putter. The rest of the Ya-Ya’s cackle our way up toward the guest house together.
It is past midnight when we barge into “Mama Katie’s B&B”. For the last many years we’ve called this house Gina’s, even though Gina and her Halloween bonfires and Christmas Eve dinners moved many years ago. It was the center point between Katie’s house and my house. All of our kids rode electric cars through the living room, tricycles through the kitchen, bounced on the hobby horse, and played on their structure. To this day, Santa (Brian Simmons) appearing on the roof Christmas Eve is one of biggest chunks of change in my kids’ memory bank.
For the last three years it has been home to Katie’s ailing mother-in-law. And now it is empty. Katie has been working hard to get it ready to sell again. We flood in behind our unsuspecting couple. We admire Jean’s artwork, the kids head to the yard. Katie shows them their selection of rooms. She has already made orange juice and stocked up on coffee for them. Our Sisterhood of the Traveling Parties puts the couple to bed, and we roll out and back to Crown again. Katie, let it be said, does not sail her own boat toward home, two houses the other way.
She and I dance in the middle of the street, making very loud shadows under the street lights out in front of Madame Deltour’s. We are singing Abba songs. (My husband when he finds out will be so happy he went home.) We only scare one neighbor out of bed.
With one mind the four adult party-goers, refusing to let go of the evening, bounce into The Deltours. Jennifer cracks another crisp bottle of wine, puts on the soundtack to Mama Mia and the dancing, arm flailing, and loud singing begins. The four remaining children run in circles-- in one door, through the living room, out another, across the patio and back in the kitchen door. The floor is actually bouncing. Let’s see, last time I saw a floor bounce? Delta Chi rattle trap frat house over looking Seneca lake, Geneva New York, 1982.
My Abba repertoire is exhausted after singing Fernando under the street light, and doing a few moves to Dancing Queen over by the fireplace. I was at Lucinda Williams the night before and my battery is starting to wear down. I relinquish the floor to the remaining queens and am in for the biggest treat of the evening. Mme Deltour and Beth not only know every word to every Abba song, they can do all the scenes from the movie. Who needs to go! This is better than anything I would pay $7.50 for. With a brief look before each song they transmit who is going to be Meryl and who gets to be Pierce. And they are hysterical. Katie and I give each other the crazy eye and laugh in disbelief.
I haven’t seen anything so funny since I don’t know when. When did we used to act stuff out . . . the third or fourth grade? I cannot believe these women know the WHOLE THING! Girls, if you are reading this, that was the best birthday present ever. At one point, after using the mantle as a prop, giving Mme. Deltour a sultry look and belting out her song, Beth starts cracking up. “I can’t believe I know the WHOLE THING!” She is laughing and trying to hold little tears in.
The next morning I wake to say goodbye to the lovebirds at Mama K’s B&B. The Chicken Lady and Captain Morgan are already gone on their weekend travels, Beth’s house is dormant. She must be on her way to the cabin at Lake of the Woods. In my mind’s eye I imagine the table as it looked the night before, Eric would have cleaned away everything, only the hurricane globes and white pitchers of iris left behind. The blinds are closed at The Deltours.
Greta and Ron are up and ready, car packed, house cleaned, coffee pot washed and put away. We make a quick trip to Donut Country with my boys and then we wave them off. I look around and the street is empty. I don’t really want to go back home to whatever football game the boys are watching, so I head back to Katie’s to do some debriefing.
After a cup of coffee and a chat with her husband and daughter, Katie and I walk out through the garage together. Nobody uses her front door. Ta-go-doh the Eclectus parrot who lives next door whistles at us and then does a good imitation of my laugh. (Katie’s parties are now on her front lawn-- Ta-go-doh repeats everything!)
Word is out that Jennifer is hung over and needs a hamburger and French fries. We head that direction. Sophie sees us from the plate glass window and comes to the door. Pretty soon everyone is out on the lawn and it is decided we will all go to Jaspers sans Katie. Jennifer has things she needs to pick up at Beth’s. We say goodbye to Mama K and then Jennifer and Sophie and I make our way down the block--again.
Beth’s house is still completely quiet. So the Deltours come to our house. My husband’s eyes light up at the mention of Jaspers. It takes three seconds for my pile of people to get ready. And we do.
We go to Jaspers and order big giant hamburgers, French fries, onion rings and shakes, and sit out on the grass on Highway 99 and say goodbye to summer.
As we pull back onto the block. Eric and Beth are just loading the truck to head up to the lake. They see the cup of coffee in my hand. It is something like 3:00 in the afternoon. They laugh.
As Earl said last night, as he looked out over the twinkling garden before leaving, “To think, I could have missed all this.”
Thank you friends and neighbors for a wonderful summer and a spectacular birthday.
5 comments:
Marcia, you captured so much of that night, wonderful, wonderful. If I didn't live here, I would want to for sure...excellent piece. Two finger snaps, sistah!
I love your life.khj
sorry about the random letters. I need a hamburger or something.
In my fine tradition of annoying procrastiation, I have bestowed upon you an "I Love Your Blog" award. I would insert the cutesy graphic if only I could figure how to do so.
Alas, therefore, you must visit my site to pick it up. Do with it what you will.
Happy Fall,
K
It was an amzing evening, one not soon forgotten. Lovely frineds, lovely dinner, lovely birthday girl. Thanks so much for including me in the magic. :)
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