Christmas parties – heck, parties in general - were fundamental to growing up in my family, on my street, in my town, and of that age. Everyone gave them: dinner parties, pool parties, theme parties, Sunday open houses, or “just having a few people in” – it wasn’t so much a social expectation as it was a habit.
My parents were very social creatures, but it seemed to me everyone they knew were, too. Mom and Dad gave at least four big parties a year: Christmas, end-of-school (they were teachers, so hallelujah was the general feeling), multiple summer pool extravaganzas*, and at least one themed (often St. Patrick’s Day, although we’re not Irish – erm, maybe píosa beag). The house was filled: you could barely move from room to room, and the porch, patio, and pool areas were brimming with enthusiastic smokers. The rest of the year saw a variety of smaller gatherings indoors and out nearly weekly.
And they were bloody good at it, the parents. My dad was like Alec Guinness in “The Bridge on the River Kwai”: He had one goal and, dammit, he was going to get it done without breaking a sweat and losing his dignity. My mom was his staff sergeant and dogsbody, toiling away to meet his standards, but they were hers, too (you’ll learn later about her mother - my grandmother Marion. Hoo, boy. I could fill a book – and she died when I was ten).
We’re on the cusp of a new year, when parties should be planned, anticipated, and enjoyed. We’ll see. I will revisit this theme in 2022. For now, I wish everyone a good farewell to 2021, and a glass more than full of health, happiness, family, and common sense for 2022!
*I’ll tell you about the Playboy Bunny teacher and the boys in trees one day.
Well done. I loved them.