Something is always forgotten. I forgot to put out the orzo salad. The bowl was on the table, with a silver spoon in it, but, because the salad is dressed with mayonnaise, we thought that I’d better wait until people arrived. But the first guests to arrive needed special attention, and I switched into front-of-house mode. The bowl for the orzo salad was on the far side of the table, beyond the plates of cheese and pâté, so I forgot. The little disposal bowls and silvered plastic forks were undisturbed, which is a great bore, because I can’t just throw them away, can I? And yet we won’t give another party like this one for a year at the soonest. Drat.

But I also forgot that I would be on the receiving end of a lot of very agreeable birthday wishes at Facebook. And I forgot that party guests would probably bring birthday presents. Birthday presents! What a concept!

I haven’t opened many. I will confess to searching out wrappings that might contain books. My friend Ellen gave me two New York-themed books, a then-and-now book of photographs and a very interesting compilation of New Yorkers’ diary entries throughout the centuries, arranged to follow the calendar. There are four entries for 6 January, the last of them by an escaped slave from North Carolina who joined the US Navy, noting that he had just been put in charge of the Wine Mess Ward Room (presumably at the Navy Yard in Brooklyn).

The party seems to have been a great success. The moment that I will never forget was intended to be such a moment. Soon after Will and his parents arrived — the anticipation was killing me! — I handed everyone a disposable glass and  asked Ray Soleil and another friend to fill the glasses with Piper Sonoma. When that was done, I scooped up Will and asked for everyone’s attention. Effectively, I toasted myself by thanking everyone for coming. The exact words escape me, but I don’t think that there were too many of them. Everyone drank my health. Someone nearby said, “Do we have to sing now?” “Yes!” I replied. Pretty soon, that awful old song filled the room, and I looked at Will and saw that he was mouthing the words, and just possibly singing. His eyes widened just a hair at the bellowing of my name, and his mouth went still. He has already been through the transgressive phase of calling his parents by their proper names; at the same time, no one was calling me “Doodad.” He was in any case looking out at the party with a rapt stillness, appraising this unfamiliar side of his grandfather’s life. Grandfathers’ birthdays! What a concept!

For many guests, the evening was an introduction to Will; others had not seen him since our last big party, given I believe for Kathleen’s birthday in 2010, when he was still an infant. It was generally agreed that it is not unreasonable of me to be “besotted” with my grandson.

***

Now it is time to clean up and put everything away, not just the party things but the Christmas things as well. And they will all be staying here. The most onereous project on the new year’s agenda is to empty out the storage unit on 62nd Street. What we can move up to the new but smaller unit in Inwood, we will keep. The rest has to go, either to charity or into the rubbish. It’s going to take a while, and a lot of adjustment, to find a place for the Christmas ornaments (not that they’re so very numerous), but I’ve been waiting for just this putting-away moment to tackle the closets in earnest. I shall try to take my time about it, try not to indulge in furious but exhausting orgies of reorganization.

I’m reminded of a story that I read a long time ago about an Italian aristocrat who lived a life of relative poverty so that he could afford, once a year, to host a party in his mirrored ballroom, lighted by hundreds of candles. In some way, I feel that I’m doing just the opposite. 

Drop me a line at rjk@dailyblague.com
This entry was posted on Monday, January 7th, 2013 at 11:34 am.