One of the things I love most in life is having family and friends gather at the farm. Yes, I get tired and yes, it is a lot of work at times. But it's what I do, and I love it. Last July after several months of continuous celebrations, our back door sustained so much wear and tear it actually fell off of the hinges. And we do not have a screen door. The Farmer set it back in place with the dead bolt locked and then promptly made a trip to our local hardware store. I decided my body needed a break to rest and heal until Thanksgiving, but it's one of those memories during that busy summer that makes me smile now.
So much joy arises in my heart from planning all of the shindigs we host here at Healing Brook, from deciding on the menu to decorating the our little cabin and porch to selecting the iPod play list. Ironically though I didn't plan this specific party - I didn't select the menu or trim the house, and someone else compiled an iPod play list. My family and friends secretly tiptoed behind my back and threw a surprise birthday party for me here at the farm, which I'm pretty sure was mostly bank rolled by the handsome and sweet farmer that I share my life with.
I come from an era where your birthday consisted of a family dinner with your siblings, a birthday cake, and a special present. There was no scrounging around in a sea of plastic, germ covered balls at Chuck E. Cheese's where "a kid can be a kid," and dance with a giant rat. No roller skate parties at the local rink, no McDonald's Playland, and certainly no trips to the Magic Kingdom.
I come from an era where your birthday consisted of a family dinner with your siblings, a birthday cake, and a special present. There was no scrounging around in a sea of plastic, germ covered balls at Chuck E. Cheese's where "a kid can be a kid," and dance with a giant rat. No roller skate parties at the local rink, no McDonald's Playland, and certainly no trips to the Magic Kingdom.
I was born to working class parents who loved me for sure, but most assuredly couldn't afford to lavish extravagant birthday bashes on their offspring. Good Grief! Why didn't the Farmer and I carry on with that tradition? What were we thinking? Particularly our youngest man child whose birthday falls in April would start making his birthday gift list right after Christmas, and a full fledged party with friends and family was expected. I would take his wish list to ToysRUs, and go shopping for the birthday boy. After I left, they could have renamed it ParentsRBroke.
One year said son who was obsessed with super heroes and action figures like most boys his age, Batman being his favorite. After Josh had collected literally every version of the caped crusader along with his accessories and of course the Batcave Command Center, he moved on to Batman's creepy nemesis, The Joker.
Well, The Kenner Toy Company's assembly line of the Penguin must have malfunctioned somehow on the track causing it to speed up and sputter out record amounts of the wobbling, tuxedo wearing villain. To off set production costs the company apparently only manufactured like five Jokers that year.
My brother-in-law, Mike made it his life mission to help his young nephew unearth the silly and deranged criminal. All this before Amazon and on-line shopping, the two of them would set out on a scavenger hunt that included local speciality toy shops, antique dealers, and flea markets until eventually, thanks to Uncle Mike, the coveted, face painted, wild haired Joker was discovered.
Once Josh started college, I tearfully packed all of the gang up into a huge, rubbermaid storage container and stashed them away in the attic. Yeah, I know, Toy Story 3, but don't feel sad for them. They're just being kept safe until the grandbabies come along. No pressure.
Back to the party.
One year said son who was obsessed with super heroes and action figures like most boys his age, Batman being his favorite. After Josh had collected literally every version of the caped crusader along with his accessories and of course the Batcave Command Center, he moved on to Batman's creepy nemesis, The Joker.
Well, The Kenner Toy Company's assembly line of the Penguin must have malfunctioned somehow on the track causing it to speed up and sputter out record amounts of the wobbling, tuxedo wearing villain. To off set production costs the company apparently only manufactured like five Jokers that year.
My brother-in-law, Mike made it his life mission to help his young nephew unearth the silly and deranged criminal. All this before Amazon and on-line shopping, the two of them would set out on a scavenger hunt that included local speciality toy shops, antique dealers, and flea markets until eventually, thanks to Uncle Mike, the coveted, face painted, wild haired Joker was discovered.
Once Josh started college, I tearfully packed all of the gang up into a huge, rubbermaid storage container and stashed them away in the attic. Yeah, I know, Toy Story 3, but don't feel sad for them. They're just being kept safe until the grandbabies come along. No pressure.
Back to the party.
I was pretty apprehensive about my birthday that year, for one thing I had just lost my mom to a sudden stroke three weeks earlier and for another thing I was turning the dreaded 50. But my friends and family made me feel like a queen. A sparkling tiara was even placed upon my head. Together they chose a 1950s theme. There was a huge birthday cake that said, "50 and Fabulous" complete with a picture of me and the big white doggies stretched out across the yummy, buttercream icing. There was sparkling mojitos with fresh lime and mint. When no one was looking, Atlas helped himself to chargrilled burgers off the buffet table. For me it was better than the Magic Kingdom. It made me cry.
My man children transformed our garage pad into a disco tech companioned with a sound system and every dance song imaginable because they know Mama loves to dance. Music is powerful and dancing is so freeing and healing. I don't mean dirty dancing and bumping and grinding, I mean rejoicing and celebrating with each other to the God who gave us life, surrounded by his magnificent creation. Just so you know, if you ever show up for a party at my farm, you better be wearing your dancing shoes. You may not be dancing with the stars, but you'll most assuredly be dancing under them.
I danced and danced with all of my friends and family. I danced with everyone at the party except the Farmer. He doesn't dance. He did dance with me at my senior prom, at our wedding, and once on a cruise ship, but that's the extent of it.
Later in the night after the guests and I had rocked to just about every style of music from every era possible, a gunshot fired up into the sky. That's the way neighbors in the country communicate to each other, "shut the h-e-double hockey sticks up and go to bed!"
Uh oh, the Farmer was making his first appearance on the dance floor.
Uh oh, the Farmer was making his first appearance on the dance floor.
"Babe, you all need to turn the music off now and call it a night," he scolded. Party Pooper. Just then, Abba's Dancing Queen came roaring through the speakers like a NASCAR race rounding the final lap. I don't know how it's possible for women who have spent the night dancing and laughing together under a brilliant starry sky to "call it a night" with Dancing Queen beckoning out to them. Well, apparently, it isn't possible. As if on cue and in complete unison, we all ran madly onto our concrete dance pad, joined arm and arm, and kicked up our heels in a way even the Rockettes would have been proud of.
When the song ended though, it was the best part of the evening for me. An old song began to play slowly. "Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday, baby, Oh, I love you so, sixteen candles make a lovely light," the singers softly crooned. Just then the Farmer strolled out, wrapped his strong arms around me, and began swaying both of us to the music, my favorite gift of all. "Hey, we're dancing!" "Yeah well, I think there were more than sixteen candles on that birthday cake," he quipped in my ear. All of a sudden I didn't care anymore about being 50. Bring it on, 50. I'm not afraid of you, show me what you've got. It was the perfect ending to a perfect day, as the music faded and more gunshots fired out into the night sky.
When the song ended though, it was the best part of the evening for me. An old song began to play slowly. "Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday, baby, Oh, I love you so, sixteen candles make a lovely light," the singers softly crooned. Just then the Farmer strolled out, wrapped his strong arms around me, and began swaying both of us to the music, my favorite gift of all. "Hey, we're dancing!" "Yeah well, I think there were more than sixteen candles on that birthday cake," he quipped in my ear. All of a sudden I didn't care anymore about being 50. Bring it on, 50. I'm not afraid of you, show me what you've got. It was the perfect ending to a perfect day, as the music faded and more gunshots fired out into the night sky.
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| You know it's a big cake when it contains 50 candles and 5 Great Pyrenees. That's Natasha in front, ever watching, and before Kisha and Shasta were born. |
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| I could never imagine my life without these two goofy, goof balls. |
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| When everyone's dancing, the Farmer and Atlas stick together on the sofa. |