Sometimes I stare glumly at the tabula rasa — blank slate—of my computer screen with an equally blank mind. “There’s nothing I’m in the mood to write about! I’ve gone stale, dull . . . No one will want to read this stuff . . . What, what, what? . . .”
Other times a series of columns springs from one reminiscence, event or idea. I have written material about the best and worst of our hotel and restaurant experiences in my mind.
“What a swellegant, elegant party!” — Cole Porter
Vicki and Tom hosted a 50th wedding anniversary reception at our beloved Benton House that crammed my October trunk to overflowing. I wrote about the surprise party that the Forsters’ children threw for them. Memories were made that night that their family and friends will never forget. Our party not only provided the stuff of future reminiscence, and the guests’ recollections, photos and notes brought past events in our lives to the surface.
Bill and I had decided that we would forego a “do” and just share something quiet. I said, “Fifty years! I feel like I’ve been hit in the head with a hammer!” He replied, “I’d like to just put it out of my mind.” We rather resisted Vicki’s and Tom’s plans.
Sometimes our daughter amazes me. Perhaps our view of our children remains too overlaid with images from the past so that we don’t fully comprehend their adult selves. After staying here for several weeks following Bill’s heart surgery, Vicki went home to pack before she and Tom moved to Lake Shafer in September. She painted most of the rooms, and unpacked while Tom loaded truckloads of possessions — including ten boxes of her books — and drove back and forth from their home near Fremont. They were exhausted. My idea of Hell is an eternity spent moving on a rainy day!
In the midst of all that she made and mailed invitations, ordered a replica of our wedding cake, sent for a banner, napkins and a chest to store treasures in, made darling party favors with our wedding picture on them and organized a display of various mementos from our past. The guests said that she should become a party planner.
I’ve often quoted Marcel Proust’s story about how a crumb of a madeleine immersed in a spoonful of tea triggered memory of his aunt, the village where she lived and its inhabitants. Our party’s refreshments brought memories of wedding receptions held in church basements when I was young. Those were simple cake-and-punch affairs with nuts and mints in little cups and punch made with lime sherbet, rather that the catered meals of today. We also served champagne.
Vicki compiled three big scrapbooks of photos, mementos and songs for each of the fifty years. Every page was a memory trigger. More memories were triggered by the guests, including two of the nine nifty Nicitinos, my high school chums, the houseboat crew, Irvingtonians, the grandboys and one’s spouse, beloved nephews and nieces, and people with whom Bill had taught. One of the delights of my elder years has been discovering and getting to know Brian Kelly and Amber Kelly Frey, the grandchildren of my cousin, Brian Kelly, who grew up in Knightstown. They arrived with their spouses.
This poem was a favorite of our dear friend, Phyllis Otto. It shows another side of James Whitcomb Riley.
A PARTING GUEST
What delightful hosts are they—
Life and Love!
Lingeringly, I turn away,
This late hour, yet glad enough
They have not withheld from me
Their high hospitality.
So with a face lit with delight
And all gratitude, I stay
Yet to press their hands and say,
“Thanks—So fine a time! Good night.”
A fine time, indeed! I’m grateful for the memories and my companionable daughter and affectionate son-in-law who are allies during the late autumn of one’s life. wclarke@comcast.net