Just a quick entry before I take off for California (to deal with Patrick’s two storage units). The Birthday Party was a wild success — everyone came, they ate almost all of the Ham As Big As Montana, they drank everything, and fun was had by all. Robert-the-Painter made three cakes — a tray of carrot cake cupcakes, a flourless chocolate cake, and a lovely lemon curd and blueberry tart. Jim and Geri and Tim and Linnea gave me a rhinestone tiara, which I may never take off. There was champagne.
And then there was Julie, who I have known since we were in our early 20s, and her big mommy-bag full of fireworks. We’re not talking firecrackers here — although there was a lovely string of firecrackers — we’re talking fireworks. Rockets that go way way up and explode in a shower of red stars. Spinners that make a great noise and also shower red sparks. Many many fireworks which she and I shot off with glee in the backyard.
Which is, of course, why the cops showed up. The first time, I played all innocent birthday girl. “Oh I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know about the ordinance.” The cop clearly looked relieved that we were all geezers and away he went.
Then Julie snuck out into the backyard and blew off another barrage.
Which is why, when we were loading her car, and before Gary walked her over to the Murray Hotel (Julie lives in Bozeman, and sensibly decided that an icy pass and a birthday party were not a good combo), the cop showed up again, asking “Why am I back here?” We assured him the party was really over this time and away he went.
So, it was great fun. A good party. And a good party was one of the things my brother loved, and was good at, and while we all missed him last night, we kept it festive.