Parties
Good old-fashioned fun in groups, and my first public "reading"
On a recent summer day, I swung by my friend Helen’s house. Like a kid, I rode my bike, and left it deposited on the front lawn while I went inside to pick something up. And chat—we’re women in our 40s and we do that. Unlike a kid, I worried about my bike getting stolen because worrying is also what a woman in her 40s does sometimes, and this is a fancy bike I bought back when I was making the big corporate bucks.
Jen Sincero would tell me to reframe this last bit to something present tense, like, “I make so much money! I make BIG BUCKS!” to which I’d say “Yes, I will!” and “Working on it!” to which she’d probably roll her writerly eyes. And then we’d have a lovely conversation about wealth that matters and making money in ways that actually suit our souls versus the alternative. And then I’d tell her how, for all those years, I thought her name was pronounced “Sincere-o.” Well, more like “Sin-sehr-o.” She’s become a whole new person to me since learning her last name is Italian and is pronounced “Sinchero.”
What I want to tell you about Helen is that she’s in charge of activities for my church congregation. And if ever a man or woman was born for a particular job, Helen was born for this role. In my church, all the positions are volunteer, and you don’t always serve where you want. Some other person in Helen’s position might skimp by with two half-hearted attempts at activities each year and call it good. But Helen has vision, energy, and is undaunted as she and her committee coordinate big, super fun, MONTHLY activities.
This month, we’re having a kids’ parade, followed by a chili and cornbread/bread cook-off, and Olympic games. Please send tips for buying off judges—I signed up to bring bread. I’m also running a game involving egg cartons and ping pong balls and I plan to be utterly ruthless about enforcing the rules and regulations I make up. Kids need to know what the old days used to be like before everyone got medals for everything.
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Speaking of kids, our family had a reunion a few weekends ago. It was a small affair of 120 people, and my shirt “NOT MY FIRST RODEO” was appropriate. This was not our first reunion. My cousin Darren impressively remembers the birthdays and anniversaries of basically everyone in our sizable family, the names and locations of all the national and state parks in the US, and a bunch of other stuff. When he says this was the 69th Annual Reunion, it was the 69th Annual Reunion. As seems often to be the case, those who got this ball rolling decades ago had no idea what a tradition they were starting. They certainly didn’t know they’d be responsible for the inevitable tears caused by the Silent Auction. Without fail, a reunion has some kid sobbing or otherwise in the depths of despair because another child won THE ITEM all the kids were warring over. Some years, there are beautiful scenes of peacemaking. These occur when parents buy off their victorious child and the coveted item is given to the kid who cried the most. It’s like a scene right out of War and Peace.
Our reunion in general has enough “tradition juice” that this year we had friends of family fly in from Florida and Minnesota to join the fun for the first time, and we have repeat visitors that are becoming staples. Some guests have been particularly memorable in their attendance. My cousin Renee told me that at a reunion 40-odd years ago, an engaged couple liked the location and the company so well that they said, “We want to get married here. Today.” And so they did. I think it was Great-aunt Dorothy who spun up a wedding cake. Family members decorated a spot on the property and found the justice of the peace for the license. And since, in Montana, anyone can apparently marry anyone, a local church man performed the ceremony. They didn’t even have to hire wedding celebrants; those were provided by my family, not theirs. Their kin probably didn’t even know until after the blessed event.
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These reunions include all the descendants of my great-grandmother Margaret and her two husbands. Her first one, Roy Oler, was killed as suddenly as it’s possible to be, struck by lightning. Then she married my great-grandpa George Burnett. “Then” makes it sound immediate, but it was actually 11 years later. George had been made a widower when his wife was killed in the Flu Epidemic of 1918. It is my personal belief that no one cares about anyone else’s family history unless it involves tragedy, betrayal, murder, embezzlement, that sort of thing. If you hold this same belief, hopefully this quick introduction to my great-grandparents involves enough tragedy at least to have satisfied you. If not, does it heighten your interest to know that Grandma Margaret and Grandpa George each had one young child when they were bereaved? Tragic.
Anyway, this year of 2025, for the first time, the third living generation planned the reunion. My cousin April and her husband Alex headed it up, and if I liked Alex before this, I adore him after. April I’ve always adored—she’s my cousin, after all. Can you even imagine coordinating a weekend of meals and activities for 120 people under the age of 96? I can’t. My siblings and I were in charge of planning and coordinating lunch and that was stressful enough that I won’t begin to tell you about it. Please picture me on a settee with my head thrown back dramatically. The back of my hand is pressed theatrically to my forehead. Very Trollopian of me, I know.
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While we’re on the subject of literature, I did a brave thing. Each reunion, we have a talent show. These are eclectic and awesome events, even if my cousin Katie’s little boys were sorely disappointed that “talent show” didn’t mean “talent movie.” Over the years, I’ve been part of innumerable group acts and numbers, but I don’t recall ever doing a solo performance.
This year, I channeled some combination of Jane Austen and The Moth Radio Hour, and I did my first public reading. Since we’re family, they had to let me, and I had the grace to choose a lightly sentimental piece about family traditions. You could say it went so well that next year I plan to DOUBLE the length of my reading. Whether my read on that room is accurate or not, waxing verbose seems like one more thing a woman in her 40s just ought to start doing at the large, happy gatherings.
Isn’t life cool, and aren’t people interesting? See you in the next one…
For paid subscribers: Scroll down for a quick and candid audio peek behind-the-scenes into the reading and how it actually did feel brave. Please forgive the audio quality and me being weirdly congested out of the blue. I’ll do better next time!