Yesterday we celebrated our older son's birthday a couple of days early. Family members wrapped around our hexagonal picnic table on the deck for the party, including eight swimsuit-clad
grandchildren, five of whom are his. We intended it to be a surprise
party, which was like keeping eight jumpy rabbits quiet under a single hat...in reality, the secret leaked out about an hour early.
It was a festive, gala affair. Highlights included an
automated bubble blower that spit bubbles like a machine gun at warp speed,
colorful punch-ball balloons as favors which made classy earrings for the birthday
boy (without being inflated) before they went to the kids, and homemade fresh blueberry pie. Gifts
included a photography book for "serious
amateurs" (he carries a camera at all times, I think it is a form of
therapy), and a serious hunting arrow
and killer tips for him to exterminate a pesky raccoon that keeps traipsing
around his house. Otherwise, the mood was anything but serious, but rather light, happy, and just crazy enough to be memorable as a one-of-a-kind observance of forty-one years of life.
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