A 90th BIRTHDAY CELEBRATION

KFC, Alamogordo, NM

Last month, on the occasion of my sister’s 90th birthday, she celebrated with two receptions. The first was in Alamogordo, NM, and the other in Saratoga Springs, UT. Several years ago she nearly departed and spent six weeks deciding whether or not her number was up. She says that she decided to stay when a handsome personage appeared, telling her it was her choice. After a day or so, she decided to stay, partly because she was not sure that they had chicken-fried steak with white gravy at Kentucky Fried Chicken every Tuesday. About that time she started to feel better and told her daughter that if she made it to age 90, there would be a big celebration complete with a marching band and dancing girls. I don’t think she thought she would last that long, because as the time was fast approaching, she stopped talking about the marching band and felt sheepish about making a big fuss, let alone dancing girls.

The week of her birthday, an open house was held in New Mexico. A few days later she flew with her daughter to Utah for the other open house Saturday evening. Friends and family came to honor her, including her surviving children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, her two brothers, nieces and nephews, a dozen first cousins, and friends she knew when she lived in Provo. Sunday morning her daughter took her to church in the ward where she raised her children and where still had a dozen or so surviving contemporaries. After church, it took them a moment, but they hugged and cried when they recognized each other. Both events were very touching. Someone said this was the last time these people would ever meet together again. I noted inversely that this was also the first time some of these people had ever met together.

With each person came a story — far too many to put into print. Rest assured, I managed to put my foot into my mouth every three minutes for over two hours. However, it was not as bad as a few years ago when my sister’s grandson got married. At that reception in Provo, I visited with a young woman who was the embodiment of my niece, Becky — except she wasn’t Becky. After a few minutes and some awkward answers, I slowly realized that the person I was talking with wasn’t the person I thought I was talking with -- it was her daughter, Amanda. And so it was at my sister's birthday open house/reception party, many of the children looked like their parents when I knew them decades earlier when they were children. The children were easily recognizable, and through them, I recognized their parents, now mature adults and less recognizable. It was my good fortune that despite my social faux paus, everyone still seemed to love me at the end of the evening.

At my age, it is increasingly possible that someday a handsome personage will approach me and offer the choice of whether to pass on or stick around a little longer. If I decide to go, I will avoid the pain and embarrassment that comes from regularly finding my foot in my mouth. On the other hand, I still don’t know if they have chicken fried steak with white gravy at Kentucky Fried Chicken every Tuesday. P.S. This morning, as I posted this, Becky tells me that they are taking Marilyn camping this weekend and fishing for bass. They have a camper for her and will take her along. Remember, this is New Mexico and unlike 7 feet of snow in Island Park, the water in New Mexico is actually liquid. However, just like Island Park, Becky's family takes their own trash to the landfill. Whenever this happens, Marilyn perks up and looks forward to going on the outing. They fill the back of a 1991 pickup with barrels of trash and all pile into the truck. Becky did not tell me if they let Marilyn sit by a window in the back and put her head out the window.

Ever vigilant,

RT