The Birthday Party

Lillian’s 80th birthday party was held in a farm in Dordogne overlooking a valley of farms and the twisting river. Everything served from the foie gras to the chicken soup with the transparent tapioca balls was raised on the farm. Well not everything. The wine was from the region not from the farm.

Lillian, herself looked and acted as if she were in her fifties. (I’ve always hated saying some looks 32 or 61, because I am not exactly sure what 32 or 61 looks like, but Lillian certainly does not fit the concept of a little old white haired lady.).

Some 70 relatives had come not just from the area but from all over France, Canada and of course Switzerland. They varied in age from four months to 95, the latter being a woman dressed in white pants and a bright red blazer with jewelry, her blond hair modernly styled. She hopped from table to table talking to everyone. Not one person was obese, although there was one chubby and about four chunkies.

Like all family gatherings there were stories of who did what to whom and when, laughter, some tension between those that had problems in the past, forgiveness of others. Although I wasn’t part of the family, people went out of their way to include me or explain backgrounds.

I was reminded of the 50th wedding anniversary party for my Aunt Alma and Uncle Pat held in Florida twenty years ago. This hall looked out on a man-made lake. When we entered a room of 100 or so people, I said to my daughter, “There’s the family.”

“Where?” she asked.

“All over.”

It was the same atmosphere of happiness to see each other and to share a special time. At both parties, people kept saying the same thing: “We usually only meet at funerals, isn’t it lovely to meet for a happy event.” Like Tolstoy said “happy families are the same everywhere.”