The holiday season has been an ongoing affair at my parents' place - they have adjusted well to only having Mr. and Mrs. Dave every other Christmas by inviting half of the Western world to their abode in our absence. Last year there was an open house where everyone sang carols, my mother's best friend and neighbor Gail played fiddle, my mother played piano, served hot hors d'oeuvres, and got maybe five minutes of socializing time betwixt all the running around. Not much fun for her, but she does love a full house, so this year she did it again. Only this time, she served cold hors d'oeuvres, invited even MORE people, and we were able to attend.
This year's gathering had a bit of a poignant (but triumphant) theme - Gail, after having been diagnosed with cancer, had managed to defeat it with a steady regimen of chemotherapy. So rather than having a neighborhood/friends open house, my mother and Gail instead extended an invitation to anyone who had helped her out during her recovery, no matter how small. People who had brought her food, sent her encouraging letters of support, come to visit, shared stories, laughs, or tears - about 80 people were invited in all.
For those of you who remember our wedding, we had maybe 100 people at the house that day, but unless you were directly related to the bride, groom, or hosts, or were part of the wedding party, you simply weren't allowed inside. So perhaps the last time the house had been put to such a strenuous test was my father's 50th birthday party, and even that had a smaller guest list than this gathering. There was, of course, room for two more, and after a fall that saw us seeing my family only sparingly (a combination of concerts, weekends on duty, travel requirements and visits to Mrs. Dave's family), we were glad to make the commitment for two consecutive weekends. And so we drove the familiar 95 miles north to my parents' place, arriving Saturday afternoon, some gifts in hand, the rest of the gifts purchased (a record for me, finishing a week early, though that was offset by my brother Matt not having even STARTED his shopping - as my mother would later quip, he must thrive on the pressure, or really enjoy other people's company).
After a sedate Saturday evening, Sunday was a flurry of activity - Gail was in and out of the house all morning and afternoon, bringing approximately sixteen bajillion cookies over, filling one punch bowl with eggnog, another with punch, and a third with mini water bottles. The bottles were a story in and of themselves - after having struck out in their quest for bottles at Shaw's and the IGA, my parents called to request 48 of them from our local store. I went out, procured the bottles, realized they were fluoridated (or, as the receipt said, "floridated" - treated with orange juice?!), took them back, passed them off to my parents during a quickie dinner visit...and then Gail mentioned that they were available at Hannaford's.
Once the tables were filled, the house started filling as well - guests arrived even before the official 5pm start time, partook generously of the punch (but not the eggnog), wolfed down an impressive quantity of cookies, and pretty much destroyed the cheese platter and basil torte. When it came time for carol singing, everyone crowded into the living room - the tree in one corner, my mother at my grandfather's piano in the other, Gail and her fiddle in the middle, and fifty people carrying a tune all around. Even my father, who's not a big singer and not a big Christian (i.e., he's Jewish), was leaning on the piano and half-singing, half-smiling at everyone. And it wasn't exactly like being back at my grandparents' house with Gram and Grampa, or Mom and Grampa, or Uncle Peter and Grampa at the piano... but it all reminded me that what we do have is still something pretty special.
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