|
 Years
ago, Mac and I moved to a new town to start our adventure of being
entrepreneurs. We relocated in the month of October. Halloween and
Thanksgiving flew by in a blur, and I never got to know my
neighbors. Being a country girl at heart, and loving Christmas with
all that heart, I decided I would have a neighborhood Christmas
party. I handmade invitations and bundled up my youngest to
personally deliver the invites. By the night of the party, that son
was the neighborhood mascot and knew everyone plus their dogs and
cats.
I nervously awaited the night of the celebration. I was afraid of no
one showing up and if they did, I would be the odd man out as I was
the newbie on the block. Everyone else had lived on the block for a
minimum of 20 years. Was I overstepping the boundaries of etiquette?
I had told everyone that it was dress casual and if they wanted to
bring a Christmas treat to share, it would be welcomed, but
certainly not mandatory as I love to bake. We had heavy snow that
year, but it was no problem since everyone was within a short walk.
With snow flying and wind blowing I met our neighbors at the front
door as they introduced themselves while brushing snow off their
coats and handing me food, hostess gifts and hugs.
At that time, Mac and I were about the youngest ones on the block.
Everyone else was retired and approximately the age we are now. One
other couple was our age. They were late getting to the party as he
was our community Santa and had jobs to do about town. He was a
fabulous storyteller and his wife a delight. I counted on them to
help me out if the party fizzled and the conversation died down.
Happily, Mary Kay and Mike arrived at a riotous party of their
counterparts and plunged right in amongst the Merry Christmas wishes
to Santa and his wife.
As the evening wore on and our neighbors relaxed, we realized that
they really did not know each other. They knew who one another was,
they knew who each other’s children were, where they had all worked
but not really one another’s personalities. Two men admittedly said
they had not spoken in 37 years. No problem, no dispute, just a tip
of the hat or a nod of the head to one another. As polite talk
turned to roars of laughter, we all crammed into one room and took
turns telling and listening to community stories.
One pleasant lady told of a gorgeously wrapped Christmas gift
mysteriously set on her doorstep. She opened it to find a Marshall
Field’s box and was extremely excited and impressed. She screamed as
she opened the box and found a dead rabbit in it. Her children
thought it hysterical, and one son explained it was retribution for
a trick he had played on another neighborhood child.
There was a horrified expression on one of the other neighbors.
“That was my Johnny!” she admitted. “I never knew what he did with
it.” She apologized profusely, “I’m sure Jimmy deserved it.” Gertie
replied and the fathers high fived each other over the boys’ pranks
of their now grown sons.
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That led to many questions and explanations of neighborhood pranks,
accidents, events, and whodunits within the last 20 to 25 years.
Every inquiry brought a reply followed by audacious, contagious
laughter.
Yes, Mac and I were odd men out because we had only lived there two
and a half months. The comradery was more than worth the lack of
what we had to add to the town lore.
For the next eight years, we had Christmas parties for our
neighbors. Even during our summers, waves and visits with one
another, they would bring up the Christmas party present and future.
My casual dress request turned automatically into ugly sweaters.
Grown children would shop for their parents so they would be wearing
the most outstanding ugly sweater for the annual McQueen Gala. This
was before it was popular. The shrieks of glee as our sophisticated,
matronly, white-haired ladies took off their winter coats to expose
sequined, glittering, battery lit sweaters were heard around the
block. Good thing everyone was there or we probably would have
gotten reported to the police.
We had one gentleman that wanted to argue politics constantly. After
the first year’s party, Mac would meet him at the door with a wine
glass full of port and our guest would contently sip and sit on the
couch and forget politics one night a year.
The ladies outdid themselves baking. We had the most wonderous of
baked goods. Everything from stuffed dates to baklava to apricot
crepes. It was long enough ago that we tasted our first wine from a
box. It brought gasps of impropriety to guffaws of acceptance
depending on personalities. I can honestly report the box was empty
at evening’s end.
As everyone walked down our walk year after year in the moonlight
shining on the cold ground, Mac and I would stand arm in arm
watching our neighborhood family walking home. We always heard calls
of Merry Christmas! Don’t Die! Don’t Move! Let’s keep the
neighborhood together!
Eight years of wonderous partying with our elderly friends that kept
us up until 2 a.m. remain delightful memories. As time marched on
our beloved buddies move, pass away, and leave our lives.
We now live only a few blocks away from the old neighborhood. We
make it a point to walk up and down on that block every Christmas. I
assure you if we listen hard enough we can still hear the laughter,
see those sweet faces, taste delicious memories, and hear their dear
voices wish us a Merry Christmas.
L. Maxine McQueen may be contacted at
maxmac.1@juno.com |
