Musings
an Online Journal of Sorts

By Alyce Wilson

Feb. 3, 2003: Party Animals

The weekend got off to a great start when I lost my turnpike ticket and had to pay $16 at my exit. You see, they charge you the highest possible fee, and the guy in the booth insisted that, for all he knew, I might have come from Ohio.

If I haven't known enough people who would actually drive from Ohio and claim to have driven from Philadelphia, I would be upset about this.

The next interesting thing to happen was when my parents and I went out for dinner. Who should be waiting behind us in line but Sharon Mohr.

I had only recently written about her in these pages, as somebody who had helped make my junior high life difficult. She acted really happy to see me, probably in part because she wanted to show off the slight bulge of her four-month pregnancy.

Her husband, who had a buzz cut and probably coaches Pee Wee Football, barely spoke except to mention that he's a CPA. She asked me what I was doing and seemed impressed when I told her I was a freelance writer in Philadelphia, working on a novel. "I'd love to read it," she gushed. "You were always so creative."

I gave her one of my business cards when she mentioned they're updating the class mailing list in preparation for our 15th year reunion, this summer. I didn't mention I'm about as likely to go to that as I am to win the Pulitzer Prize this year.

Saturday was the day of my dad's party. My mom and I got up early to pick up the cake, the balloons, the veggie tray, the food, and all other last minute items. I'd picked up the wine the previous night, wine which would be very welcome by the end of the day.

While we were running errands, we stopped at the place where Mom works to pick up her boots, which she had left there by mistake. One of the employees had the TV on to CNN, and for several minutes I had been watching the footage of the Space Shuttle Columbia exploding before anything sunk in.

"Isn't that terrible?" the employee said. I began to listen to the newscaster and couldn't believe what I was hearing.

It struck me as strange that this explosion happened within a month of a bizarre incident in Frankfurt, Germany, where a deranged man flew a light plane around the business district, threatening to crash it into the European Central Bank building if not permitted to speak to the brother of Judith Resnick, who died in the Challenger Space Shuttle explosion.

I'm sure he's in a padded room somewhere right now, saying, "If they'd only listened to me, this wouldn't have happened."

Seeing this disturbing footage reminded me of 1986 and how it was only a short while before the boys in my class began telling tasteless jokes about the Challenger. One of my teachers had a talk with us, telling us humor was a natural reaction to tragedy. At the time, I thought he was trying to excuse inexcusable behavior, but today I understand what he meant. When I worked at a small newspaper for three years, we resorted to gallows humor far too often, as a way of coping.

Despite these ominous events, and despite my inability to cook frozen lasagna, the party went well. We had arranged to hold it in a small civic center, which was a remodeled school house. It was a comfortable, quaint little place, and we even had access to the kitchen.

We had a great turnout. Nearly everybody that Dad invited showed, which either proves that he's more popular than I am or that I tend to invite people to parties when I know they're likely not to show.

The musician showed up a little late but in plenty of time to get her equipment set up and start performing for the first guests. I read a slightly modified version of my January 31 Musings entry, as a toast. Everyone surprised me by laughing in the appropriate places.

This reminded me of how much I used to love performing. Maybe I'll find out if there's a local improv group I can join. Or even an "improve" group, which is what I accidentally typed just now.

By the time it was over, I'd hemorrhaged at least as much money as I had over the holidays, but it was worth it to see Dad's grateful smile, and to make him center stage for a day. So often he's been the one ensuring special days for others.

Moral:
When you can't find a funny way to end something, opt for sappy instead.

Copyright 2003 by Alyce Wilson

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