Mockery: It’s the newest, sincerest form of flattery
It’s been a few weeks since I outed myself as a newly minted oldster, so it might seem odd I am just now getting around to talking about the celebration of my 60th birthday. The delay is for good reason. I am fundamentally opposed to celebrating much of anything without all three of my kids in the circle, and with my daughter Charlotte out of town on business on the big day, I just figured we’d get around to the whole cake and ice cream bit once she was home.
I’ve been around this crew long enough to know, however, that there was likely to be more to it than a simple handful of candles and a rousing rendition of the “Happy Birthday” song. Charlotte is the family party planner, and I knew for certain that something was up when she told Kristin and me to be at her place “by 5:30 on Saturday or else!”
If there was to be a party that day, it sure didn’t seem like it. Kristin was decidedly chill in her preparation. There was no frenzied rifling through the closet for just the right outfit or last-minute swapping of shoes. We pretty much got in the car and drove to Charlotte’s to find — much to my surprise — a completely empty driveway and no sign of extraordinary merriment. When I walked in the door, however, I was greeted by a giggling pair of grandsons, each done up as a miniature me.
Sporting brown bib overalls and camo booney hats, the boys were cast as “Duck Season Papa,” as illustrated by the 30-year-old photograph taped to James’ chest that featured me, their mother and my beloved old retriever Blaze after a successful morning in the swamp.
Further into the room, it became apparent this was no ordinary visit. Charlotte popped around the corner holding a flaxen-haired baby doll while wearing an old-school bicycle helmet, rock band T-shirt and bicycle shorts to match the photo pinned to her chest of me holding her after a long-ago bike race. After that, the doorbell started ringing, and various iterations of me began to arrive.
My son Ben was long-haired, teenage “fishing in Canada” John. My buddy Ryan was “worn-out bike clothes John,” complete with duct tape patches on his shorts and a stuffed squirrel stuck to his leg in a nod to a long-ago mishap involving a suicidal tree rat and 20 guys on bikes. Daughter Sylvia was modern-day “urban homesteading John” in one of my flannel shirts and my favorite ball cap sporting a sign that read, “Give Us Chickens or Give Us Death!” — a long and politically charged story that one is.
Son-in-law Andrew was “three seasons John,” clad in my basic do-it-all, nine months of the year get-up of a T-shirt, cargo shorts and strikingly authentic combat boots — fully laced but perpetually untied. Sister Sandy was “college administrator John” in a suit that might have actually been my own. Even nieces and nephews fell into the theme of “The Eras of John Lorson” with shocking detail.
Finally, there was Kristin, whose preparty calm was finally explained as she entered the room in the ensemble I laughingly refer to as “my home kit,” consisting of my bedtime/anytime get-up of fishing-themed pajama bottoms, a well-worn rock ‘n’ roll hoodie and a threadbare stocking cap. She had secreted the outfit to the party and dressed while I was marveling over the rest of the crew.
As the saying goes, “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.” And it has now been my experience that a little bit of mockery can kick it up a notch to make for hilarious memories that will last a lifetime. Thanks everybody. That was just the best.
Kristin and John Lorson would love to hear from you. Write Drawing Laughter, P.O. Box 170, Fredericksburg, OH 44627, or email John at jlorson@alonovus.com.