One thing's for sure: 'party' is not a verb

  • By Mike Dewey
  • November 18, 2012
  • 366
                        
SUMMARY: Parties, whether they be intimate gatherings of friends or explosive beach-frot blowouts, have never been Mike Dewey's strong suit, but there was a time -- and a specfic date on the calendar -- when all that changed. We're not normally party people. We don't usually host them and hardly ever attend them, unless it's family-based and, even then, we're not ever the life of it. Back when I was younger, well ... things were very different. I could be counted on to be the last to leave a festive gathering, actually since I had nowhere else to go. Being a single guy in a world run by couples ... you tend to take advantage of every social situation you find yourself in, even though that means that the likelihood of your ending up as the punch line of day-after stories increases exponentially. Not that I was the one wearing a lampshade on his head or weeping into his lager, lamenting long lost love. No, it was more that I actually enjoyed being in the company of others, who needn't be like-minded when it came to politics or music or literature, since I've always been the kind of person who relishes a good back-and-forth, sharpening his arguments for the next go-round. Most of my friends, for example, were -- and are, I presume, rock-ribbed Republicans who must, I daresay, be licking their wounds even still. And that's cool. If they're spoiling for a fight -- verbal, that is, since I haven't actually punched a person since eighth grade -- I will step into the breach and strap it on, arguing my side of the equation with a fervor that rivals John the Baptist wandering the desert. Because when it comes down to it, we are the sum of our beliefs and, as arbitrary as some might seem, we are entitled to them. I've always found it fascinating that, among the inalienable rights guaranteed by the U.S. Constitution, the word "Happiness" is listed, right alongside and shoulder to shoulder with "Life" and "Liberty." America was founded, at least in part, on the belief that its citizens ought to be happy. I love that. As I write, it's a few days before Thanksgiving, which is traditionally a time when we count our blessings. It's really not about turkey, though I've planned all six courses of our dinner with the dedication and purpose of a monk translating a newly discovered book of the Bible. Actually, Thanksgiving is about life and what it means to be alive. I DON'T KNOW WHO said it first, but human beings spend a long time dead ... and I don't know anything about the afterlife or reincarnation -- no one does, when you cut to the bone -- but what's obvious to me is that while we're blessed with the next breath, we ought to make the most of what actual existence has to offer. While we remain vital, ought we not, well, live? The distinction between life and living is a conundrum because who's to say that a person who seals himself off from the rest of humanity -- willingly choosing to barely subsist in a cave or a cardboard box under a bridge -- is less important that the dude in the mansion on the hill? The answer is obvious. No one can. Different strokes for different folks. Think about the next couple of minutes of your life. Will you continue reading my words ... or will you do something else, perhaps something you've been putting off, like raking leaves or cleaning gutters? Or maybe, calling an old friend to make sure he or she knows someone cares. It's all so chaotic and arbitrary, isn't it? Speaking of chaos, let's get back to the premise that it's the party time of the year and everyone, probably, is looking for a little diversion, a way to blow off steam for a couple of hours, having escaped the drudgery of a job that's going nowhere, but one that helps pay the bills. Back a long time ago, I took it into my head that the absolutely perfect date on the calendar to host a party was the Friday after Thanksgiving. And my fiancee, who'd later agree to become my wife (Saints be praised) went along with my way of thinking. So I called my friends and said something like, "We're having some people over that night and it'd be cool if you could be part of the fun." Because, let's face it: hardly anyone's got commitments the evening after Thanksgiving, their familial duties having been taken care of (for another year) the night before.It's like a free space on a Bingo card. And, based on that flimsy premise, my girlfriend/fiancee/wife-in-waiting planned to host a real party. Sure, we'd had family and friends over to the house for cookouts and such, but this had a different vibe altogether. We were a destination, a way for people we knew and loved to experience our kind of hospitality. To be honest, we succeeded beyond all expectations. OVER THE YEARS, we rather perfected the menu we offered, but at its heart, the victuals remained the same: Chicken wings, of varying spiciness Egg rolls, with hot mustard and something tamer A meat and cheese tray A shrimp ring with dipping sauces Them little hot dogs, AKA cocktail franks Crab dabs (wrapped in bacon) And chips with Dorothy Dip. Mom's name, as faithful readers might recall, was Dorothy and she taught me how to make the best-tasting chip dip known to mankind. It's sooooo good. (Visit my Facebook page for the recipe.) And here's the best part, having nothing to do with finger food or the music on the stereo or the candles that were burning or the welcome heat when guests stepped inside from what was often sub-freezing outside. People actually came! It was so life-affirming, so in-the-moment wonderful, so glad-to-be-alive that I couldn't help but smile. But my girlfriend/fiancee/wife-to-be provided the tipping point, the moment of clarity, the reason our home became a place to be that night and for several other day-after-Thanksgiving parties to come. She was absolutely brilliant as a hostess. From the way she welcomed everyone in to the way she made sure that the house was warm enough -- I never turn on the furnace, liking it cold -- to the way she put coats and gloves in a safe place, she was magnificent. Sure, we played 500 rummy around the dining room table and shared stories about lousy jobs we'd had on college breaks, but what we did mostly was feel alive. And thankful. That tradition didn't last much longer than Jimmy Carter's presidency -- three years, maybe four -- but it's stayed as alive and important in my memory as almost anything my wife and I have achieved in our quarter-century together. We actually were party people. Now, in Twenty Twelve, not so much. I can't remember the last time anyone knocked on our door who wasn't just doing his or her job and we were just another stop on a delivery route. Not a bad thing ... just the truth. But life is so short and death lasts so long: I think it's time to consider another holiday party. This time with steamed oysters. Yum. Mike Dewey can be emailed at CarolinamikeD@aol.com or snail-mailed at 6211 Cardinal Drive, New Bern, NC 28560. His Facebook page is a gas, gas, gas.


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