Photographers, artists, poets: show us CELEBRATION.
Yesterday was my dad’s 98th
birthday. I took this photo on his 90th birthday when I was in
London. My girlfriend organised the cake with his photo, just wonderful. We had
a meal in the evening at a restaurant with some family friends and his late
girlfriend, who has died in the meanwhile. She was two years older than my dad:
an occasion to preserve on a photo and never to forget.
Otherwise celebrations are not my thing. Something spontaneous, a sudden idea is good, but I find that planned events can easily not be as planned as they should be. At the last moment Fred has to go to a funeral, Lil has to go into hospital,, and Jack and Vera suddenly were on holiday somewhere. Perhaps they never wanted to come; perhaps they really could not come. Over the years I avoid planned celebrations where possible.
Of course, if by some strange misguided option I would write a book that would become a success and establish my name in the hall of author fame, I might organise a book launching party, inviting my wonderful WordPress fan club that have supported me through thick and thin reading my wonder blog (for lack of something else to do), and passing a comment to show I have been there, seen it and done that. Of course this triumph must be accompanied by a substantial financial reward, that I can afford to charter the plane from the States, necessary for my friends across the pond. I would have to organise a hotel and make sure everyone is comfortable, especially the animal writers who also blog (I am thinking here about Wiley the most wonderful animal blogger I know).
My felines would also be invited. They would have their own place for the celebrations. Just the three of them: Nera the boss, Tabby the assistant and Fluffy the apprentice. Felines are not such social specimens of life, they prefer to remain solo and eat all the food themselves. The word “sharing” does not exist in Meow; one of the reasons that only dog parks exist and not feline parks. A feline park would probably resemble an arena in ancient Rome, where only the lucky survived. Felines do not play; they fight, generally for territorial rights. If a female-male connection should occur, even this does not go smoothly over the stage. She is not keen, he is and when eventually a union occurs, she gives out a yell, swipes a claw over the partner and then looks around for the next victim. Yes love in the feline world is more trial and error, but if you do not succeed the first time, they try, try again.
I am drifting off the track. So, being a miserable selfish cow, I think my celebration will be minimalized and only take place when I want it to. I am happy otherwise in my own little golden oldie world. No excitements, danger of heart attack, and no dancing or singing. After being a working woman for 35 years and bringing up 4 children into the bargain, I am now reaping the rewards of retirement.
I would probably make an exception if Mr. Swiss and his jazzer friends organise a jam session in a local restaurant. I have been to a few celebrations and they are fun: meeting old friends, listening to good local jazz and eating as an accompaniment. You need no basic reason for such a celebration, although it might be combined with a birthday. It just happens.
Otherwise celebrations are not my thing. Something spontaneous, a sudden idea is good, but I find that planned events can easily not be as planned as they should be. At the last moment Fred has to go to a funeral, Lil has to go into hospital,, and Jack and Vera suddenly were on holiday somewhere. Perhaps they never wanted to come; perhaps they really could not come. Over the years I avoid planned celebrations where possible.
Of course, if by some strange misguided option I would write a book that would become a success and establish my name in the hall of author fame, I might organise a book launching party, inviting my wonderful WordPress fan club that have supported me through thick and thin reading my wonder blog (for lack of something else to do), and passing a comment to show I have been there, seen it and done that. Of course this triumph must be accompanied by a substantial financial reward, that I can afford to charter the plane from the States, necessary for my friends across the pond. I would have to organise a hotel and make sure everyone is comfortable, especially the animal writers who also blog (I am thinking here about Wiley the most wonderful animal blogger I know).
My felines would also be invited. They would have their own place for the celebrations. Just the three of them: Nera the boss, Tabby the assistant and Fluffy the apprentice. Felines are not such social specimens of life, they prefer to remain solo and eat all the food themselves. The word “sharing” does not exist in Meow; one of the reasons that only dog parks exist and not feline parks. A feline park would probably resemble an arena in ancient Rome, where only the lucky survived. Felines do not play; they fight, generally for territorial rights. If a female-male connection should occur, even this does not go smoothly over the stage. She is not keen, he is and when eventually a union occurs, she gives out a yell, swipes a claw over the partner and then looks around for the next victim. Yes love in the feline world is more trial and error, but if you do not succeed the first time, they try, try again.
I am drifting off the track. So, being a miserable selfish cow, I think my celebration will be minimalized and only take place when I want it to. I am happy otherwise in my own little golden oldie world. No excitements, danger of heart attack, and no dancing or singing. After being a working woman for 35 years and bringing up 4 children into the bargain, I am now reaping the rewards of retirement.
I would probably make an exception if Mr. Swiss and his jazzer friends organise a jam session in a local restaurant. I have been to a few celebrations and they are fun: meeting old friends, listening to good local jazz and eating as an accompaniment. You need no basic reason for such a celebration, although it might be combined with a birthday. It just happens.
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Happy Birthday to your father for yesterday. 98 years young? He's doing really well. Even at 90, as in the photo on the cake, he looks younger than his years.
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