THE POSTSCRIPT, Carrie Classon
My sister and I told my mother we were throwing her a party for her 90th birthday.
“Not everyone knows I’m 90!” she said.
“Well, it’s good we tell them,” I said. “We told everyone that Dad turned 90 last year, and we don’t want people to think he robbed the cradle.”
Mom saw the sense in that, and we sent out invitations to friends and family, and even though a few people couldn’t make it at the last minute, we still had 34 guests. A spattering of rain sent everyone indoors, but everyone found a place to sit and eat appetizers and snacks and salads and cake, and we toasted to Mom’s 90th year.
Mom told a story about how, on her golden birthday, when she was 10, all the relatives had been invited over to the farmhouse. Mom came from a big family, with 10 siblings and dozens of cousins. They had a tradition that, on your birthday, you got to eat first, which would be a rare thing for a small child in such a large family. My mom and her cousins were out playing in the peat marsh, and when they came in to eat, the family had already started. Mom said she was so hurt that she has never forgotten it. She told this story 80 years later, and we all agreed she should get to eat first.
After the cake had been eaten and most of the guests had left, Mom opened a few gifts. We had told everyone not to bring gifts, but a few family members had disregarded the instructions. Her grandson, Beau, gave her a little bird that, when placed in a pie, blew steam out its beak when the filling was done.
“It’s practical and cute!” my mother said, and that is high praise coming from someone who is both.
Just when the last of the guests were thinking it was time to head on home, my oldest friend, Andrew, arrived. He was going to take me to the theater, as I have season tickets and we always go together.
“Happy Birthday, Jone!” Andrew said as he walked into the house. “I have some presents for you!”
Andrew handed my mother two bags. In the first was a cookie that said, “Happy Birthday” on it, which was nice. “Open the other one!” Andrew urged. My mother did.
“There’s food in here,” my mother said, sounding very confused.
My mother had a right to be confused. There was an entire meal inside the bag. She pulled the items out, and there were three tacos, wrapped in tinfoil, a brownie and a couple of other items that were not identified.
“Someone from DoorDash left it at my door by mistake, and I thought it was providential, and I should bring it to you!” he said.
“Who is this person?” one of the remaining guests whispered to me.
Then, my sister started to laugh, and I did, too. And my mother shook her head.
“I just thought I should bring you a gift,” Andrew explained.
“Well, you didn’t buy this, did you?” my mother asked.
“That’s not very nice, to ask about a gift!” Andrew replied. My father rolled his eyes, and my mother laughed.
My parents have known Andrew since before he had a driver’s license. But even knowing someone for almost 50 years does not prepare you for getting pilfered DoorDash on your 90th birthday.
“I brought the most memorable gift, didn’t I?” Andrew asked on the way to the theater.
I could not deny it.
To see photos, check out CarrieClassonAuthor on Facebook or visit CarrieClasson.com.
