Happy Birthday!

Tomorrow is my mother's 81st birthday. She is going strong and looks terrific. One of the ladies at the Villa (retirement center where she lives) had a tea for her. Mother said she has never had a birthday party, never had a tea in her honor, so she was excited. Her hair had been set and styled and she was wearing a lovely turquoise dress when I got there to help her get spiffed up. She looked lovely and her face glowed with excitement at the tea.


Heady, a wonderfully warm woman of Hungarian background, hosted the tea. It was a great group of ladies: Kathleen, the activities coordinator was there; Evelyn (93), Mother's best friend was there; Hepsi, a new resident from India, came; Salma, who is the self-proclaimed matriarch of the Villa (she has lived there 18 years); and Joyce, who is from New England and is struggling with a new cochlear implant. The six residents who attended were all over 80 years of age, and so very sweet.

Heady had baked little shortbread cookies with apricot and raspberry fillings, lemon curd tarts with raspberries on top, cucumber-cream cheese-mint appetizers, home grown cherry tomatoes, cream scones with raspberry cream, and wonderful tea. All of the tea cups were different and quite elegant. There were antique clear dishes that we ate from, and on each of the tea saucers was a teaspoon with different flower on the tip of it. Heady brought out all of her beautiful cut linens for the table: beautiful white cut linen placemats, a pale green tablecloth, and a runner with various teacups cross stitched on it. Two burning candles topped it off. We were all in awe.

We chatted, laughed, and talked. Interesting, the topics that they wanted to share. One of them was how they want to die. I suppose that at their ages, this is something that is a matter of course. Heady said that she wants to die doing something that she enjoys, and then told us how her mother died while scrubbing the floor on hands and knees in her sister's house. Someone else wants to die in her sleep, and another said that she hopes to die from a massive heart attack--quickly and suddenly. I looked over at Kathleen, who is my age. The horror on her face was probably a reflection of my own. I was appalled to be talking about this over my mother's birthday tea. But she didn't seem to mind and added her two cents about her wishes.

Kathleen asked, "Barbara, do you want to live to be a hundred?"

Mother piped up, "It's great if your marbles all roll in the same direction!" Everyone howled with laughter.

Then the conversation moved to upper arm strength. Salma told us that she had arm wrestled her sons, grandsons, and now her great-grandsons. "When they can pin me, then that's the last time." She giggled and looked around the table. "I'm a tough one!" and everyone laughed. A couple of women flexed their biceps and explained how they grew so large: making bread, doing housework, farm work, etc. It struck me that English women would be absolutely scandalized with these antics, were this a British tea. But this was a friendly, happy, warm event that was to honor my mother. And she loved it.

The next topic was middle age memory loss. Heady had recently read research that low dose Ritalin helps with memory loss in elderly. Although this is correct, and a blessing to many, for a moment I envisioned all these women on Ritalin, bounding through the halls with their walkers. I could hardly contain myself.

Joyce taught us how to say (in sign language) that we will meet our friends in heaven. Everyone tried to get the hand gestures just right. To see all those dear arthritic hands moving in unison, fingers and wrists all askew, was very moving to me. Particularly, given the message that they were conveying to one another.

I asked Heady how she started giving teas. It was something that she dreamed up after she retired and moved to a Southeast mountain town. "If those people there didn't know your grandparents, they thought of you as an outsider," she said. So as a way to extend friendship to her neighbors she invited them to tea. They loved it, and after today's fare, I can see why. She really wanted to start a Bible study, but they had no interest in that. So she kept up having teas and they always came and really enjoyed themselves. "That is my missionary work," she mused aloud. "Who would have thought?"

Indeed. But what a lovely tradition.

Looking around the table, I knew that all of the ladies have emotional battle scars. One of them can't hear. Another can barely walk. One has congestive heart failure so bad that her ankles are the size of her calves. And several have gnarled fingers from arthritis. At one point, Evelyn leaned over to me and put her hand on mine.

"You have such beautiful hands!" she exclaimed.

I was shocked, seeing that I have wrecked any vestige of refinement on my hands this week putting in the floor.

"Really?"

"Oh yes," she said. And she gently stroked my arm and hand. Evelyn ran her hand longlingly at my arm. "You have lovely skin." Her wrinkled, cool, somewhat translucent hand on my wrist felt warmly comforting and I wish she would have kept her hand on mine longer.

There were cards and a gift for Mother. The women shared with her how much they love her and how her cheeriness has ministered to them. One lady drew a picture of herself making the hand gestures ("I love you!") that she makes to Mother every morning at breakfast from across the dining room. Mother was pleasantly surprised at how eager all the ladies were to make the birthday tea a nice experience for her. I was so very happy to see her glowing face, laughing at their jokes, and participating without hesitation. Gathering up the table centerpiece (two dozen yellow roses) that Heady insisted she take, she fairly floated out of the room and down the hall to her apartment.

Mother is 81 years old tomorrow. I hope I am as fortunate as she is to be surrounded by people who love me when I am her age.
Happy Birthday, Mommy.