Ah, Epiphany

I made it through another Christmas season, it seems, by having a very successful Epiphany party last night. The whole neighborhood showed up, and a few other friends, the candles only burned one child (yikes!) and the left overs look manageable (sort of). And there is always a little Akvavit to keep me humming.

When I mover to Boston in September 1977, I celebrated Christmas at home with my family in Rhode Island. That was fine, But by December 1978, I felt I needed my own Christmas "do," and so I held a mid-week party (was it on a Wednesday? a Thursday??) where friends stopped by after work.

In those days, most of my friends were waiters and waitresses at the 57 Restaurant ("best beef in Boston" according to the truck drivers of the New York Times). Everyone loved to party and I'd jam thirty people at a time into my one-room studio (and overflow into the hallway and stairwell). My neighbors would join in, and amid much conviviality we'd get sloppy and smoochy and very touchy (unlike today!). I'd keep food and drink cold on the fire escape, a friend would play my piano and we'd sing . . . a pattern established for the future.

After a couple of tries at an early Christmas, it became clear to me that I needed another way, and so I think it was at Christmas 1979 that I decided to shift the party to after Christmas so that I could really give it some attention (and still get all my church- and music-related Christmas responsibilities addressed). So I initiated the Epiphany Party for which I am yet remembered. My family would show up from Rhode Island, friends would drop in and out, the food and drink would be largely Swedish, and the stories far too obscure and long. We'd sing Christmas carols one last time, a few friends would show off their singing, and many toasts would be offered.

Now I get misty. Last night as I sat with a next-to-the-last guest waiting for his (last guest) ride, I thought of three special people. Leonel, of course. We met at Carlos Latoni's "Tres Reyes" party (Puerto Rican food and ultra-swishy host!) on a Friday night, and I gave him a ride home to Roslindale. He showed up at my house for most of the day on Saturday to help me cook and clean, and then I brought hi home again. And on Sunday evening, he showed up to help, dressed handsomely, respectfully; he interacted with friends and enjoyed himself and at the end of the night, even as I was trying to get the last few guests to leave, he put his arms around me and told me that he loved my family and friends and lifestyle . . . and he spent the night!

Two other souls were present in my mind. My dad and Priscilla Grey used to spend hours in the kitchen together in my Boylston Street apartment overlooking Copley Square. They'd wash and dry dishes (I never used paper plates or plastic utensils in those days!) and share some close times. Priscilla loved to listen and Dad loved to talk. Priscilla just appreciated people, and Dad appreciated being busy. They died about a month apart two summers ago, Priscilla discovering that here chest cold was not a cold at all but a web of metastasized cancer throughout her torso; Dad having overcome his renal cell cancer, but his body just being exhausted. Dad a week short of his 75th birthday, Priscilla shy of her 60th.

Epiphany becomes a touchstone for me, a memory and loss place, certainly, but a hope-center, too. I treasure an evening with friends, I hope there'll be someone special to share the days with, I look forward to the new year and the possibilities that await.

But this morning, I'm going back to take a little nap! Ah, Mondays!

Good morning.