Dorothy's delight

“If this isn’t the most BORING party I’ve ever attended…!

Dorothy surveys the scene with irritation.

“Taking into account my years in a girls only school and 40 years of attending my husband’s work functions, it is a harsh judgement, but sadly true.”

Dorothy is discreetly talking quietly to herself. She does not want to hurt the children’s feelings; they mean it well.

“They know I’m not fond of big functions and even less of a fuss being made over me; however, seeing that this event was organised to honour me, the current mood is a slap in my old face. I’ll have to intercede!”

The guests are standing around in the garden, in sombre little clusters, faces serious, conversations muted. Children who laugh, are reprimanded by their parents and told to ‘behave!’ She plans her strategy with wisdom gleaned from 90 years of dealing with fellow human beings.

Spotting two of her three sons in solemn conversation, she approaches them from behind and clasp them around their shoulders.

“You rascals!” she chides them, “I could never hide a single half-used tin of condensed milk from you, could I? You always ferreted it out, taking a few sips and replaced it, taking turns until it was empty…”

They respond immediately with naughty grins.

“As the youngest,” says the middle son, “can you remember those determined hunts for Mum’s hidden stashes?”

“Don’t I just!” laughs the younger brother, “You were one cunning fox, but I believe in time I grew into the most successful scavenger of all…”

“Quite possible, after the masters had taught you all the skills. Do you remember the disaster with the milk tarts Mum had baked for the church bazaar…?”

Leaving an isolated island of cheer behind her, Dorothy moves on to her second target. Her latest-born, a daughter, and youngest granddaughter sit quietly in a huddle. She leans on the young one’s shoulder.

“Ask her about all the fun we had, when all the ‘boys’ were out, when I was young and she was small. We were like a little secret female club…”

“Mum, how was it when you were a girl and Granny a young mother? She had waited so long for her little girl – after the three rambunctious boys.”

Her mother laughs lightly and her eyes start sparkling.

“Grandma and I were the closest of friends and co-conspirators ever since my birth. The first six years, before I went to school and she started working again, had been the very best. I remember, as if happened yesterday, how we…”

Soon the second joy-generator is spinning happily.

“What we need now,” Dorothy decides, “is some gleeful children’s laughter.”

She glances over to where, a bit apart from the rest of the party, the cleaning lady sits. Her two small grandsons, overwhelmed by all the white faces, perch demurely at her side. She whispers a word into her buoyant great-grandson’s ear. He approaches the other two, who at first shrink away shyly. With their grandma’s persuasive encouragement, however, the trio is soon running around, chasing chickens, adding their own shrieks to the fowls’ alarmed cacophony – differences in race, age, languages and social status all forgotten.

Her great-granddaughter and namesake, aged two, needs no such clandestine encouragement. Fearlessly she walks up to the huge Great Dane and, looking it squarely in the eyes, starts lecturing it in an animated language of her own (echoing her teacher-mum). Receiving bursts of appreciative laughter and the dog’s undivided attention, the small clown continues her entertaining act.

“That’s much better!” Dorothy says to herself, “What else do I need to do?”

She is one of the last members of her (pre-Second World War) generation. The men are all gone, only two sisters-in-law are still breathing; one is already 93 and absent from this event (too far to travel); the younger one of 80 tends to mope about the past. Dorothy zooms in on her latest target.

“Have you ever told you current husband of all the fun we had when we were young, when your brother had still been courting me, and of my wedding day and my pretty little flower girl aged 12, or how you loved to baby-sit my first-born son…?”

“Have I ever told you what good times Dorothy and I spent together, before and even after her marriage to my brother Jacob. My mother and I were living on a farm then…”

Another grey cloud having been dispelled and rays of sunshine generated, she continues on her round, touching every little cluster with subtle provocative sparks, igniting joy and laughter through the modest crowd.

“To see four generations, many of them direct descendants of myself, all having fun, is much more to my liking. Recalling my role in their lives, especially the happier times, is the proper way to honour me – if, as they believe, it needs to be done.”

Spotting her eldest son, standing alone, surveying the animated crowd with equal contentment, she edges closer to him.

“Thank you, my boy,” and eyeing him with a mischievous grin, “my old, old son, for your kind words this morning. I can’t say you lied, but you left out quite a bit. I wasn’t always content and peaceful. With your stubborn father, I had some fearsome fights. I was always willing to bear a lot, but there were limits even to my legendary patience. And when your sweet little sister turned into a morose teenage monster (you were long out of the house by then), believe me, fierce battles had been fought… but still, thank you for your gracious tribute. But now, go on, mingle, you don’t see these friends and family very often.”

While he obediently strolls away, she adds: “And trim your bushy beard and hair!”

Dorothy walks over and sits down next to the table with a huge picture of herself and a giant flower arrangement, compliments of her eldest daughter in law. She looks at the touching cards and letters and wipe away some tears of gratefulness for so much love.

“It is a jolly kind of party!” says a voice beside her.

She looks around into her husband’s smiling face.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” she says surprised.

“I walked up from the park, it’s not so far. It’s good to see you!”

For a while, they silently observe the guests, mingling, eating, drinking, laughing, celebrating life, expressing their love and appreciation for each other – remembering her.

“I wondered, would you like to stroll back with me…” he invites her.

“Why not?” she says, “My job here is done. We’ll be waiting there when they arrive.”

“Are the all coming down to my place? Why?”

“For the last part of the ceremony,” and nodding to a wooden box beside the flowers, “to bury my remains, my ashes, atop your grave.”

She laughs, “After that they all be so grave again, no use in me trying a second time to cheer them up. But for now…”

Looking over her shoulder as they walk away from the buzzing gathering, she adds:

“I just love to see live people… LIVE!”