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I am slowly, but surely, recovering from the Fourth of July weekend. There were two days and nights of a family and friends gathering beside Bruce and Beth’s pool. My oldest son and his lady were up from Albany. He’s as good as ten ordinary people at any party. Chuckie voiced the opinion that his uncle was the funniest human in the universe. I’ll agree – if not the funniest, at least one of the funniest.
Chuckie’s sister remarked recently, after watching Robin Williams during a TV interview, that the only person she’s ever seen with the same ability to improvise voices and dialects with the physical activities to match, is her uncle. Like Williams, he’s super fast with this repartee, and, even better than Williams, more easily understood.
His brother, younger by 5 years, is a close second. When they are doing a bit together, they are hilarious. Someone, who loved to visit our house and watch them in action, once told me I should sell tickets for an evening at our place.
This weekend, they were in rare form and I loved every minute of it. I was reminded of my younger brother who kept me laughing during our childhood years. Unfortunately, we were separated during our adult years. He made a living for years in Hollywood as a writer of TV comedy. I lived in northern California raising my own comedians.
It’s a shame my boy brood decided to become a rock band. They were good, I’ll admit, even though their music has never been my thing. I was into Spanish and Classical guitars, they were plugged into electricity and amplification.
In addition to the entertainment, we had lots of good food. Four of us who were there are vegetarians and that had been taken into account by the family caterers. As a great bonus, my son’s lady is crazy about cooking. Her mother is Sicilian and she and her grandmother have imparted the skill and emotion involved in great southern Italian cooking.
She disappeared into the kitchen on the Fourth with two great bowls of pizza dough, and a carload of cut up ingredients. She ultimately emerged with four large cookie sheets covered with four different pizzas – a bacon and sausage, a 4 cheese and tomatoes, a pepperoni, and a vegetable pie. They were the first authentic pizzas I’ve seen in years, also cooked by an expert pizza maker from Sicily who called them tomato pies. If you’ve been lucky enough to share a similar experience, you know that there’s no sauce – but lots of fresh tomatoes as a base. Naturally, we all fell on the supper like a pack of hungry Italian wolves.
It was a wonderful two-day party. I realized I haven’t been to a real party in a long time. I was wishing I could get up and dance to the music of Santana, which I also haven’t done in ages. Oh well, I probably was too full of food and iced tea to do anything but slosh around.
We had no fireworks, thank goodness. Ever since childhood I’ve hated the noise of fireworks – not the beautiful display, but the explosive noise. Dogs and I don’t care for the big booms.
Imagine my surprise when, after marrying my quiet husband, I discovered that he loved fireworks and anything resembling them. I would go along with sparklers in the back yard, but nothing more. Every Fourth of July our dogs and I, and the neighbor’s Collie, would huddle together trying not to hear the display in the nearest town. They often howled and I almost did.
Now, I’m sitting in front of my desk fan, singing sadly, “The Party’s Over”, with my own mournful second line – “There’s no more pizza my friend.”
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