Birthday Salon: Act I

So this is Act I of my wife’s birthday party. Turn Me On, Norah Jones from the album Come Away With Me.

Tonight is your birthday salon. We have enticed our friends to come over with promises of veggie lasagna, carrot cake and wine. In exchange, everyone must perform. It is your house party, your artist salon and so we all must bow down to your birthday bossiness.

This. This is what we envisioned when we hitched up our wagons in California and headed Midwest, young man. This was the promise of having a house, a home. And now we are the reverse Joads. We are Bay View homesteaders.

Children are climbing up and down our stairs in various stages of dress up. Their parents point and laugh and try not to spit-take bites of fava bean salad and guacamole dip. Everything is washed down with local beer.

One of the minors has a minor fall. His alarm is tripped and he is full-on siren crying. He is scooped up and a gaggle of fathers do silly dances until laughter replaces tears. Now the injured little bird flies off, heading for the train table, the fall already forgotten in the drama of miniature train accidents.

And so, you take a deep drink of beer and announce that you are up first. You have practiced off and on all this week and now it is time to see what happens. Nerves fall away as you play the intro to Norah Jones’ Turn Me On. In the kitchen, I serve lasagna onto little plates and rewash forks. I sing along to this song that has been Suzukified onto my brain. Everyone hoots at the right places and stomps their feet at your impressive finger work. You hit a sweet blues turn-around that turns into a cul-de-sac and then finds a place to park. You raise your arms in triumph. Everyone claps. Tonight’s bar has been set high.

Next up: Act II