A Roman Orgy or

We didn’t live in a castle; rather our home was a relatively modest white cape cod with black shutters and a rambling white wooden fence encircling the two car driveway.

Our family loved it, and for about ten years we gave an Annual Christmas party. My husband and I always tried to limit the guest list to fifty, but that sometimes expanded to include new friends or neighbors.

Handwritten invitations were mailed the day after Thanksgiving. I always tried to remember to buy Christmas stamps for the tiny envelopes. Our party was usually the second Saturday of December.

I still remember how our family looked forward to sharing the joy of the season with our friends. All six of us contributed in some way to make it a festive evening. One snowy December night my sister and Deborah, my Goddaughter, arrived from New Jersey, and other years, our friend Bernie Rimerez came from the Bronx. Since Bernie didn’t have a car, he stayed overnight leaving after breakfast the next morning.

My sons and husband did all the shopping and rearranged furniture to accommodate a buffet table. My daughter and I baked cookies, and filled the refrigerator with home made trays of canapés and Hors d'oeuvres.

Since both of us love to cook, we enjoyed trying new recipes for our holiday menu often utilizing Martha Stewart handbooks.

The afternoon of the party was always a bit frantic as the final preparation of the buffet food was completed and the kitchen clean up began. Then, too, there was always last minute shopping for something we had almost forgotten.

Yet, somehow, it always happened, and the house, the food, and the family was ready on time to share the joy of the holidays with all of the kindred souls who had entered our world.

One of the last years we hosted the party, new neighbors were included on our invitation list. The couple was about our age, and also had four sons. We were pleased when they readily accepted our invitation and looked forward to welcoming them to our home.

Mornings after the party, as we sat exhausted in the living room looking at the remnants of the night before, we would invariably ask each other , “Do you think everyone had a good time?” The answer was usually affirmative and the year the new neighbors joined us was not an exception.

About six weeks after Christmas, I met the neighbor who had been welcomed to our home and party. She encountered me in a supermarket where I was searching for fresh yeast. I smiled when I heard her call my name, but then my smile quickly disappeared.

She began without preamble to dissect my party along with the other guests. It was painful to listen as she also criticized the food my daughter and I so lovingly prepared. Her final words, as I began to back away, were,

‘“It reminded me of a Roman orgy. You had too much to eat.”

Our family continued to host the Christmas parties until the year the Fabulous Four left the household, and my husband and I began to travel. Often friends who had joined us for so many years expressed disappointment that we had discontinued the annual event.

However the new neighbors were no longer welcome in our home, and I always wondered why they had even accepted our invitation that night.

Memories sleep wrapped in the blanket of yesterday until something arouses them. Our Christmas party awoke today as I listened to the news commentary on a hot July morning.