Every Time a Bell Rings, An Angel Gets His Wings

May Dad hear pretty bell song in his dreams tonight.

Tonight H. and I went to the Tropical Holiday Party at Van Dyk Manor with Dad. Each resident was allowed to bring up to two guests.

When we walked in, we were each offered a leafy lei with a shiny ornament on it. Mine has a pretty golden bell.

Take Me Away
The staff at Van Dyk is great--not just kind and compassionate, but very good at throwing parties. They had a tiki bar, where they whirred fresh melon and strawberry daiquiris in a blender. They poured sparkling apple cider into champagne flutes, eggnog into Christmas cups. They stuck skewers of cheese cubes, olives and cherry tomatoes into fresh pineapples. The main course was chicken with mango salsa, ham with pineapple, stuffed potatoes, sweet potatoes and asparagus. And dessert was beautiful "sand cakes," each with a big dune of frosting and white chocolate seashells on top. Other beachy accents: A sandcastle cake on display and two very good strolling musicians in tropical shirts.

It was fun. Not the same kind of young fun we will have tomorrow and next Saturday, at our neighbors' very festive annual Christmas parties, but the kind of tempered fun that involves thickening powder being stirred into Dad's sparkling cider [so he won't choke, or aspirate]. To my right was F., and A., her husband [of 67 years!] who came later in the evening. I loved talking to F.; she shared wonderful memories of everything from growing up in Newark and loving it to her grandmother's sweet potato pie. We also enjoyed chatting with our other table mates: I. in her lovely red sweater [who has lived in Montclair her whole life], her granddaughter and great-granddaughter, age 4; and F. and his family. We tried to talk to B., but he is hard of hearing. So I just smiled at him whenever I caught his eye. I felt bad that no one was there with him.

Angel Wings
Just yesterday, I was telling H. how hard it's getting, how demanding Dad has been. I feel pulled in a few directions, and like Dad wants me to stay all the time, but I can't.  The forces of motherhood, marriage and work are pulling me also. Not to mention efforts to take care of myself, which often get forgotten--to take a bath, do my hair, exercise, eat right.

You're doing God's work, H. said.

I don't know about that. But I do know that when I walked Sug around the block just now, my little golden bell jingled the whole time. It sounded perky and happy as we hugged the hill in the cold darkness.

Is that what it is to be an angel? To be light and tinkly in the face of darkness? Glistening like gold, making pretty music?

I actually think it's the old fellow in room 111 who is officially earning his wings after years and years of being thoughtful to others.

Sweet dreams, Dad.