MRS. COPPER'S BIRTHDAY

 

It was a lovely small party yesterday at eight. A.M.  My dearest-ever neighbor turned 97, and we held her 17^th Annual Strawberry Breakfast.  We started the tradition on her 80^th, thinking often time in the interim we’d have a LAWN TEA---indeed, we planned one numerous times.   I’d named my blog LAWN TEA because it connoted those lovely Southern parties with all of us ladies in pastel sundresses, our sandals on the new-mown grass and a julep or punch cup in every hand on the long-shadow lawns of our past.  It just seemed the thing TO DO, for this lovely neighbor whose childhood was spend in War-approaching Germany, whose teens were eked out  during the War, when she and her mother depended on scant rations and a lone pear tree in the back yard for a taste of sweetness occasionally in those worry-fraught years. 

 

She met and married a sweet young soldier in 1947 and came to America a War Bride, of which I had heard much, and met just this one.  Their four daughters were raised in the little ranch house-to-match-ours next door, going to the school just around the blocks and achieving wonderful careers and lives for themselves, and all still look after their Mother at a gentle remove, looking in and calling and visiting, bringing her groceries and taking her to appointments and going to lunch every weekend, with a great respect for her independence and active mind and her wish to “do things as long as I can.”

 

I tease her that SHE and The Tree in the backyard and the second kitchen downstairs were the “selling points” twenty-five years ago when we bought this house---we made and cultivated a devoted friendship across that back gate for a year as Chris and I wavered over the purchase, with my trips every few weeks to Mississippi in my Mother’s last year.  And now we’re here---fast friends and happy neighbors for these decades.  She’s watched the grandchildren enter our lives, taught several of them to knit, to bead, to crochet.  She was a firm shoulder all those last years, when Chris was declining, and a steady, interested visitor and caller all these three years since. 

 

Yesterday was a quiet, just-us-three-at-table little breakfast, just her and Leah and me, with pink cloth and dishes and deep cups of the strong coffee we both like; we had a broccoli/tomato quiche and two kinds of pastries and a lovely ham steak, sizzled just as we sat down.   The strawberries seemed to know about this special occasion and put on their best, plumpest, sweetest selves for our party.   I don’t think we’ve ever served any more plump and sweet, they were huge, ringing a little chocolate bundt cake on the pink stand.   She smiled a lot as usual, and ate more than I’ve seen her in a long while, taking seconds of the quiche and several berries, and we sent her home with all the leftovers. 

 

We sat at table for three hours, eight to eleven, talking about her childhood and courtship and that long journey here, and all her daughters and their families, and so many other things about her long life.   Memorable day, bestest friend of my heart.