Henry the 3rd

Back when May and I first started dating, we used to see the rest of her family – cousins, aunts, family friends with mysterious and highly questionable backstories – a couple of times a month. But as we all have aged into marriage, children, and acquiring injuries during sleep, the opportunities to meet up with them have slowed down. Nowadays, it’s more like once or twice a year.

Well, this past weekend was one of those times, fortunately!

Huzzah!

May’s cousin (technically my cousin-in-law? I think? If you kinda squint at it?) and her husband were having a 3-year old birthday party for their son Henry. …that is to say, they were celebrating his third birthday, not that the party has been going on for three years. They were down visiting the cousin’s mom (May’s Aunt) from the far-away lands of Westchester, and hence many of the family members from both sides had gathered at the aunt’s house for the enticing promise of free food and good cheer.

The weather was about as cooperative as blisters on the bottom of your feet, as it was the classic “All Day Soak,” where the rain wavers between light drizzle and low pressure shower head. No rainbombs, but no spots of restraint, either; just a constant presence of water from the sky. Being old hands at hosting parties, however, the hosting family had set up some high-quality stark white rain canopies in the backyard; some even included attached plastic “walls” that were eerily similar to shower curtains, but worked well to help keep the rain from getting blown in. All the same I stuck to the inside of the actual house as much as possible.

One of the reasons for staying within the walls of wood and plaster was because the gathering had one of the true hallmarks of a family gathering: tasty food. Both homemade and store bought. There was, to be sure, food in every room, a new feature that I can 100% get behind. And there was even a bit of an organization to it: the kitchen hosted a variety of traditional Burmese cuisine; the living room proudly held the classic catered trays from a nearby deli, including things like potato salad and penne alla vodka; the back room was stacked with homemade creampuffs; don’t even ask about what was being served in the basement …no really, don’t ask because I didn’t go down there. Basements are frightening stages for liminal horror and so no thank you.

When it was time for the ritual singing of “Happy Birthday,” naturally in multiple different key signatures, tempos, and volumes, I positioned myself so I would have a clean line of attack to the cakes afterwards. Sure, the birthday boy was going to get the first slice, but I was prepped to grab that second slice and run.

Hence you can understand my stumble when, once the song was done and I started to nonchalantly make my way to the baked goods, I had to suddenly freeze when they started singing a different version of “Happy Birthday,” this time with the same melody but with words like “May the lord always bless you” and the like. I have to admit that, at the tender age of 51, this is the first time I heard that version. And while I admit that I have not looked at a church hymnbook in some time, I am surprised I have not seen it across my TikTok dance trends feed, either.

Being the astonishing well-behaved party guest that I am, I merely eyed the cake while patiently waiting as they went on singing about the lord blessing their beloved and cherished child and blah blah blah, and as they hit the last note and politely applauded, I made my move–

–only to again freeze so fast I almost pulled a muscle as they started into the birthday chant, “Are you one, are you two…” Okay, yes, this all makes total sense and was unquestionably adorable. But when we start getting into three variations of songs I feel like passing out a program would have been a nice warning to uncultured clods like myself. Seriously, by the time all the singing was done I’m pretty sure Henry was almost 4.

But, hey, let’s be fair. It was cute and wonderful and obviously I am being dramatic for entertainment sake. In fact, the “Are you one…” part of the singing is something that I, personally, decided I want as part of my own upcoming birthday celebration! Yes! People will have to stand there and actually sing out Every. Single. Year. Just imagine the endurance test for the party goers as they grind their way through “Are you 46, are you 47, are you 48….”

Aside from everyone gathering for the singing and cake, the party was relaxed and people mingled around, chatting and visiting with each other. We managed to see a lot of family members that we haven’t seen in months, if not years. And I like to think that this was strictly due to schedules not lining up and not that they were deliberately avoiding us given that I have made many an ill-advised attempted “comedy” comments over the years.

But.

There was one more moment when the multitudes all gathered to marvel at such a sight that rivaled witnessing a total solar eclipse.

I speak, of course, of the arrival of the Mister Softee ice cream truck.

Side Note: For those unaware, Mister Softee is a brand of ice cream trucks famed around the NYC tri-state area, beloved for their famed soft serve ice cream and scientifically-documented emergence from hibernation the second that the temperature gets over 42 degrees.

Now, I need to point out that the ice cream truck was there before I realized it, and word was running through the crowd that suddenly that it was here, and not only was it stopped by the house, but folks were trying to get it to drive up the driveway all the way to just outside the garage. At first, I was under the impression that the truck had just been passing by, and the hosts flagged it down and convinced the driver/operator to pull into the driveway for 30 minutes for the party. I mean, you can see that happening, right? Like, from a sales point of view, a kids birthday party is probably like finding Shangri-La. Well, finding Shangri-La in the narrow suburbs of Long Island just 50 feet from the LIRR railroad tracks. Regardless! Just exactly the kind of place you’d want to be as an ice cream truck.

I found out later that they had actually rented the truck, and it’s arrival was part of the schedule for the party. The truck was there for about 30 minutes, and there was free soft serve and shakes for all the party guests. As a sign of how awesome this was, pretty much everyone lined up despite the constant light rain. May, Gracie, and I were lucky in that we happened to be out there to watch them try and park the thing in the slim driveway (only slight damage to the brick edging was done I am happy to report), so we were like third in line.

The line would triple in length shortly after I took this shot.

Gracie ordered a chocolate shake and the nice man in the truck pressed the handle for the chocolate soft serve ice cream, and gadzooks, it sounded like a troop of monkeys trying to re-enact the discovery of the monolith in the beginning of “2001: A Space Odyssey.” Sort of a “GGGggrrraaAAAaggrrrAAAhhhhHHHnnnnGGGGhhhh” only with more consonants. But it worked still, and the guy even played it off as a joke as Gracie got her shake.

“And you?” he asked jovially.

“Can I have a small chocolate cone please?” I answered.

A flicker of fear flashed across his eyes. But ever the professional, his smile never slipped as he set to work.

GGGggrrraaAAAaggrrrAAAhhhhHHHnnnnGGGGhhhh—POP!

There was a sudden burst of soft serve chocolate ice cream that splattered across the inside of the van.

“...whelp,” the server said with resignation. “Enjoy, friend.” He handed me my cone still, 90% chocolate soft serve and 10% the ingredients used to make chocolate soft serve.

But, hey, still tasty. The only real tragedy is that there was no more soft serve chocolate ice cream after that; chocolate shakes, at least, but otherwise the machine gave its life to serve me. Quite touching, really, and I hope its posthumously recognized when the guy gets back to the depot.

Aside from that Henry was able to open his gifts, I did not make any attempts at clever humor which definitely would have resulted in a series of inappropriate comments, and after some of the leftovers from the party trays were passed out to the guests, we finally took our leave.

So just remember: if you plan on seeing me on my upcoming birthday, get those pipes ready for that marathon “Are You One” bit. I’m looking for 5-part harmony as well, so forewarned is forearmed, kids.