Par Tay

 I grew up through the word "party."

When  I was eight, "party" was a noun. It was an event. A place to go, sometimes at Shakey's with Putt-Putt to follow. Sometimes it was at a friend's home. This was long before the advent of bounce houses. We did not live in a tax bracket that promised magicians or clowns. The theme for the "party" was announced by the invitations that matched the tablecloth and napkins. Goodie bags had yet to be invented, and it was a pretty cool advance to get a favor (singular) in the form of some small plastic trinket that would probably be lost on the way home. If there was a cake that was somehow imagineered to coincide with the tablecloths and napkins, this was a memorable bonus. 

When I was fifteen, people would announce that there was a "party" taking place somewhere and invitations were made via word of mouth. Sometimes these took place in the woods. These were called "woodsies." There were also plenty of "parties" held in the homes of kids whose parents had left for the weekend, month or year. Both "woodsie" and parentless home shindig implied that there would be alcohol present and available. Depending on the crowd involved, there might be marijuana. I was not included in many of these bacchanals, instead I heard accounts of the depravity and shenanigans in breathless rehashes the following Monday. 

Around the time I turned sixteen, I decided to try and stake my claim to some of this "party" for myself. After football and basketball games, I would invite my friends from band over to my parents' house to play Atari in the basement. My parents were home. They knew all the kids who came and went. They knew exactly what was going on: We were playing Atari in the basement. 

It wasn't until my senior year in high school that I pestered my parents into allowing me to serve champagne at yet another one of my Atari gatherings in their basement. On New Year's Eve. 

That was a "party." 

It was right about this time that the word "party" became a verb. When I graduated from high school and spent a year slinging roast beef instead of going to college, I had plenty of invitations to "go party." Location didn't matter so much, but Atari and matching tablecloths did not enter into the equation. When I left for college the following year, one of the ways we were distinguished from one another as freshmen was by "how much we liked to party." 

When I moved into my own apartment, I liked to "party" a lot. And often. I would often invite crowds of acquaintances to my place to watch me do just that and join in as they felt moved to do so. During this phase of my life, I would often greet people at the door by asking, "Can I get you anything to eat, drink, smoke, snort or rub into your belly?"

Well, to save you the moral to any of this story, I can say that I eventually became the parent of a child who liked to have themes for his parties. I married a woman who likes to have themes for her parties. "Party," as a verb has been all but extinguished from my sober lifestyle. 

Which is fine with me. As long as I get to pick out the tablecloth and napkins.