Ever since I turned three and through my teens, I have had a myriad of social engagements. All of them were truly wonderful, from teen dances to weddings, the family New Year’s Eve parties, christenings etc.
If I had a party of my own to feel strongly about, it would have been my 21st birthday back in 1951. You were suddenly grown up, allowed to vote, and given the key to the door. It was then that you got your first watch or a signet ring. You waited patiently for that great moment, and as the time grew near, the mounting excitement welled within.
My parents gave me a party. We all had them – the boys and girls in our street. We were all guests at one another’s parties.
Someone Mum knew printed the invitations. Dad, being a great Lodge participant, hired the local Masonic Hall. Mum made the cake, and, bit by bit, I watched with amazement as the cake decorator turned the square fruit cake into a fairy tale luxury. It was clad in pink icing and tufted tulle, held in place with tiny rosebuds. On each corner sat a small butterfly deftly fashioned out of tulle and icing.
Equally exciting was the number of replies the postman brought daily. There was disappointment, too, as there were some inabilities, but not too many.
Mum made my frock and her own. Evening dresses were the thing back then. My frock had a pink lame bodice trimmed with a tulle collar. The skirt was pale pink tulle over pink taffeta. A spray of pink carnations added the final touch on the shoulder. Mum wore a black jersey skirt and a blue lame jacket. Dad wore his dinner suit, and Ron, being a gangly near 18-year-old, wore his everyday grey suit.
The caterers were booked. The band was booked. We did the flowers in the hall and around the stage. The supper tables in the supper room were laid with stiff white tablecloths. Small vases of carnations sat on each.
“Don’t think you are going to have dancing all night,” my father informed me. I was alarmed. What else was there to do? “There will be a lot of elderly people present and they are not having a tiring night,” he said.
He meant it. He booked two artists. One was a singer, and the other played a violin and piano and made magic pictures from felt, in addition to doing a few tricks. There was something for everyone.
I am still not sure which was the most wonderful part of that of February 5th – the morning preceding the party or the actual occasion. I remember waking to a glorious feeling. The telegrams kept coming in: the postman had stacks of cards. Everyone seemed to be out in the street shouting out “Congratulations, Happy Birthday!” Neighbours called with posies of flowers. There was a beautiful bunch of tiger lilies. My heart had a wild beat to it.
Before the party, Mum and Dad presented me with my promised gold watch but not only that, an amethyst ring and a gold locket on a chain inscribed with my initials.
That party turned out to be the toast of the district as Dad’s Lodge cronies declared it the best they had been to. The dancers had a wonderful time and the oldies and the small children had a treat enjoying the special entertainment. Balloons fell from the ceiling and my guests bobbed up and down as they sought to catch them.
I still have some of my 21st gifts. I wore my watch until 1983, not wanting to ever wear another. When my old faithful wore out, I was forced to buy a new one. I still wear my ring, feeling undressed without it. My locket is put away.
There were so many gifts at that party. Even now I use the crystal dressing table set that my parents gave me. My book of John Mansfield’s poetry sits on the bookshelf. My leather writing case with “Elizabeth” in gilt letters scrawled across one corner has been a firm favourite, especially since it was given to me by a caring neighbour, Mrs Simpson.
I still have an imitation amethyst necklace, a miniature frame of Van Gogh‘s “Sunflowers” and some odd pieces of china. I put all my 21st birthday cards, acceptances, inabilities, telegrams, and bits of material into a book so that I can flip the pages back at any time and remember people I knew and enjoyed being with. The photographer took heaps of photographs, too, so one very special 21st birthday will never be forgotten.
Dad made my “birthday key,” which was painted gold and glittered and opened like a book. It was filled with signatures. He also made a huge, stand-up wooden, glittery gold “Twenty-One,” which decorated the stage.
Wasn’t your wedding, your children’s special functions more special, more endearing, you might ask? Well, yes, they were. But my 21st was just for me, a time which meant I had become very adult and needed to find a place in the world for myself and the chinks of happiness besides.
Elizabeth Porter (nee Woods)
