I am flooded with wild enchantment. Leaning way out, I cup my hands to my mouth and cry, “LONG LIVE GREENTREE!” As one, they echo back, “LONG LIVE GREENTREE!”

        The shabby dining room is transformed. Draped in multicolored paper chains, the Emmons brown fridge and our white one stand like decorated sentries on either side of the entryway. Balloons dot the ceiling; fluttering streamers and varied artwork lend the dingy wallpaper a festive look.
        Today is Regina's 6th birthday. She had worried that someone employed like Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy would show up looking for her where she used to live, and not find any forwarding address. After being assured that birthdays always locate their rightful owners, she asked for everybody to wear costumes when her party finally arrived.
        We gather noisily, scrambling over and onto an Emmons's maple chair or one of our oak ones, all of which cram around our old oak table. Regina barely fits her favored two-year old yellow tutu. On her head is a Crayola-yellow bejeweled cardboard tiara, gift from Liz. I wear a pair of Will's Oshkosh overalls; he has one of my old maternity smocks buttoned over his shirt. Encircled by the lacy collar, his smooth-shaven neck appears oddly vulnerable. Todd and Marsha have on matching floral shirts and grass skirts. Like a travel poster: the Jack-Sprats-Do-Hawaii.
        To Clayton's delight, his cousins Freddie, age 7, and Harry, age 9, are also present, sent to Greentree by my sister who, to my delight, insists on paying full tuition for them. Dressed for any eventuality, the boys wear construction paper chaps with flowing red bandanna neckerchiefs tied on cowboy-style, and garish war paint slathered on their faces. They bang the table nonstop, clamoring, “Feed me! Feed me! Feed me!”
        At the last minute, Garth and Lizzie charge in shooting from the hip with the clackety-tat-tat of plastic machine guns — Bonnie and Clyde snarling “Happy Boithday, Reggie!” — and laughing hysterically. The balloons bounce in general merriment on the stained drooping ceiling.
        Marsha wheels in her doily-draped Early American tea trolley. Its wooden wheels click and snag over rough-hewn floorboards. As at-home as it had seemed where they used to live, it looks like a slumming guest in this scarred old house. She stops at the brown fridge to lift out a huge bowl of salad — funny how in the midst of our communal venture each family clings to its own fridge exclusively.
        Pushing the trolley baby-carriage style, Marsha distributes plates of spaghetti and bowls full of the salad. Her grass skirt doesn't meet in the back: she wears it tied over her jeans like an apron. Unpeeling foil, Todd rips off a chunk of steaming garlic bread. Saliva drenches my mouth from the smell.
        “Pisgetti's my favoritest thing in the whole world.” In her tiara, her face alight with anticipation, Regina is our royal spokesperson. Marsha finishes serving, shovels salad into a bowl for herself, and takes the remaining seat.

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