Party Gone Out of Bounds

The best lessons come from those we experience first hand.

Yes, that revolutionary on the left is me.

Our kid went and did it. She staged a party with her parents away for the weekend. 

Louise and I had left The Kid alone while we visited with our friends on Cape Cod, entrusting her with the safety and security of our home. She has a good track record. She doesn’t hang with a wild crowd, which if Jenkintown had one, would hardly register on anyone’s radar. Now eighteen years old, we don’t feel the need to impose too many restrictions upon her — not that it would do us any good.  

We also have a camera on the house that captures people coming and going directly in front. Before Louise and I settled in for the night, we logged in and watched four boys leave our house and wander out into the night. Louise called our daughter to see if everything was okay. Of course, she said, “Yes.”

Our kid recently graduated high school with a class of about 60 students. Living in such a small town affords us the benefit of a reliable and comprehensive parental grapevine. We hear about the good kids and those with issues. Our daughter has never given us concern about the company she keeps, but then again, we’re talking about teenagers.

When we returned home the following day, we found the house as we left it. No harm, no foul. Or so I thought. 

The drive back from Cape Cod took about nine hours through heavy congestion. I only wanted to unwind on the couch with a tipple. I opened the cabinet, pulled down the hooch, and uttered, “Oh, shit…” The 1.75 liter size bottle that was two-thirds full when we left now had maybe three shots left. 

And then the memory flooded back. 

My 60s Revival Party

I started reading newspapers regularly at eleven years old, and the first thing I read every day was Gary Trudeau’s Doonesbury. In 1974, Trudeau penned the first of a series of strips with the Walden gang staging their annual 60s revival party. In the summer after my high school graduation, I schemed to bring the idea to life. My mother would never consent, of course, but she did leave me behind every summer for an extended weekend on Cape Cod.

The summer of 1979 saw the tenth anniversary of Woodstock and the release of the movie musical “Hair”. I would soon enter UMass. I had a girlfriend and a well-paying summer job. Though my musical tastes bent in the direction of the punk and new wave genres, I still delved deep into the soundtrack of the previous decade.

Before she left, my mother issued a strict warning. “No parties while I’m gone.” 

“Of course not,” I feigned. Did she believe me? Doubtful. The planning was already well under way.

I tried to be smart about it. I cleared the living room of all its furniture, took the pictures off the wall, and removed other vulnerable decor, storing it all either in the garage or in my mother’s bedroom. The couch cushions stayed, but under sheets on the floor. Mom had one small bric-o-brac shelf that I carried into her bedroom, transferring each curio from the shelf to the bed in the same order she had organized them.

I then transformed the living room into a spectacle of psychedelia, complete with black lights, candles, a tie-dye bed sheet, my sister’s old Woodstock movie poster, and more. Yes, there was pot and alcohol, including a punch concoction of various fruit juices spiked with cheap whiskey. 

For music, I compiled two 90-minute cassettes of the era’s music, either from my own collection, borrowed from friends, or found after a thorough search in the then-numerous record stores up and down the Springfield-Northampton corridor. One song I desperately coveted was “Time Has Come Today” by the Chambers Brothers after hearing it in the movie “Coming Home”. I still have those cassettes today.

Everyone had amazing costumes, but not everyone dressed in hippie garb. If we had a prize for best outfit, the girl who came as Marlo Thomas, complete with kite, would have won.

The party ended past midnight with nothing broken or destroyed. I drank some and smoked a bit, but I didn’t overdo it. A few people crashed on the living room floor, and the next day, they helped me restore the house to its original state. Mom came home a few days later harboring palpable suspicions, but finding nothing amiss, said nothing. 

I did it. I pulled off the unsupervised house party. Of course, I had to repeat it. 

Pushing my luck

It was the summer of 1980. For the entire year after, my friends asked me about the next party. I had a new girlfriend and an even better summer job. Again, Mom would take the trip to the Cape, and again came the warning.

“No parties!” She again declared, but added, “I mean it!”

Sure, she had reason to suspect, but I felt confident I could keep it all under control.

I compiled a third 90-minute cassette, but otherwise stuck closely to the same program and decor. The friends arrived fully decked and the party was underway. 

It seemed to work, but as I stood on the front lawn making sure they drove away, my friend popped his head out the front door and said the last words I wanted to hear that night.

My first sense that I might have lost some control came when a guest, who lived only two streets away, talked about parading around the neighborhood dressed like the cast of “Godspell.” When a car full of boys from the next town over stopped to ask about the costumes, they soon learned about a party happening on Pine Acre Road. I got a sinking feeling but hoped for the best. 

Again, another good, respectful crowd, now singing along with Melanie’s “Lay Down” just as the acid kicked in (for others, not me). We had just achieved peak party.

Then came the crashers, and as the B-52s sang, the party went out of bounds. Dressed more like preppy frat types than anything from Haight-Ashbury, I knew this could go sideways fast, so I had to diffuse the situation. A calm reasonable approach seemed to work. Maybe they didn’t like the freak show. I apologized, but asserted that this was an invitation-only event, and that they couldn’t stay.

As I stood on the front lawn making sure they drove away, my friend popped his head out the front door and said the last words I wanted to hear that night.

“Randy! Your mother’s on the phone!” 

I dashed back inside, turned off the music, and franticly gestured for everyone to shut the hell up.

After a deep breath, I gathered as much of my sobriety as I could muster, and said ever-so-pleasantly, “Hi mom!” 

If a voice could come out of a phone and grab you by the neck, it would have sounded like my mother’s. “I called the police. Get everyone out of there. Now!” 

The neighbors, one of whom was a cop, ratted me out. I took a calculated risk that if I kept the festivities within the the house, allowed nothing to spill outside, or made too much noise, there’s be no cause for concern. When the crashers came, I lost that gamble.

My mother made good on her threat, but by that time I managed to clear the house of all the guests. Only my girlfriend stayed behind. By the time the police arrived, I had changed out of my costume, and the house was dark and completely quiet. I opened my door to find two of Springfield’s finest on my front stoop. 

“We got a call that there was as problem here?” one asked politely.

I kept my cool. “Yes, but I took care of it. I’m good now. Thanks for coming out.” 

That’s all it took. No further questions. They never asked to come inside. They didn’t snoop around the house. They simply drove away.

Peace, love, and parenting

As I looked at that near-empty bottle, I could hear my mother laughing hysterically. I usually do when my daughter annoys me as I did my mother, and I hear it often.

Standing in her bedroom doorway, pointing to a near-empty bottle of bourbon, I asked with all possible restraint, “What the hell happened?” 

“I don’t know!” No surprise there.

“This house isn’t very big. There’s no west wing for your friends to hide,” I pointed out. “How could you not know?” 

Shoulder shrug.

She claimed only the four boys were drinking, but I pointed out that if I split that amount of whisky with only three others, people would find me passed out on the front lawn. Or worse.

I could only say, “I’m not going ape-shit right now is because I did the same thing to my mother.” If she was looking closely, she might have caught a glint of a smile. I know what I did was worse, but I was just happy that everyone was safe and the house didn’t burn down.

As parent, I advise trying to remember the stupid things I once did. I think it provides important perspective, and it helps preserve one’s sanity. I may never know exactly what happened that night, but at least I made her pay for the whiskey.

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Did you have that house party? Did you get away with it? Let me know in the comments.