The excitement was building. Our first-ever neighborhood block party was scheduled to take place tomorrow. It had been in the planning stages for months and was gearing up to be the event of the summer. The mayor, city council and community leaders were all invited guests; even the local TV station planned coverage.
Anticipating hundreds of guests, each of the twenty or so households on the block had volunteered to handle food and beverages, and provide music, entertainment and games for the kids. There were to be pony rides, face painting and three-legged races on the golf course behind the houses. Our house was designated as one of the main barbecue stations and, as co-chair, my list of “to do’s” was growing exponentially. There was, however, a small glitch that needed handling. The men on the block were apparently oblivious to what it actually took to put on a successful event.
“What’s on your agenda today?” hubby ventured, as I checked my email for eleventh-hour RSVPs. A large stack of post-it notes with last-minute reminders sat on the counter, right next to the mounds of paper plates, utensils and serving bowls.
“Why do you ask?” I looked up, a tad suspicious. Quite a few of the items on the to-do list had his name next to it. “Well …” he continued, completely unaware of the minefield he was entering, “The guys and I just made a tee time for tomorrow morning. We were thinking that we could try to get in a quick 18 holes before the hoopla starts.”
Hoopla? “You do know that we’re having a huge block party, right? And that you - YOU - and the guys are major active participants?” He was starting to look a little nervous but, thankfully, I got his attention. I continued: “And when I say “we” I mean everyone on this block - even your golf group. The RSVP list is growing by the minute; even the mayor is coming!”
“I know, I know…” he hung his head, stumbling over his words. “You did ask me to get the outside ready. But I can do that right after golf tomorrow. The weather is supposed to be perfect, and we should be back by noon, latest. Besides, it shouldn’t take that long to put out a few chairs.”
A few chairs? How oblivious can these guys be! A quick call to Marjorie, my next-door neighbor, revealed a similar conversation had taken place at her house.
“What in heavens name are they thinking?” Marjorie exploded. “It’s no small feat to pull off a block party! It’s taken me over an hour to prep the brisket - all 40 pounds of it - and Bill needs to put it on the smoker later this afternoon so it’s ready. Who’s going to tend it if he’s playing golf?”
Suzie had a similar protest. “I’ve got 20 pounds of potatoes that need peeling for the potato salad I’m making, and I sure could use Jimmy’s help with that. But no, a different small round object is obviously more important!”
Up and down the block, women were experiencing similar conflicts. Their husband’s need to whack a little ball was being prioritized over helping out. It was clear drastic measures were called for if this event was to succeed, and quickly!
Ten minutes later, our emergency plan was in motion. The golf club manager’s wife, who also lives on the block and who was handling ice cream sundaes and s’mores, “convinced” her husband to close the golf course during the next morning when the men’s assistance was most needed. She also arranged for the driving range to be closed for “emergency maintenance.”
Were we sneaky? Sure! But we were also desperate. This block party was for everyone, and our hubbys’ active participation was an integral part of making it a roaring success.
Thankfully, and with some reluctance, they got the message. “So, what do you need help with?” hubby asked sheepishly as he put away his clubs and golf cleats. “Bill, Ted, John and I are ready, willing and able to help. We’ll handle the barbecues, blow up balloons and even clean up the trash afterwards. We’ll do anything you need; we just want the course open again!”
Smiling, I gave him a big hug and a list of to-do items. “We do have a request though,” he added. “Next year, let’s combine the block party with a golf tournament. I hear the mayor would love to play.”
How could I resist? “I’ll call the Club now to save the date.”
© 2024 Annie Sokoloff
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