A Major Birthday.

My mom just reached her 95th birthday. We had a party to celebrate.

Much of the family attended.

The birthday girl's favorite cake: chocolate almond.

Her children and their significant others: my older sister, Robin
and her husband Glenn, my younger sister, Catherine
and her husband David, my older brother, Burt with
the world's evilest dog, Oliver. Oliver later bit David's finger
in a rather unfamilial display of pique.

Grandchildren and great-grandchildren: Teresa and Devon,
in the back row, my nephew, Mark and his two children,
Molly and Glenn, Matthew, Spencer, standing behind
his mom, my niece, Teresa, and my niece, Kristin. Emma
and Syona are leaning on the birthday girl's chair.

It was a beautiful day, capped by a lovely sunset.

It was wonderful to see everyone after a year away. My mom is in exceptional shape, lucid and mostly cheerful, though her stamina isn't great. She tires easily, but she was happy to see everyone. She gave me a piece of advice that made me sad, though. "Don't live into your nineties," she said, partially in jest. "There's no point. You can't do anything." And I understand the point. She has had an interesting and active life, traveling the world well into her eighties. Now she can no longer travel, or even walk far. She can still read, which she does, prodigiously, but her world is far more circumscribed than she would like.

P.