Shirley and I used to host parties. We were even famous for it. People would say, “Let’s throw a party!” I would say, “How far?”

When we lived in The Crest, that series of landscaped student stand-alone little flat-roof houses at UCR in Riverside, where the lawns spread out to surround each structure so it was like living in a park, our houses were like islands in a sea of grass or boats on a green ocean, we were all neighbors of each other and could get together just by going next door.

I remember this one time. We hosted the party, were the focus, but it spread out over the intervening grass so really it was like a block party. Shirley was the social one, so she masterminded everything. I was the shy one, socially inept, though you might not know it from the way I talk about things, but whatever Shirley wanted to do, I wanted to do, and rose to the occasion, any occasion.

So we opened our little house to the world of the neighborhood where we were all friends already, and we set it up. We cleared the rooms. We stocked the kitchen. We hung ribbons and bunting and banners and posters and lights. We strung lights outside from the house to the trees, so it was like Christmas, but eclectic. We hung a neon beer sign outside the window. I don’t know where we got it, probably someone’s contribution to the festivities. We hung speakers outside so the music was everywhere, and there was dancing on the grass.

We set out plates and forks and spoons and glasses and bowls and platters and napkins and food you can eat with your fingers, and food to dish out and carry to wherever you settled for awhile, like the lawn, or next door where they opened up to get in the action for the overflow.

We had bottles and jugs and punchbowls, probably a keg. We had a friend who made his own beer, and passed his classes by inviting the professors over when the new batch was ready. He contributed to our festivities.

We probably had a reason for a party, like graduation, or a holiday, but we didn’t need a reason because all of us were always ready. We were young and on our own for the first time, ready to take charge of our lives and make our own choices. This was just before drugs took over everything everywhere, so if there were any drugs at our party, we didn’t know about it. We were all more innocent then. But we could sing and dance and talk and laugh and move with the music that was everywhere and we celebrated being alive.

Those were the days when Vietnam was just around the corner, but we kept it out of the neighborhood. We knew more than we knew, we put time to the side, and danced in the moment, being young and alive and happy.

Shirley and I invented a snack we liked a lot and fixed up a batch. We took English muffins, cut in half top from bottom, put a slice of cheese, probably Swiss, the kind with big holes, topped it with a smoked oyster in oil we bought by the can, popped it under the broiler for a quick melt, then brought it out to platters and hungry reaching fingers. It was a universal hit.

The campus police came by. Two cars, lights flashing. They were checking things out. They said, “There have been complaints. The neighbors…” I, not usually brave, said, “Impossible! The neighbors are all here. Would you like a smoked oyster?” I offered the platter. They fled.

The party lasted all night and into the next morning. It was like the Renaissance Faire in the early days. We had been there, too, at the first Renaissance Faire in Agoura, in costumes, performing. We were not entirely unfamiliar with parties, and enjoyed our stature in the neighborhood.

Then we moved to Altadena.