Lots was going on at B. Gallagher's house last night. When we left to go to CVS (we had very important gum and Swedish fish needs, ok?) there was a rowdy game of touch football going on.
When we got back, the game was over and the street seemed quiet. But B. Gallagher was still out rallying the troops. He waved us over with a jaunty grin:
...Come on in here. It's my birthday today. There's cake...
So, we were intrigued (cake?!), and we went in -- listening as he proudly told us about his new used Mercedes that he'd bought himself that day at an estate sale.
As we walked through the front door we were greeted enthusiastically (and maybe a little bit tipsily --it's a word if I say so) by what looked to be the entire neighborhood and various family members. It was a scene not too different from this one.
I'm not kidding.
It was sometime after the two pieces of fudge cake, several rounds of Irish tavern music, and one seven-step-Irish-jig (the jig is definitely something that's going on my list of "Things to never do again in front of a room of strangers who live by you"...believe me, the list is longer than you'd think), that we finally left. Confused at what had just happened, but elated just the same.
B. Gallagher's 82! Doesn't that make you want to celebrate, too?