Denis’ Celebration

Things I learned.

Food first, talk second.  You would think this was obvious, but it bears repeating.

The Beacon food volunteers ought to be running the world as nobody does anything better with the budget they have.

Denis’ grandchildren rock.  Sean’s anecdote was perfectly tuned to the mood of the room.

Denis got his wish, and got a couple of scoldings from various people.  So no, he isn’t perfect.  The scoldings were also perfect….

If you ask a crowd of Beaconites for a drum roll, please, you WILL get one.

I really HATE it when I get people’s names wrong, and it happened twice.  I am not sure who besides the principals noticed, but oh how I go all squeaky chalk when that happens.

My refusal to have a set speech worked perfectly.  When people weren’t coming up, I vamped from his little book of reminiscences (I brought copies for the family and the Lay Chaplaincy Committee, under whose aegis the celebrations took place), and that worked really well.

Denis should have been miked for his poem but the darned cable didn’t go that far.  Grr.  Next time, guest of honour closer to Mike Rofone.

When everybody keeps their remarks brief, heartfelt and to the point, MC’s job is MUCH easier.

As you can see I’m much more able to talk about yesterday now I’ve had seven WHOLE hours of sleep.  As for my performance as the service coordinator yesterday, I would have imploded if Rev. Katie hadn’t helped me out so much.  *Note to self, get the music up to the podium, ya ditz.* Although I heard that my rendition of the children’s story was very good.  I said, “Never saw the story before today,” and folks were startled, so I guess all the weirdness and confusion going on in my brain were not communicated to the littles.  Phew.

Last thing I dreamed before I woke

I was having a dispute with a neighbour (I was living by myself again in a walkup apartment, like THAT would ever happen) and she chose to respond to it by drowning three kittens in my ornamental fountain, which was in the entranceway to the apartment.  They were still warm when I picked them up.  I guess bathing Margot so frequently (she had a poopy bum again so she got bathed this weekend) is making me used to the feel of wet cat fur, because I could feel their warm little bodies as I picked them up.  I thought, who could do such a thing? And then I remembered.  My subconscious could.  Thanks, subconscious, you suck.