The Great Pinata Party

As part of our Gin’s birthday ritual (the dispelling of winter), we always did a pinata.  We did it with the Wills down the street every year from almost the beginning of the children because 1) our two families always made a whole party and 2) the Wills knew how to laugh.

 Sometimes we used a store bought pinata.  Sometimes we made our own. (Yes, I was one of those mothers.)

Sometimes we whacked it in the studio (yucky weather).

You will note the (over-exposed) grim determination on Gin’s face—and the calm of a home-made pinata that knows not even a wrecking ball could dent it. Uncle Q lurks in the shadows.  The studio looks nearly new. (1985)

This is a store-bought pinata, which may be why it was not really included in the group portrait. If you look carefully, you will see purple hooves just at the top.  I cannot understand how we could be so heartless as to beat anything with purple hooves. (1986)

And sometimes we did it outside.  Perhaps this was the first year of the decade of drought.  I didn’t mind drought that much, actually, for this very reason. I suspect that this pinata also was store-bought.  But maybe not.  Big round ones were our speciality.  If so, we did a bang-up job on the crepe paper. (1987)

So, in honor of her being home,  not only did we trot out Gin’s old garland and tropical zoo, we also invited the Wills back for the traditional pinata whacking party – only the old whackers are the new parents, and the new whackers are people who have only been on the planet a number of minutes.  (Or okay Abraham L – for several dignified years)

Not Gin’s favorite shot, but C and L were headed home with the time bomb and we had to shoot fast.  If you look closely here, you will see That Look on the bomb’s widdle face. He’s too young to be a respectable whacker, anyway.  We did reunite all the kids (and their kids)  for a brief moment at the front door as some arrived and some left.

J.L.’s lovely wife, B, and daughter C.  (the names have been changed to protect the innocent, but if you want to catch her blog – you know where to look, or at least, who to ask)

And the lovely Ash and Abraham L. (ditto)  All of whom look like the boy (yes, I can still call a 30 year old man “boy,” considering the way he mis-led my children into thinking, long long ago, that they could speak Spanish.  “Me no know,” does not constitute Spanish.  Just so you’re aware.

Here J.L. is, holding his youngest – possibly THE most beautiful baby in the world: Mairee (I made that name up).  And Mer in the background, holding Megs’ young whirlwind, Mags.  (I am not, however, making that up.)

Launching herself at Grandma.

Gin, doing her thang. M’s outfit, courtesy of The Children’s Place, store most likely to be voted my checkbook’s Deepest Black Hole.

Gin, thanging once more.  It’s how we live.  When I was in high school, I went nowhere without my Honeywell Pentax.  That’s why my eyes aren’t well matched.  One got over-developed.

Deconstruction of a Pinata:

This one was bought at a real Mexican market, which may impress you until I say that it is exactly the same kind we used to buy at Smith’s grocery store FOR-EVER.  As you will see, it is a rainbow – an advanced anti-whacking design that offers TWO candy delivery systems, but an awful lot of negative space between.

Frazz, taking his first hit.  He was brave enough to break the trail.  You will tell how serious the blows get by the reactions in the shadowy Peanut Gallery back there. Each kid got three whacks.

Whack Two.  There are more pictures of Frazz than of anybody else because I am his grandmother and I was taking the pictures.  The really good pictures will end up on Gin’s blog, so go there, but not tonight, because I don’t think they’re up yet.  I shoot the facts, ma’am – but she shoots the beauty and magic.

The Ash-man cometh. A good, solid whack.

Ms. Bell, staying a safe distance, pats the rainbow with the stick. (Howdy Doody allusion)

This child could give the Chaz a run for her money.  I actually have MANY pictures of her whacking away.  But I’m already subjecting you to a week’s worth of Frazz, so you only get one of Mags.

And look what happens when the flash stops working.  Holy Cats, what a whack!  Go Honest Abe!!  (Nickname: the Clean-up Guy)

Back in the light.  You can see, looking at Gin, that though the flash froze the violence into one little frame, Abe whacked the rainbow mightily.  And if you have very good eyes, you may see a few candy hearts and pink M&Ms flying loose.

The Frazz takes his last hit. I love the earnestness in the form.  Frazz looks downright patriotic.  Or something.  GO FRAZZ!!  Oh, he will do well, that boy.  He’ll be governor, if they don’t hang him first. (Allusion alert: anybody recognize it?)

What you are not seeing is that Mr. Ash had a last turn also, and that Mr. Abe had thrashed this thing to within an inch of its life – doing the last bit with NO BLINDFOLD.

And what was the result, I ask you?  

BEHOLD—>

Those dots you see in the middle?  Like that yellow dot on Mr. Ash’s face?  A raining down of candy hearts and Ms and little cars and heart shaped slinkys and pencils and tiny Hershey bars and Kit Kats and I don’t know what else.  Forget jewels on the ground – how about a flurry of all THAT?

They crammed it all into personal zip lock bags—except for Ms. Orange pants who is like one of those little floor vacuuming robots, except programmed exclusively for M&Ms.  And after this, there was cake (the “birthday” cake we’d bought Saturday from Costco because I’d lost my mind after our traditional Burger Supreme family feast and decided I wanted something to make my pants even tighter – and the only chocolate cake left there had Happy Birthday on it – so YAY!!  It worked!!!).  And talk.  And then going home.

And here I am, doing it to myself again – books about my parents, scanning the family photo albums, taking sentimental journeys hung with garlands and pummeled by pinata prizes.  I guess it’s this: if it was great the first time around, it’s only got to get better on the second lap.