A Party To Die For

My great-grandmother, or Baba as we called her, was a little woman who led an equally little life. She spent most of her time in her little house, with her little dog, content going about her days with minimal fuss, or so I thought. My great-grandmother had a not-so-little secret, and she kept it in a little black book.

The small, leather book lived in her purse. I remember the day I found it as if it were only yesterday. In search of a stick of gum, I’d nearly emptied the entirety of her bag when I heard the swish-swishing of her slippers gliding across the linoleum floor towards me with impressive speed. “Benjamin!” she’d scolded me, snatching the book out of my grasp, “Never rummage about a lady’s purse without their express permission.” From that moment on, I kept two eyes on Baba.

My cousins gave up guessing its contents long before I, deducing that it likely contained her weekly grocery list and personal appointments. I knew better. I knew when she reached into her bag and turned her back to scribble secretive somethings that she was in the throes of a plot much greater than her weekly trip to the market. But what, exactly, left much to the imagination. Unsent letters to a long, lost love? Jokes? Recipes from the homeland? I’d even entertained the notion that she was a spy.

Over the years, she became aware that I was onto her, and she got a kick out of my suspicious gaze whenever I caught her covertly penning. Oh, how those blue eyes would twinkle with mischief. Her cheeks would grow bulbous, puffing up like popcorn, as she struggled to stifle a giggle. All the while, she was squirrelling away secrets like they were prized jewels. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was my unfailing curiosity that helped sustain her to the ripe age of 99.

When the news came of her passing, I assumed the mystery of the little black book would remain just that, and, not without difficulty, had come to accept it. In this age of convenience, where you can find the answer to almost anything within seconds, real mysteries seem a rarity, a treasure almost! I became committed to savouring this unknown. That was, until I learned she had bequeathed the timeworn tome to none other than me.

Bound to a thin, white envelope with one of her silk headscarves, the little book, worn ragged from two decades of use, gave off a palpable energy in my hands. It smelled faintly of her rosewood perfume and felt warm to the touch, as if only seconds before it had been tucked into the dark recess of her carpet bag. I opened the envelope first, expecting to unfold a letter to comfort me in my grief. I was wrong. Inside, a floral notecard was paper-clipped to a cheque.

Benjamin,

I leave you the honour of throwing me the greatest send-off $20,000.00 can buy. Please see my notes for the allocation of funds.

Love, Baba

And there it was. The woman had thought of everything. Not a single detail or expense had been spared. My great-grandmother had put the same amount of effort into planning her own funeral as a bride does for their wedding day!

Twenty years worth of morbid musings revealed themselves to me across the yellowed sheets. Some pages had been amended so many times they were no longer attached to the binding and slipped to the floor as I thumbed through; others had been dog-eared, with asterisks denoting the absolute essentials.

*Reception Menu:

Fried chicken (birth in the family? Add two pieces. Death? Lose one, it never hurts to have extras)

Potatoes, scalloped and boiled, definitely NOT baked!

Crinkle-cut carrots

Salad with a garlic and olive oil dressing - get Peggy to prepare

An assortment of cakes and pies. *See page 23 for complete list of flavours

*Please note, all guests shall be gifted a takeaway container for leftovers*

There were sketches of how the flowers and decorations should be arranged (a tad gaudy, but surely now was not the time for subtlety). She’d even jotted down a three hour long playlist with her favourite hits from the ‘40s-‘60s.

This would, no doubt, be a full frill affair with nothing little about it. I poured over every marking. If this was her final wish, I would see it through, and throw her a party to die for.