Was that only 100 years? It seemed so short.

It started out like any other catered party- tents and piles of food and young men and women in black scurrying around with plates of things and drinks. But it didn't really stay that way, because this was my uncle Mike's 100th birthday party, and he was going to do it his own way, thank you.

I should say from the start that I lack the writing ability to really capture this, but I'll give it my best shot. The party started at 1, and I decided that I'd take lots of pictures, so I ran around checking things out, while spending some time talking to my cousins. That's what I really came for, and in many ways, hanging out and talking was my favorite part of this. But then around 2:30 they moved the food back and out of the way, and in came these people.

Yes, those are Tongan dancers, ladies and gentlemen, and here's a small taste of what they did.

Now you may be saying. "Of course, what hundred year-old retired school teacher doesn't have 30-plus Tongan dancers performing at their birthday party?" Or possibly you would not be saying anything of the sort. More likely, you'd be saying something like "Wow!" or maybe "WTF?" or both. I was agape. I knew there would be a Tongan performance- my cousin Michael spent a long time as a seminarian in Tonga and has been accepted into the community as a brother. But this was only the beginning of 20+ minutes of dances and songs honoring my uncle, who was just sitting there. soaking it all in.

After a series of songs, they turned the microphone over to Mike himself. My uncle is a poet, and his part was funny and poignant and lyrical. The key passage was his recipe for longevity, which began "Invest in bonds," which got a bit of a laugh, until be began to expound on the kind of bonds he was talking about. Bonds of friendship and family, love and devotion. It was quite beautiful really, even for a cynical city boy like me, because of its simple truth.

After that, the food service returned and people ate and talked and laughed. It was a collection of people the Mike had worked with, lived near, played poker with, fished and hunted with (his house is the only place I've ever had to pick shotgun pellets out of my dinner) and otherwise touched. This was an elementary school principal so beloved that they named the school after him. And we all had a champagne toast and a swan-shaped cream puff.

And then, almost magically, it was back to family time. The assembled multitudes trickled out and it was just us family and my younger cousins' (my first cousin's 20-something daughters, whom I've been told are first cousins, once removed. That sounds like a completely made up thing to me) boyfriends. We sat around a big table and drank leftover champagne and wine, took pictures, raided the remaining catered food (sliders!), and gawked at the thousands of old photos loose and in a dozen or so albums on the dining room table. I survived having old awkward photos and naked baby pictures pointed out to me repeatedly and reciprocated in kind. Ronnie snuggled on the couch with my niece and nephew, my niece having gotten ahold of my unlocked phone and replaced my beautiful Lake Placid lock screen with a purposely hideous selfie.

And finally we nudged our way out. Back to the hotel with hundreds of pictures and a host of great memories. I won't let it be as long next time, but if nothing else there's always birthday 105.