I'm going to talk about my grandfather's eightieth birthday, which we celebrated two summers ago in Cebu, in the Philippines. He's my mother's father, and he used to be a fisherman before he retired. Eighty is a big deal in our family because his own father died quite young.
We held it in his garden, under a big mango tree, with tables borrowed from the church. My aunts cooked for two days: lechon, pancit for long life, and a huge pot of his favourite fish soup. In the evening there was a videoke machine, and he sang the same old love song he's sung at every party for as long as I can remember. About seventy people came, including relatives who flew in from Manila and even one cousin from Dubai, plus most of the neighbourhood.
What made it special for me was a moment after dinner. My uncle asked everyone to share a memory of Lolo, which is what we call him. People told stories I'd never heard, like the time he rowed through a storm to bring a doctor to a neighbour's baby. I realised that I only knew him as a quiet old man who watches boxing, but he'd had a whole life of courage before I was born. He sat there pretending not to cry. I think that celebration changed how I see older people in general. Now I make a point of asking him questions when I visit, and I've started recording some of his stories on my phone so they won't be lost.