Jenny Klein

There is nothing like a festive holiday party to fuel the excitement of the season. My ex-husband and I were hosts to such a party for several years. It became an epic event so anticipated that friends would call in September to ask for the date so they could schedule their calendars accordingly.

The bulk of the planning fell on me. I shopped, baked, cooked, decorated, cleaned, addressed and sent invitations, wrapped gifts for children, employed bartenders and kitchen help. And I hired entertainment. Some of the most notable characters were the roaming carolers in 19th century garb; the male puppeteer with exquisite dolls that sang with voices matching their beauty; Saint Nicholas fortunetelling while dressed head to toe in green velvet trimmed in white fur; Scrooge in his nightshirt standing in the foyer greeting guests by telling them to go home; and the wooden soldier, stiff in his walk, mute and expressionless doing magic tricks.

Our last party featured my favorite act of all. The entertainer arrived at a specified time dressed in casual clothes carrying a small brown, weathered suitcase. As I did each year, I escorted the entertainerupstairs to the dressing room – a tandem room off the bathroom.

After the party was well underway, down the stairs came Jack Frost. He was in a shiny silver suit with matching pointed shoes and derby adorned with trinkets. His skin was painted the same glistening silver. He was a smallish man, elflike with a pointed nose and witty smile and cracked jokes while performing card tricks.

The character captured my imagination for I recall amidst all the splendor of noise and people and commotion, I suspended reality for a brief moment and believed Jack Frost had come to visit.