Another generation would have rolled up the rugs and put "String of Pearls" on the turntable. For us, "Like a Rolling Stone" filled the hollow, Dylan's harmonica shrill as a mating owl.

Not only movies have soundtracks. Generations do, too.

The weather cooperated, and we saw our first sun in days. Guests arrived one by one, or two by two, in blue jeans and nicer cars than we ever thought we'd own. We all wear eyeglasses now and have to eat heart-healthy, but we can still muster a good party.

We talked a little politics, which, with this group, is as natural as breathing and reassures you that not everyone walks lock step with Fox News. We stood in the kitchen and listened to the last four minutes of a football game, and, after our team lost, gave up that hobby till next weekend. We grilled a hunk of pork the size of Rhode Island. Those of us not converted to vegetarianism ate it.

Life has a way of tailoring your dreams, but friends help you remember. We might not have toppled governments with our journalism, but we made a living. We might not have written the Great American Novel, but we've certainly read our share. We might not have made millions, but we stayed honest.

Tom and Jennifer brought me a keyboard and set it up in the little living room where a regular piano won't fit. After everyone else went to bed one night, I played hymns on the honky-tonk setting and picked out the chords to a Rolling Stones song.

I never saw my parents host a party that lasted longer than a few hours. We Boomers can still endure a couple of days, weather and pet-sitters cooperating, and if we pace ourselves.

But by the third day the dishes are stacked in the sink, the garbage can is filled with empties and everyone is thinking how good it will be to get home, though they are too polite to say it. Communal living is comfortable for a weekend, but not much more.

Age will out, no matter how hard you look backward to your salad and VW van days. We're more about calcium supplements and flossing our teeth than revolution. These days, even our hobbies are boring. We make homemade pear honey and oatmeal soap. Two of us have a knitting addiction and get our fixes at yarn shops.

Big Chill was no big deal. We never once made it up till midnight, unless you count my keyboard practice. I guess 26 years ago it might have happened. But now we need our sleep.

As the last car pulled out of the driveway and into the fog, I felt a certain sadness, doubting if we'd ever again plan another marathon party. I thought about going back to bed for a short nap, but I wasn't quite ready to surrender.

So I put "Subterranean Homesick Blues" on the portable boom box, turned the volume up as loud as it would go, filled the sink with soapy water and washed the dishes.