“I’ll have you know,” our father said, “your mother was entirely onboard for this. It might have even been her idea.”

“Whoa, bro,” Michael said. “What the heck is that you’re wearing?”

Christine leaned sideways to get a better look. “Is that an African dashiki?”

“With Celtic designs on it?” Carol said. “I’m confused. But if you have to wear it, I’d like to think it’s at least an intentional mashup.”

Johnny turned slightly, just enough that we could all see that he was wearing a suede man purse over one shoulder. Decorated with a peace sign made from metal brads pounded through the fabric. And fringe. Long fringe.

Our eyes went to his hair, which was pulled back in a man bun. We gasped.

On the floor beside Johnny was a tie-dyed backpack. There might have been some embroidery going on, too. As brightly colored as it was, it was clearly a serious backpack. Massive, the type that had padded straps and an aluminum frame bar. The kind you’d buy if you were planning to go somewhere for a long time. Like the Flower Power cruise I’d read about, where you could kick back and relax while cruising the Caribbean and being entertained by the likes of Herman’s Hermits, The Turtles, The Hollies, Canned Heat, and anybody else they could find who was still alive.

“Groovy,” Billy Jr. said.

“Far freakin’ out,” Carol said.

“The Grateful Dead called,” Michael said. “They said they’ll swing by in an hour to pick you up for tour.”

“Peace out, Uncle Johnny,” Siobhan said.

“Who are you?” I said. “And what have you done with my brother Johnny?”

As if we didn’t have enough to try to wrap our collective heads around, the doorbell rang. We heard the heavy oak front door creak open.

A gaggle of 40-to-forever women paraded in to stand behind Johnny. They were balancing desserts on palms and holding bottles of wine in party bags. Some of them looked familiar, for better or worse, some I’d never laid eyes on. Polly and I gave Pandora’s grandmother a little wave.

“Well, Begosh and Begorrah,” my father said. “Aren’t you lovely ladies a sight to make an old man young. And just in time for dessert and a wee sip before you give me a hand moving into my man cavern.”

I took the opportunity to exit the dining room and walk casually to the front porch.

A pink plastic flamingo really stands out against the front of a white 1890 Victorian with black shutters and a wraparound porch. I pulled Pink out of the pot of chrysanthemums, shook the potting soil off her metal stake. I took her for a walk around the yard, looking around for a good place to stash her.

The turquoise canned ham trailer in the backyard seemed to be calling out for a pink flamingo.