It was a big party--my wild guess would be 100-125 adults, and probably 50-70 kids. And everyone brought a dish, so there was lots of food, most all of it excellent. My favorite dish was the Buffalo wings that had been smoked before being deep-fried--they were absolutely wonderful, a strong candidate for the best wings I've ever had.
There was lots of good conversation, and Irish music and even dancing. Heather brought out her harmonicas and played with the Irish musician, and she got a lot of appreciation for her playing.
I also heard a rather gothic story about a house in our neighborhood:
in 1948, a man built the house to move in with his bride-to-be. But she jilted him at the altar. He never moved into the house. He still lives in Braddock Hills with his mother. (This is one of the urban-legend aspects of the story--the mother would be pretty old by now.) Tthe house has degraded into a wreck; all the inside walls have frozen and thawed until they have fallen apart, and the windows have been broken out and replaced with plywood. But he still pays the taxes, and the house is not for sale.
Now isn't that a cool story for suburbia?