An eternal truth in my life is that one must always be prepared for a champagne celebration. A bottle of bubbly is perpetually chilling in my refrigerator, ready to be popped and savored at a moment’s notice. I have a half dozen additional bottles in reserve, which can be chilled in no time in two champagne buckets. As for the flutes, my cupboards contain three different sets of eight. If two dozen people show up to celebrate, I’m good to go – though rarely are there more than four or six of us.

The Boy Scouts have long admonished, “Be Prepared.” I don’t imagine they were referring to hand-blown flutes and A. Charbaut & Fils ice buckets. Nonetheless, I have taken their motto to heart. (Some may say I have also taken it to an extreme.) My motivation is simple. I would rather anticipate joy than its opposite.

When one is ever ready for a celebration, a predictable result occurs: Myriad special occasions present themselves. I recall champagne brunches for visiting relatives, champagne fueled eruptions of relief when a friend completed his dissertation, bubbly in profusion to commemorate holidays and birthdays, engagements and, yes indeed, divorces. My life has been punctuated merrily by Mumms and Veuve Clicquot.

One such exclamation point occurred when my brother and his family were visiting from Texas. We had just sat down for an al fresco dinner on the deck of my Berkeley hills home. A picture-perfect sun was setting behind the Golden Gate Bridge. Nothing else was needed to make the occasion more glorious.

Nonetheless, we opened a bottle of champagne for ourselves and served his two children sparkling cider in flutes of their own. When it came time for a toast, I suggested that his eight-year-old daughter offer one. I soon discovered that the only toast she was familiar with required butter and jam. I explained that the kind of toast I was talking about involved her telling us what made her especially happy that evening. Afterwards we would each take a sip from our glasses to share her happiness.
Without hesitation she effused, “Since we’re all here!”

At that I burst into tears. Concern clouded her face. Between sobs I managed to tell her that instead of being sad, I couldn’t be happier. Her toast had helped me realize how precious it was to be together. In speaking from the heart, she had touched mine as well.

My niece will be flying to Medford this month between semesters in graduate school. Two flutes will be on the kitchen countertop and the bubbly in the refrigerator when she arrives. We’ll begin our adventures in Jacksonville with what has become our traditional toast at family gatherings and one-on-one visits: “Since we’re all here!”

Isn’t that what celebrations are all about  – people affirming something positive in their lives? Come to think of it, every moment is its own special occasion. And really, who needs champagne? Why not celebrate ordinary encounters as well as significant ones – since we’re all here?

Gates McKibbin moved to Jacksonville after working and living in the Bay Area for three decades as a consultant to major corporations. This column contains her musings about this remarkable community and her new life far away from the fast lane.