The Firefly Dinner

Planning the gala in Kathleen’s memory was a welcome distraction, but it was just one night. I still had to deal with losing Kathleen on a daily basis. What does a life mean after it’s over? I wrestled with this question and pondered what to do now that I was entrusted with the memory of her life. I knew I needed a way to honor her that would reflect her essence, her individuality, her unmistakable Kathleen-ness, traits that made her a firefly.

But how to carry on her legacy was only one of many struggles I was encountering. Of course, there were practical matters like figuring out how to raise Victoria on my own. But there were more internal challenges as well, like how to cope with losing the person who had helped me understand the world and myself. I needed a smaller, more personal way to honor Kathleen.

A few years ago, a friend and I were musing about what a perfect Saturday evening would entail. For me, the essential elements included food, wine, friends, laughter, and discovery. After spitting out ideas for a while, I remembered one of my personal rules, to find your dream and create it. So, I decided in that moment to make my dream Saturday night a reality. I would create the perfect dinner party.

For me, the perfect gathering is based on gratefulness, which is why Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday; you gather with friends and family to appreciate the life and love that you share. I wanted to recreate that kind of atmosphere.

My perfect Saturday evening needed to center around – but not be about – great food. How could I accomplish that? I decided to approach this task by solving problems I had observed at other dinner parties. First, I wanted an evening where everyone played a central role in the conversation. I did not want one or two people dominating the discussion. Second, I wanted each guest to invest in the evening and, by the end of the night, feel heard, loved, and valued. Third, I wanted the entire table to talk to each other and learn something real about and from each other. Last, I wanted people to leave believing they had created new friends.

The first problem I decided to attack was in many ways the most important. How do I get each guest to share something real and meaningful about themselves and prevent any single person from overwhelming the discussion? I wanted to control the conversation without controlling it at all. I did not want talk to drift to the usual suspects like sports, politics, the latest Netflix offering, a book or any single designated topic. Those conversations, by nature, are exclusive. If one doesn’t like sports, has iconoclastic political views, doesn’t watch much TV, didn’t read, like or understand the book or has no interest in the topic presented, that person’s comfort and attention during and participation in the discussion is fleeting. They will mentally, if not physically, check out. Additionally, almost every dinner party I’ve ever attended has those awkward moments when someone is left out of the conversation altogether. I wanted to prevent those moments. I also wanted to mix old friends and new.

Here is where an answer to that knotty question – What does a life mean after it’s over? – began to emerge. With Kathleen’s essence in mind, I came up with the essential component of my perfect Saturday dinner party: the Firefly Story.

I would inform each invited guest that the “price of admission” was to tell one Firefly Story at the dinner. A Firefly Story, I explained, told of a moment in your life when something unexpectedly beautiful happened. Like the moment on a quiet summer evening when a firefly lights up, adding a spark of wonder and joy to the world. I then gave the guests an example from my life:

During the summer of 2000, my wife Kathleen and I took our daughter Victoria on her first trip to Italy. After spending one morning in Morano, watching glassblowers create treasures from molten glass, we ended the day dining at an outdoor restaurant on a canal in Venice. After watching one gondola after another glide by, our attention was drawn to a particular boat that contained an Asian couple and a gondolier. As the gondola approached our restaurant, the gondolier, in a deep baritone, began to joyously sing an aria from La Traviata. We were enthralled. Just as the gondola reached our restaurant, the Asian man suddenly stood (to the consternation of his wife), threw his right arm around the gondolier’s shoulder, and added his tenor in harmony to the gondolier’s baritone. They sang as they glided by, clearly enjoying each other and the attention. Kathleen, Victoria and I, along with our fellow diners, stood and applauded this duet that would have made Verdi proud. We all watched as they disappeared into the night, song and applause trailing in their wake. 

For the telling of these stories, I created a particular ritual that we would all follow. One guest would take a turn, telling their Firefly Story to the entire table. After they finished, the table would toast them. Then anyone could ask a follow-up question if they had one. If there were no questions, I would be ready with a simple inquiry like, “What happened next?” or “Where is that person now?” After the questions, the group would again toast the person who spoke, and we would move on to the next person and their Firefly Story as we circled the table. I wanted each guest to have a portion of the evening when they had everyone’s complete attention.

At my first of these dinners, I thought the guests would tell light and perhaps funny stories about themselves and maybe their significant others. But I was wrong. People went deep with their stories. Really, really deep. Some people told tales of their difficulty conceiving children. Others of near-death experiences. Some told about an unexpected and fabulous surprise that came into their life. Some told poignant stories of courtship and loss and what they had learned during the journey. Still others told about the moment when the answer to one of life’s mysteries was revealed to them. People clearly wanted to share intimate and meaningful moments in a safe and comforting atmosphere.

I have now hosted these dinners for years. With each Firefly Story the participants always grow closer, bonding through laughter, insight, and tears. We inevitably learn something intimate and meaningful about every single person. No one is left out and all stories are heard and honored. It’s as if Kathleen herself is there among us, lighting up the room.

I won’t get into them here, but I have quite a few additional rules for these parties pertaining to cocktail hour start times, seating arrangements, numbers of tables used, and seating choreography (couples never sit together), parting gifts, and more. What can I say, I like rules.