[.article__paragraph--cap][.small-caps]Here at Fox Hill Bruderhof,[.small-caps] the young adults have taken to sponsoring an evening of community most Saturdays, so all three hundred residents can wind down the week together.[.article__paragraph--cap]

They may tap someone else to be master of ceremonies, but the single twenty-somethings make it happen, hauling out tables and chairs, decorating the dining hall or the patio, firing up the eight-foot-long barbecue grill for burgers, or setting up a dessert bar.

The food can be simple, because that’s not the primary draw. Families arrive – on foot, because everyone lives within walking distance – often not knowing quite what’s in store, but game to find out.

[.small-caps]Sometimes, it actually is a[.small-caps] game, such as an all-ages kickball tournament. Eight teams, each comprised of the residents of two or three apartment buildings, face off on adjoining fields. Unflappable refs gamely try to keep it fair, though it’s hard to “call it like you see it” when some of the players are about two feet tall.

A rule dictates that under-six-year-olds cannot be caught out, so some teams’ batting lineup becomes suspiciously short (vertically). Hence some seventeen-run innings, with basemen making dramatic fake lunges while kids gallop around the diamond, occasionally clockwise.

Two hours later, everyone troops home, happy winners toting a pint of fresh maple syrup, equally happy losers toting memories of good fun.

[.small-caps]One rainy Saturday,[.small-caps] we congregate in the dining hall for an indoor picnic, followed by riotous communal games, starting with Musical Jeopardy (Country/Classical/Musicals/Bruderhof hits), each row of tables guessing a short sound clip as a team: “We’ll take Bruderhof for 2000.”

The grand finale is a boisterous balloon bash, with all the people facing north along the tables batting about a hundred balloons toward “their” wall, while the south-facing crew tries to intercept and wallop them in the opposite direction. The team with the most balloons along their wall will be the winner.

I fail in my battle duties, because I am so distracted watching a very dedicated dad swat a balloon backward over his head with both hands, while right behind him, an opponent repeatedly sends it sailing back. He never notices he is attacking the same blue balloon, stuck in an endless loop, never destined to reach the winning wall. I see a grandpa calmly turn off his hearing aids as the final fifteen seconds count down and the shrieks of the swatters reaches a crescendo.

[.small-caps]On a balmy May evening,[.small-caps] we build a campfire and sing folk songs till it gets too dark to see the words. In summer, we’ll do another round with s’mores. It takes our gigantic firepit or maybe five small campfires to provide enough elbow room to avoid getting skewered by a wildly waving s’mores stick.

[.small-caps]To celebrate several[.small-caps] auspicious anniversaries and birthdays, we enter the dining hall one Saturday to note some creative piñatas suspended from the ceiling. The kids launch a concerted battle on the lion and zebra simultaneously, and after harvesting the spoils, everyone reconvenes for a line dance simple enough for three-year-olds to figure out by hopping alongside their parents or a sibling.

[.small-caps]The Kentucky Derby[.small-caps] elevates the Saturday action to new heights. We label nineteen cocktail tables with the names and photos of each contender. Folks show up in colorful array, with more than a few ladies flaunting giant, flowery hats. Before the televised horse race, everyone crowds out onto the patio to cheer on the real competition: the first graders cantering the track on hobby horses, faces as focused as any jockey’s in the home stretch.

Then, armed with Black Forest chocolate cherry cake with cream, we sort ourselves by favorite horse and get ready to cheer.

We make so much commotion as the gates rise and the horses fly forward, you might think there’s money on the line – but of course there isn’t, because Bruderhof members, who share a common purse in early Christian fashion, don’t have any. It so happens that if I had placed a bet, I would be rolling in it: my horse is Golden Tempo, who makes a late surge from dead last to win it all. I picked him just because I like his name and the fact that he’s been trained by a woman – who later gives a deliriously happy post-win interview while holding her young son. Go horses, go moms.

[.small-caps]Speaking of moms,[.small-caps] on Mother’s Day weekend, we get together for an ice cream bar with all the trimmings, while various dads and kids get up to serenade their materfamilias. With or without instruments, with or without tunes, they charm the audience with original numbers, a country favorite, and, naturally, “You Are My Sunshine.” A toddler who has just mastered toddling clambers up on the stage to clutch his daddy’s pant-leg – moral support.

Then the moms of the youngest kids are called up to participate in a cake walk, vying for some amazing home-baked cakes displayed on a dais. There are more spots than moms, so single ladies well known for their motherly touch are called up to join. One declines the offer; she is comfortably holding someone’s sleeping baby, and the baby is the sweeter deal.

[.small-caps]This list of Saturday night[.small-caps] specials is just a sampling; it’s hard to pick a favorite, though I especially love events that celebrate the heritage, not just of community as a monolith, but of the many smaller histories that converge here. Whether that’s the Jeong family making enough kimbap for everyone to appreciate, or the upcoming weekend’s patio party that incorporates touches of Switzerland, England, and Paraguay as a nod to my parents’ roots (it’s their forty-ninth wedding anniversary), the invitation to fellowship is different every time, but that invitation always starts with “Welcome.” It’s E pluribus unum, I suppose – with balloons.