Our next-door neighbors in Reading have invited my mother and me for dinner. Nice people. She is from Wales and he is from Barbados. Even though we have dined together many times before, my mother is ever-so-slightly upset because I refuse to dress up a bit for the occasion. I will wear the same grubby old clothes I have worn nearly every time we have shared a meal, but she refuses to go without a touch of lipstick, a pair of nice shoes, and a discrete piece of jewelry. I am annoyed by my mother’s old-fashioned concerns with propriety, but I am also delighted by her desire to look her best against all odds. She will be ninety in December.