8 things boomers prepare before guests arrive that younger people never think about

Last week, my thirty-something neighbor popped over to borrow some sugar, and I invited her in for coffee. "Your house always feels so ready for company," she said, looking around. "Mine's a disaster zone unless I know someone's coming three days in advance."

It got me thinking about how different generations approach hospitality. When I was growing up, and even now in my seventies, there's a whole ritual of preparation that happens before guests arrive that seems to have gotten lost somewhere along the way.

Maybe it's because we grew up in homes where unexpected visitors were common, or perhaps it's just the way our mothers taught us, but there's something deeply satisfying about the art of being ready.

Not perfect, mind you, but ready. The kind of ready that says, "You're welcome here, and I've been hoping you'd come."

1) Setting out guest towels in the bathroom

Remember those fancy towels your grandmother had? The ones nobody was allowed to use? Well, we actually do use them, but only for guests.

Every time someone's coming over, even for a casual dinner, I swap out our everyday bathroom towels for the nice ones. The embroidered linen ones that belonged to my mother, or the plush white ones I save for special occasions.

It's such a small gesture, but think about it: Your guest excuses themselves to use the bathroom, and there's a fresh, beautiful towel waiting just for them.

It says something. It says you matter enough for me to think about your comfort in advance. My younger friends find this hilarious. "People can use my regular towel," they say. And sure, they can. But should they have to?

2) Putting out fresh soap

Along with those guest towels comes fresh soap. Not the half-used bar sitting in the soap dish, slowly melting into itself. A new bar, still wrapped, or better yet, a pretty bottle of liquid soap that doesn't have mysterious gunk around the pump.

When I taught high school, I noticed how the small dignities we offer each other matter more than we think.

A student once told me that she loved coming to my classroom because I always had tissues available, not the scratchy school-issued ones, but real ones. Small things, but they register. Fresh soap is like that. It's dignity in a small package.

3) Checking the ice situation

How many ice cubes are in your freezer right now? If you're under fifty, I'm guessing you have no idea. But ask someone my age, and we can probably tell you exactly how full that ice tray is.

Before guests arrive, we're filling ice trays, maybe even buying a bag of ice if it's summer. We're making sure there's enough for drinks, for water glasses, for whatever might be needed.

This isn't about being fancy. Growing up, we didn't have automatic ice makers. Ice was something you had to plan for, and running out when you had company was mortifying.

Even now, with my fancy refrigerator that makes ice automatically, I still check. Old habits, perhaps, but good ones.

4) Arranging fresh flowers or greenery

Virginia Woolf wrote about the importance of having flowers in the house, how they change the very air of a room. She was right. Before guests arrive, I always cut something from my garden.

In summer, it might be roses or sweet peas. In winter, some evergreen branches or dried hydrangeas. Even in the deadest part of February, I can usually find something alive to bring inside.

My garden has been my companion for thirty years now, and it's taught me that beauty doesn't require perfection. Sometimes the best arrangement is three daffodils in a juice glass.

But having something fresh and alive on the table or mantelpiece shifts the energy of a space. It says this moment, this gathering, deserves to be marked with something beautiful.

5) Putting coasters everywhere

Young people have coffee tables. We have coffee tables with coasters strategically placed on every possible surface where someone might set down a drink. Not one coaster, but little stacks of them, positioned within easy reach of every seat.

Is this fussy? Maybe. But I've refinished enough furniture to know that water rings are forever. More than that, though, readily available coasters remove that awkward moment when a guest hovers with their drink, unsure where to put it.

They can relax. The coasters say, "Sit anywhere, make yourself comfortable, I've thought this through."

6) Preparing a coat situation

Where do the coats go? This is not a question that occurs to most people under forty until their guests are standing in the doorway, arms full of winter gear.

But we think about it in advance. We clear the coat closet, put out extra hangers, maybe set up a coat rack in the spare bedroom if it's a bigger gathering.

My mother, who could make anything beautiful with her sewing machine, taught me that taking care of people's belongings is part of taking care of people. She'd never let someone's coat end up in a pile on the bed.

Your coat had a proper place, and when you were ready to leave, you knew exactly where to find it.

7) Creating ambient lighting

Nobody looks good under overhead fluorescents. This is a universal truth that my generation seems to understand instinctively. Before guests arrive, we're turning on lamps, lighting candles, adjusting dimmer switches.

We're creating what my supper club friends and I call "kindness lighting" - the sort that makes everyone look a little softer, a little more beautiful.

There's something about lamplight that changes the tenor of conversation. People lean in more, speak more quietly, share more freely. Maybe it's because we all look better, or maybe it's because soft light creates soft spaces where people can be themselves.

8) Setting up the coffee station

Twenty minutes before guests arrive, I'm setting up tomorrow morning's coffee. The machine is ready to go, clean cups are out, sugar bowl filled, cream in the pitcher in the fridge.

Because in my generation, a guest shouldn't have to ask for morning coffee. It should materialize, as if by magic, the moment they appear in the kitchen.

This preparation speaks to a deeper philosophy about hospitality. It's not about impressing people or showing off. It's about removing friction, creating ease, making space for what really matters: Connection, conversation, the joy of being together.

Final thoughts

These preparations might seem quaint or unnecessary to younger generations who've grown up with a more casual approach to entertaining.

But there's something to be said for the intentionality of it all, the way these small acts of preparation say "I've been thinking about you" before a guest even walks through the door.

It's not about perfection or performance. It's about creating a space where people feel genuinely welcomed, genuinely seen. And sometimes, that starts with something as simple as a fresh bar of soap.