Birthday Special

A purple balloon floated out in front of my car this morning on my drive to work.  Bright and shiny and new.  Announcing the beginning of a birthday week for some lucky child, I’m sure.  Probably that little blond haired girl who lives just beyond the curve at Pine Tree Loop near my house.

Birthdays now a days are big business.  Inflatable bouncies, gourmet cupcakes, gift bags filled with goodies to take home, limo rides to the newest arcade or overpriced pizza place. 

Mothers have to be creative and come up with “special” and “different” ways to celebrate their little one’s birthday.  Kids surely don’t want their special day to be less fun than their friends’ parties. Birthday parties are a very big deal.

That stray balloon made me think of my sixth birthday party.  My mother baked a cake decorated with six pink candles and sugar sprinkles.  My little sister, who was four at the time, and I patiently waited for my daddy to come home so we could have my party.  After supper, my mother sat the cake and us in the middle of the table and let my sister and I blow out the candles while they sang happy birthday to me.  She took pictures of  both of us sitting on the table, arm-in-arm, blowing out my candles and fussing over whose wish would be granted. I felt special and loved because I was the center of attention – rare for the oldest child. 

That was the same year we moved to Camille Street in Senatobia, MS.  Camille was a street filled with kids of all ages where all birthdays were celebrated with a cake, ice cream and Kool-Aid for every kid on the street who came by.  We might get a coloring book or an army man or a can of PlayDoh, but the main treat was always the birthday cake. The best part of any birthday party in the 1960’s was the cake that our moms made.  For one day during the year, the birthday kid was the most special of the Camille Street gang. 

As I got older, my parties became more elaborate.  For my 13^th birthday, I had a sleep-over at my grandmother’s house in a little country Mississippi town called Strayhorn, about 10 miles west of Senatobia.   We went to my grandmother’s house partly to get away from my sister and brothers and partly because her house was big enough to accommodate a bunch of squealing junior high girls.  Mainly we went there because my grandmother was way cooler than anybody else’s grandmother and she let me have a sleep-over.

The old house was a creepy, Victorian that was the perfect party setting for a bunch of giggling, dramatic girls. We ate all the chips and hot dogs we could hold before my grandmother brought out the cake - a gigantic store bought birthday cake with 13 candles gloriously announcing that I was finally a teenager.   

We listened to Mr. Bo Jangles (the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band version) over and over again on my new record player singing every word at the top of our voices.  We talked about boys we liked and girls we didn’t.  We talked about freezing a girl’s bra and hanging it on the light fixture or putting her hands in cold water to make her pee her pants if she dared go to sleep.

The last thing you would ever want to do at a sleepover was to go to sleep.  So, right about the time we were starting to get a little sleepy, someone - I cannot remember who – came up with a brilliant idea to keep us awake.   “Why don’t we try to raise someone from the dead?”   

Sure, why not…

We didn’t have a dead person handy, so we had to convince one of the girls that she was dead in order to raise her up.  (We had a volunteer and I won’t mention any names here because she is now perfectly alive, living a very normal life with her family.)

So, we laid out our friend in the middle of the parlor floor and proceeded to convince her that she was, in fact, dead.  In the midnight darkness the drafty old house whispered and taunted us with its creaks and groans as we gathered around the victim and commenced her “wake.”

In high pitched, dramatic voices that only 13 year old girls can muster, we went around the circle saying,   “She looks dead.”  “She feels dead”  “She acts dead”  “She IS dead!” 

And, by golly, within just a few minutes that sweet girl was good and dead.  We had to get to work raising her up.

We all gathered around our dead friend and “laid hands” on her.  We were all straight laced Baptists, Methodists and Presbyterians who had never laid hands on anyone without getting in trouble, but we had work to do. We called her forth.

“She doesn’t look dead.”  “She doesn’t feel dead.”  “She doesn’t act dead.”  “She’s not dead!”

“Rise!” we all shouted in unison.

Slowly, our dead girl started making ‘coming alive” sounds, shaking and groaning, her arms lifting up like Frankenstein.  She was coming to life!  We had convinced her she was dead and raised her up within a matter of just a few minutes.  Slowly she opened her eyes, whispering, “What happened?”  She was dizzy, weak…and, yes, yawning.  Being dead is hard on a person.

I don’t think any of us had ever been so scared in our lives. Shaking and crying (remember DRAMATIC 13 year olds), we woke up my grandmother and told her the whole story.  My grandmother – who was a special, amazing and funny woman – chastised us severely and told us to NEVER kill and raise from the dead anyone else again.  Raising folks from the dead is not your business, she told us.  She was right.

None of us went to sleep that night, not even my grandmother.  The next morning, in the light of day with biscuits baking in the oven and bacon frying in the black skillet, we were much calmer, even a little subdued.  Nobody got their bra frozen and nobody’s hands were plunged into cold water, but we sure made some memories that night that would last a lifetime for some of us. 

For the next several weeks, my birthday party was all the talk at Senatobia Junior High. Everyone wanted to be my friend and come to my next party.  Those who were there told the story so much, it had morphed into a pretty scary episode of the Twilight Zone.  I felt so special.

The next year we were all turning 14.   We were hosting boy/girl parties, kissing boys and going to the movies. We had much more exciting things to do with our time than raise a friend from the dead.

Over the years, some of us have talked about what a fun party that was. No limo rides, just carpooling to Strayhorn with our moms; no live DJ, just Mr. Bo Jangles on the record player; no high tech pizza/arcade, just hot dogs and chips. We didn’t go back with a sack full of goodies; we went home with a sack full of memories.  Oh, but how delightfully scared we were!  What trouble we could have gotten ourselves into!!   The power of suggestion is a mighty thing to a group of 13-year-old girls. 

The purple balloon followed me a ways down Robertson Rd. and when I last looked in my rearview mirror, it was floating back towards the home of the birthday girl.  My birthday wish for that child is that she makes the kind of memories that I have.   Of simple birthday parties with lifelong friends. Of fun times that require some imagination and little else. Of giggles and laughter and silliness.  And, maybe even a little fear.  Of a cherished grandmother. Of sugary birthday cakes and bright, shiny purple balloons.

Most of all, I pray that she always feels special.  Birthday special. 

Therapy at the Dip

The music blares out of the large makeshift speakers attached to the side of the building right above my head as I wait in line to order at the Velvet Cream.  I am the sixth car in the drive-through line that wraps around the tiny concrete and wood building on a Saturday afternoon.

It was the third of June, another sleepy, dusty Delta day
I was out choppin' cotton and my brother was balin' hay
And at dinner time we stopped and walked back to the house to eat....
And Mama hollered out the back door "y'all remember to wipe your feet"
And then she said "I got some news this mornin' from Choctaw Ridge"

“May I take your order, please,” a teenage voice squeaks through the drive-through intercom.

Not taking time to read through the posted menu, I answer with my regular reply:  “May I have two turkey-q’s with lots of slaw, a large cheeseburger with pepper jack cheese only, an order of fries, and a large diet coke.

The Velvet Cream, known by locals in Hernando as “The Dip,” is always, always slam full of folks getting ice cream, hamburgers or any of the bazillion items on their menu.   As usual, there is a big crowd gathered at the order window in front of the Hernando hamburger landmark as well as a long line for the drive-through. 

After spending a day doing a not-for-profit yard sale to get rid of all our old clothes, I am hot and tired and disgusted at spending so much time and effort putting together the sale – and not selling much of anything.  I just want to grab dinner for my family and go home.

I am angry with myself….. and just plain grumpy.   Once again, I made the mistake of trying to make any money w-h-a-t-s-o-e-v-e-r selling something, knowing full good and well that  I could not sell ice to the folks in hell.  I’m just too impatient to haggle and too stubborn to accept the fact that what I think something is worth is not necessarily what the world of yard sale extraordinaires think it is worth. Wearily, I roll my windows down and prepare to wait, knowing that I will inch up to the drive through window in due time.

"Today Billy Joe MacAllister jumped off the Tallahatchie Bridge"

Despite the fact that I am itching with irritation, I catch myself singing this old song along with the tinny speaker.  I think to myself, I have not heard that song in forever.

With my windows down, I can smell homemade hamburgers, fries and other fried goodies.  My mouth starts to water when I see a couple getting in to their car, already digging into the mountain of spicy fries that fill up a white paper sack, their food order written down the side of it, large enough for me to see across the parking lot.

I notice a young family has parked their truck on the side of the parking lot. Using the truck’s tailgate as a makeshift dinner table, they are eating ice cream cones that are piled as high as Pike’s Peak with chocolate ice cream.  The mom laughs as she gently wipes the icy cold treat from her little girl’s nose.  In the back of the truck is their big old yellow Lab and I’m just waiting for the little girl to offer her canine best friend a lick of her cone.

Gathered in front of the old concrete block building at the walk-up order window are several couples, exchanging how-do-ya-dos while waiting on their supper.  Young folks are standing off to one side – as they usually do - while their parents gather on the opposite side.  Other diners are waiting in their cars, windows rolled down, waving to passersby.  I can hear young-folk music coming from some of the cars, belonging to the ones who prefer a more modern song than the ones streaming from the Dip’s parking lot speakers.

For the past 65 years, the Dip has been THE place in North Mississippi to go for good eats.  But, along with hot-off-the-grill cheeseburgers and concrete-thick shakes, folks in Hernando gather in front of the tiny landmark to touch base with neighbors;  to take a first date; to celebrate good grades and won ballgames.  This place is a treasure for attorneys in their blue suits and crisp white shirts after a hard morning of court.  For weary moms with summer-bored children.  For teenagers with a brand new driver’s license.   For families after church on Sunday.  And, yes, for ladies with too many clothes who can’t sell diddly squat at a sunny Saturday morning yard sale.

I have to wonder - during the early 1950’s, when Hernando was considered the “marriage capital of the world” how many of those young couple stopped by the Dip for a burger and fries before they started their lives together.  I look at the crowd gathered in the parking lot and I can see young people with poodle skirts, bobby socks, and rolled up jeans ordering their cheeseburgers with extra pickles just as well as I see the shorts and t-shirts and purple hair standing there today.  The Dip is timeless.

I have heard that Elvis, the KING himself, occasionally made treks down Hwy. 51 to the Dip.  In his honor, the massive menu includes an Elvis shake – which features peanut butter and banana.  Of course. 

I am able to pull my car up closer to the window as monster-sized burgers and sweet teas are handed down to the car full of hungry teenagers in front of me.  I see them make a dive into the pile of fries before they ever leave the parking lot.  Fries always taste better on the way home than they do after you get there and we all know the calories of the crispy potatoes don’t count while the car is rolling.

Humming a Beach Boys song from the 1970’s, I read the funny, creative, hand-drawn posters that are plastered all over the sides of the building advertising several of the 250 different favors of ice cream, shakes and concretes offered at the Dip (a shake so thick, you have to eat it with a spoon!). 

“All our food is fat-free!  We don’t charge you for the fat!”

“Yosemite Sam Shake.  Try it, dadnappit!”

“Enjoy our COW PATTY!  A funnel cake with hot fudge or fruit on top”

Chuckling, I say to myself, I really need to write this stuff down.

The car in front of me has a bumper sticker that reads: “When life gives you lemons, put it in your sweet tea and thank God you are a SOUTHERNER.”

That makes me smile.  Seriously, could you enjoy this type of scene anywhere else in the world except for the SOUTH? 

It is finally my turn to roll up to the drive through window.  By now, I am anxious to get my bag of small town heaven.  The high school girl slides open the window, takes my money and hands me two large white sacks with my order written across the sides.  I make room on my passenger seat as my car instantly fills with glorious smells.  I glance into my rear view mirror and I see several other cars snaking around the building, waiting patiently for their turn.  I feel lucky to be at the head of the line.

Before I pull out of the parking lot, I am scarfing down hot, salty fries and gulping from my jumbo diet coke. A 15 minute wait at the Dip – and the pure pleasure of seeing Southern folks at their very best – has been better for me than a $200-an-hour therapist.  I have dined at fine restaurants in Houston, Dallas, and New York City, but nothing compares to being right here, right now.  I know, without a doubt, that this is what living in a small southern town on a Saturday evening is all about.  And, I’m so very thankful to be here.

As I head home with hot comfort food, another old song fills my mind and I sing at the top of my lungs.  This time it is Louie Armstrong….

I see skies of blue…..clouds of white

Bright blessed days…..dark sacred night

And I think to myself…what a wonderful world….