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. 

Learning to Let Go on Camille Street

I watched a little girl learn to ride her bike on the hot pavement of Camille Street last week.  In the

shadow of the massive glittery pink helmet, I saw in her tiny bronze face wonder, pride, fear and excitement. 

During my weekly visit to my mother, I was walking to my car to fetch more grocery bags when I saw them.  Dad, his willowy frame wrapped around his little girl to make sure she was securely attached to her new princess bike.  The little girl – afraid but excited.  Determined.   “Don’t let go, Daddy, don’t let go.”

Instantly I was transported back to another summer and another bicycle – this one red with a white basket with big yellow daisies on the front.  In the same spot on the same street in the same small hometown more than 50 years ago, another girl and another dad share this rite of passage.  I can hear this little girl say, “Don’t let go, Daddy, don’t let go!”

My dad assured me that he never would.

Camille Street, Senatobia, MS, USA.  Like many other small southern neighborhoods, Camille Street has seen many youngsters who were planted here bloom over the past half century.  The original Camille Street Gang members are now grandparents with long and rich resumes, retirement plans, nice homes and photo albums filled with lives we never thought possible during our hot summers on Camille Street in the 60’s and 70’s.

We all learned to ride our bikes on Camille Street.  No shiny helmets or knee pads for us.  We hopped on our bikes, bare footed with unprotected extremities, and never looked back. 

I sat on my mom’s front porch and watched this little girl’s story unfold - a moment in her life that she will never forget.  Precious memories layered one on top of the other to build the story of our lives.   Makes us who we are.

Dad lets go of the bubble gum colored bike.  He reaches out to steady it as it starts to slow down, wobble and then straightens up and gains speed.  He proudly watches his little girl as her tippy toes push the peddles of the bike and her tiny brown hands grip the handle bars to hold the bike steady.  Past the Copeland’s house, past the Alexander’s, almost all the way to the corner she rides.    The first of many, many times he will see her spread her wings and fly.  Sometimes she will crash and sometimes she will soar, but always he will be there to reach out and steady her. 

I go back to bringing in the groceries and I cannot stop thinking about the scene I just witnessed.  I can hardly believe it has been more than 50 years since all of the first generation Camille Street kids were learning to ride bikes, skate, swim, play baseball, drive cars and steal kisses under the big tree in the McPhail’s back yard.  I glance over at the Alexander’s house and see Charlotte and me sitting on a quilt under her shade tree making clover necklaces.  I see Ricky walking across the street to borrow an encyclopedia to do his science report.  I see Gail and Jackie walking to the community pool, flip flops flopping and bright colored towels hanging around their necks, giggling over secrets only they share.  These are the layers that build my story.

As I leave my mother’s house on Camille Street – my home for 22 years of my life -- I think of my dad.  I think of all the times he steadied my journey and pointed me in the right direction.  I realize that he did, in time, let go of my bike.

But, he never let go of me.