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….