Dispatches from Home – Aunt Nell’s One-Hundreth Birhtday.
Greetings!
Last Saturday, February 21st, I slipped behind the wheel and began a journey back in time. The car seat was comfortable against my back, and the crisp morning air greeted me, as did the luminous sunshine. The 22nd would mark seven years since Mother stepped into eternity and into the loving arms of Jesus. The weight of that memory rode quietly with me as I journeyed up HWY 49. Yet with every mile, happiness flickered under the ache—I was on my way to wish my dear, great Aunt Nell a Happy One-Hundredth Birthday!
Before arriving at the party in Mendenhall, I took a slow drive through the little town of D’Lo, the gray light of a gray day following me as I did. So many memories rushed up to greet me. I rode by D’Lo’s old theater (now the town’s closed library) where Mother saw “Gone With the Wind” in 1940. It was a silent remembrance of days when celluloid masterpieces flickered in the darkened theater and, as a library, many stories of days gone by filled the room. But now, the abandon building is silent, filled with only dusty memories. I also rode by the old Methodist Church where my great, great, great-aunt, Pocahontas Maria Price, attended church. I’ve written about her in times past, and her “churching” due to winning a 1920s dance contest in Chicago. I smiled.
A few blocks later, the D’Lo Baptist came into view. Getting out of the car, I remembered a snap of my dear mother coming out of the church on her wedding day in 1950. The memory brought a tear to my eye. I remembered the church reunion that Mother and I attended in the late 90s. Her old friends greeted us with a broad smile and a hug. As we left, Mother said, “It was good to come home one more time.” Little did we know that it would be her last time to come home to D’Lo before Father God called her Home.
Next door to the church, a rambling old Victorian house stood in all its “Miss Haversham” misery. Seeing in its glory as a child, I wanted to call it my own one day. But now, it’s empty and forgotten. Its yard, a jagged jungle of weeds, dead branches, and broken yard art, was a sad companion to the house itself. Sagging brick chimneys did their best to hold up the sagging slate roof. Broken windows stared at me like lifeless sad eyes. Several of the porch’s columns had collapsed, and bits of gingerbread littered the ground. Peeling paint covered the walls. Vines grew out of a hole in the roof. It goes without saying that I was crushed to see the old house I loved as a child in such a pitiful state.
Not far from the church stands the D’Lo Community Center and its World War II Monument, which lists all the town’s young men who either enlisted or were drafted, marching off to war to fight the Nazis in Europe and the Japanese in the Pacific. D’Lo was written up in Life magazine as the town that, for its size, had more men fighting in the war than any other town in the county. My dear father’s name is on the monument. He and Mother attended its unveiling. She later told me that Dad stared at it for a good long while, shook his head, and muttered, “All that trouble fighting a war, only to be remembered as “Frankie.” That was his nickname, which he disliked. Mother said she couldn’t help but laugh, and even Dad had to smile, pretending to be outraged, but secretly enjoying the attention of those standing around him. For years after, whenever they revisited the monument, he would nudge her and say, “There I am, ‘Frankie,’ hero for all eternity,” as a wisp of a smile creased his face.
Driving out of D’Lo, I pointed the car toward Mendenhall, expecting a quick drive, but the detours and roadwork had other plans. After a brief and unintentional tour of Braxton, I finally found my way to Mendenhall, where memories rushed up to greet me. Slowly riding up Main Street, I passed my great-grandfather’s furniture and mercantile store, now, long empty, as were many of the street’s old shops and stores. The street’s crown jewel, though, is the Simpson County Courthouse. Built in 1907, it’s a magnificent old building with its towering Ionic columns, chiming clock, and columned dome with a copper-green roof.
As I rode to Aunt Nell’s house, I passed what at one time was Mendenhall’s most famous claim to fame: The Revolving Tables Restaurant. For 86 years, from 1915 to 2000, it served locals, tourists, and the famous alike, including Jerry Clower. Mouthwatering southern cooking was on the bill of fare. My sweet Granny from D’Lo and I ate there often. I can still taste the buttery cornbread, crispy fried chicken, and slow-cooked collard greens, seasoned with garlic, onions, vinegar, and a touch of sugar for authentic Southern flavor.
The scent of those meals drifted through my memory, as I turned off Main Street onto Bell Avenue, I passed the old house of Mama and Papa Donnell, my great-grandparents. It was a sad sight, but the memories it conjured were anything but sad. Memories of a porch swing on late summer evenings, a dining table laden with holiday food, an old player piano, and a tall, apple-green fireplace mantle complete with flowery Victorian vases and a matching clock slowing ticking away the hours in the living room.
Eventually turning onto Magnolia Avenue, I saw Aunt Nell’s house. I was greeted by a gaggle of cars and trucks—the party guests had arrived. Sitting on the porch steps or in lawn chairs, they filled the air with laughter, as their children’s joyful squeals ricocheted through the towering pines. Suddenly, a screen door creaked open with a whine, and my dear cousin Jeff stepped out to meet me. Jeff was like the brother I never had. He gave me hearty bear hug, tears dripping from our eyes. I hadn’t seen him in over 20 years. Meeting his wife, Kay, for the first time was a treat. Then, we enter the house.
And there, sitting in a soft lounge chair, and surrounded by more family members, was my dear Aunt Nell, one-hundred years old. Friends, I don’t know what one-hundred is supposed to look like or talk like, but my Aunt Nell ain’t it! Before I could say a word, she fixed me with a twinkle in her eye and said, “Andy! It’s so good to see you after all these years.” Her bright eyes and smile, warm, loving hug, and cheery laugh greeted me as she pulled me in close. I’d not seen Aunt Nell in more years than I can remember. And speaking of remembering, her memory was spot on! It amazed me! She is the last of my great-grandparent’s fourteen children. And the last link to old days long gone.
Looking around, I saw many cousins, some of whom I’d not seen in over 45 years. Oh, the stories and memories that flowed were like sweet wine for the soul. Jeff told everyone how excited he was when, as a child, I came to spend summers with Granny, who lived in Jackson at the time, and he and Aunt Nell lived around the corner. However, as he was quick to point out, even though we had a great time, I usually got him into trouble. Imagine that! For a moment, his words turned me inward, and I found myself wondering how much of that mischievous child still lingers within me. I’m happy to report he’s still there, still full of mischief, still keeping me young.
As the day wore on, and the sun set low in sky, just a few of us remained. I asked everyone what their first memory was. Aunt Nell said hers was when she was about 5 years old, and she was invited to a Sunday School party. She told a funny story about my great grandfather during the Great Depression, selling a red chair that had been in his store window for months. Using his wit and grassroots, homespun salesmanship he made the sale. The buyer thought he’d gotten a bargain, but in reality had paid more than he realized.
Aunt Nell, relayed the story of my great-grandfather’s first car, the first of two in Simpson County. He could drive it but didn’t know how to stop it. So, when he drove it home, he let the car slow just long enough for all his children to piled in. They rode around the dirt drive way until the car came to a stop. My great grandmother, watching it all, was about to pass out from “the vapors.” We all had a good laugh at that story. Aunt Nell’s other stories about living through the Great Depression and World War II, stood out as good examples of finding joy and laughter in life, even when times are hard.
The proverbial vesper bells were ringing when I decided it was time to leave. I hugged everyone goodbye. We promised to meet again soon and not let another 20 years or more pass by. Driving home in a drizzling rain, I watched the soft red glow of taillights hover around my windshield, as the highway’s puddles reflected the last bits of daylight. For a long stretch, I let the silence and the darkness ride with me. Eventually, the rain’s gentle whispers called me back to the delightful afternoon, the smiling faces I’d seen, the memories mentioned, and the old times remembered. I was thankful for it all! However, I was most thankful that Father God had blessed me with a Christian family—one that has lived on the magnificent mountaintops of life and in its dark, dank valleys as well; one that never gave up; and one that never stopped praying for a better day. As my twilight years loom before me, I pray I never forget that blessing.
