Barling, Arkansas, November 1963
Some birthdays stay with you for reasons that go far beyond cake and candles.
We were living out of state when I turned six years old. That birthday felt different from the others. It felt fuller somehow. My maternal grandmother, Momo Louise, was there.
She had ridden a bus from Opelousas, Louisiana, to be with us. My younger brother had just been born, and she came to help my mother during those first days. Looking back, I realize how much that must have meant, though at the time I only knew that having her there made everything feel special.
It is the only birthday I remember sharing with her while we were living away from Louisiana. It is also the only birthday photograph I have from that time. In it, I am sitting at the table with my cake, candles waiting to be blown out. The table and chairs were that aluminum style so common in those years. I do not remember what kind of cake it was. Momo is not in the picture, but I know she was there.
We were living in a small two-bedroom duplex. There were four of us then, suddenly five. I cannot recall exactly how we made room, but I imagine Momo slept in my older brother’s bed, while he likely took the sofa or the floor without complaint. That is just how families made things work.
I remember my father coming home from the hospital to tell us we had a baby brother. My older brother and I had probably stayed with a neighbor while our parents were away. Not long after, my father left again, this time to the bus station to pick up Momo.
Earlier that summer, we had visited Momo and Papa in Opelousas. Papa was a farmer, and his employer had provided them with a house. It was aging, and a new one was being built nearby. It was still just framing when we were there, but to us, it felt like something magical. My older brother and I loved walking through it, imagining what it would be like when it was finished.
The new house had something the old one did not. A bathroom inside.
When Momo came to stay with us, she told us the house was nearly complete. About six weeks later, when we visited again, they had moved in. That house would be their home for about ten years, until Papa retired and they moved on.
Over time, the details of which house belongs to which memory have blurred. I cannot always separate one from the other. But the land itself, the feeling of being there, has never been confused.
And neither has that birthday.
Sweet memories.
