Birthday

Mother often opens her home to extend her hospitality, and at the end of May, she hosted a birthday dinner for the spring-born ladies.
So fitting.
These gentle southern flowers, of course, had been born in the balmy throes of late spring.
And, oh, what a vision to behold.
This bouquet of dear, tender delicacy.
So fragile in their silvered age,
just as any gardenia would be.
Miss Charlotte was the tiniest, brightest one of all.
It was Miss Charlotte’s 96th birthday and our very first meeting.
She was born in the Piedmont.
And she delights in telling of her Royalty:
She was brought up on King James.
As a little girl, she heard her mother recall the passing of Queen Victoria.
And King Edward.
She heard her grandmothers recall The War.
And Reconstruction.
She was born in the shadow of the Great War, and lost her father to it.
It was a Piedmont without the Roaring Twenties.
Or flappers.
Or the decadence of the Lost Generation.
Or monkey trials.
And certainly no Great Depression, what could crash?
She told of when the War To End All Wars became known as the First.
And she spoke of her little ones,
The ones she raised,

the ones she buried.
And she spoke of grandbabies, and their babies, and their babies…
And she told me about the wild strawberries.
And the old hound
that took a shine to her
and was always by her side
as she hunted and hunted for them.
She was raised in passed-down calico. Never knew a new dress.
That little calico girl loved to read and read.
She told of the first time she ever tasted coconut.
It was such a revelation to her
that she recalled that moment,
nearly fifty years later.
That little girl lived many withouts.
That little girl lived without the little white dresses
of the Low Country.
Without a delicate little parapluie.
And
Without one more thing…
In her letter of thanks,
she confessed
she had never had
a birthday party
given in her honor.This had been her first.
Mother came to my door yesterday for the cloves.Miss Charlotte passed way in her sleep this weekend,
and my mother was preparing the Comfort Apple for her family.

But I made Miss Charlotte the prettiest coconut birthday cake you ever did see.
Oh, the dream of every little southern girl.
And I layered it so high, it looked like a regal, lace-dressed lady.
I respectfully placed it among the many dishes,
the offerings of nourishment,
and comfort,
and care,
I paid my respects
and quietly left.
And I thank the Lord for those strawberries that delighted her so.
And her sweet, young heart’s love of books.
And I thought of that little girl in calico,
the tiniest, brightest of them all,
up in the Piedmont.