And that’s why I don’t play bridge!

Oh, this story has been long in the making; however, my sister Etta Holland Mixon requested: “Oh, I know that you will put it (this ­story) in writing some day, but do promise me that I will be six feet under when it goes to print.” And ……so, here goes!

Growing up in Barnwell was almost too wonderful to be true. Life seemed so simple in those days. Our daddy Mockie Holland owned and operated Mockie’s Esso station on the corner of Main Street and Reynolds Road from 1930-1980. Today, the Enterprise Bank occupies this location while enjoying daddy’s prized “sickeemo” tree. Our mama Hettie stayed at home making all of our clothes and knitting sweaters for more than half of Barnwell.

Days came and went without much commotion being made until that fateful day when “B-day” was announced. Oh, you don’t know? Well, that was the exact date chosen when Mama’s prestigious bridge club would be held at our home on Marlboro Avenue. This meant “all hands on deck” for weeks to come. ‘Y this undertaking was far more important than the Super Bowl, Summer Olympics and The Masters all rolled into one! There was much work to be done at the Holland house because this was one of the highlights in our Mama’s life. Besides, Hettie Holland was known for making the very best “chicken salad” in town, bar none!

You see, in the mid-40s, Barnwell’s bridge parties were the crème de la crème with several ladies even joining three or more clubs. These popular gatherings could easily be regarded as a fashion show of sorts because the ladies went all out. Most wore stylish suits, high heeled shoes with stockings while matching pocketbooks plus gloves were a must! And I do mean a must! Ladies’ hats were the rage with some sporting tiny veils! Ashtrays were readily available for smokers who freely puffed away while looking very much as if they were posing for cigarette advertisements plastered on billboards. Back then, no one frowned at these folks even though their bad habits made our eyes water and our noses run continually. For some odd reason, these ladies puffing away were strategically wedged into corners of the room.

Oh, it was all quite a to-do. As young as Etta and I were, we were told to help serve the card tables wearing our lovely matching handmade dresses courtesy of Mama’s burning the midnight oil. Each table sported Mammy’s fine white starched linen tablecloths, recently polished sterling silverware and sparkling crystal glasses courtesy of Mama and Daddy’s wedding from years before. To top it all off, Mama used Mammy’s Spode china with a beautiful pink rose pattern. Mama, as if by design, quickly clapped her hand over my mouth when I exclaimed in total surprise: ”Look all of the plates are just alike!”

To me, Queenie McLemore was one of the most important people in the whole wide world. Some folks regarded her as Mama’s maid; however, Queenie was my favorite friend. Ofttimes, she called me “Mutt” while I lovingly referred to her as “Jeff”. On occasions, we could be found sitting in the pantry playing cards, Old Maids, to be exact. Yet, I was forever intrigued with the massive glass jar sitting in the corner housing countless ugly rotting peaches at the bottom. One day I asked, ”Queenie, what’s all that stuff doing at the bottom of the jar?” “Hush your mouth,” was the reply. “The day that jar is empty, no stores gonna open. Those men won’t be able to go to work.” Years later I understood her wisdom.

When loud rumbles of thunder sounded forth, Mutt ‘n’ Jeff literally ran to the safety of the pantry. All the while, my beloved Queenie was explaining, ”Now, Weesie baby, when we hear it thunder, that’s God talkin’, and we gotta be quiet so we can hear what he’s saying.” Quiet and reverent, we were.

But play time was a thing of the past once “B-day” had been declared. Oh, there was just too much work to be done for us to play cards in the pantry for quite a spell.

For starters, those ugly white curtains in the big living room, the little living room and those hanging in the dining room, were all taken down and drowned in a sea of Clorox. All of our sinuses began draining, but we paid no attention. Then, the water was squeezed out before nimble fingers secured the material onto horrible-looking curtain stretchers. Sometimes pricked fingers made the curtains have a pinkest glow. That had to be revisited.

“Spot”, from Daddy’s station, showed up early every morning washing windows inside and out. But my very happiest moment of all was when Spot polished and waxed the hardwood floors. Once he had completed this task, I would tear off two sheets of waxed paper, get a running start from the side porch and skate from the big living room through the little living room and end up in the dining room much to Mama’s chagrin. Believe me, it took a lot of practice over the years to accomplish this feat; however, I was some more proud!

While I was busy crafting this sport, Mama, Queenie and “Little Etta” were in the kitchen polishing silver until they realized that I was missing. Then, I, too, was summoned to join the polishing ­party. Since I was two years and two months younger than my sister, not much was expected from me. To be perfectly honest, I really wasn’t much help anyway!

Then, with the house seemingly taking shape, and time was drawing nigh to “B-day”, Mama’s attention became focused on the meal for her bridge party. Yes, a somewhat heavy mid-day meal was always served. It was actually the highlight of this semiannual extravaganza. It goes without saying that soon it was time to head to Tom Bolen’s grocery store to select “just the right hen” for Mama’s famous chicken salad. I was told to tag along.

Well, let me tell you the location of ­Bolen’s Grocery. Today, if you are standing on the front steps of the Barnwell United Methodist Church on Main Street and looking across the way, the Diamond Hotel would be in front of you. Gazing to your left, there would be an alley, and next to that pathway would be Tom ­Bolen’s grocery establishment.

Once we entered the store, Mama let go of my hand. She began talking with what seemed to me to be a big fat lady, and she was old, very old. I guess when you are under five years, almost everyone is ­ancient. Her dress was blue with tiny white flowers while her ankles seemed to melt over the tops of her ugly black lace-up shoes. It could be that the thick stockings didn’t help any at all. Yet, she was pleasant enough.

After checking her over, I watched as Mr. Tom wrapped the thick block of cheese in heavy white paper and tied it with the string on a rack above the counter which took forever. Securing her package under her right arm pit, this pleasant plump lady with the bulging ankles made her exit.

The foul case with the very thick glass was exposed once this large lady departed. Now it was Mama’s turn. There on display sat four huge naked hens for her choosing. Honestly, she took longer eyeing those birds than our daddy spent buying a new car from Grubbs Chevrolet!

Time was a-wasting before Mama ­finally pointed to the third chicken on the right. There I was, about four and a half years old with skinny everything except for the knees. Somehow they just didn’t seem to match up to the rest of me: they were knotty and seemed to hang over the clunky shoes below possibly casting a shadow. My knees seemed to be XL!

As they say in the movie world, ”It was showtime”. My mama was about to select the perfect hen for her delicious chicken salad. I was looking upward as Mr. Tom placed the hen of choice onto the counter above my head. Until that precise moment, I had never known the sensation of being ashamed or feeling embarrassed, but there before Mr. Tom, God and me, our mama grabbed both drumsticks, snatched the legs as wide apart as she could, thrust her nose into the hen’s cavity. Taking a deep breath with nostrils flaring upward, Daddy’s wife withdrew most of her head exclaiming with an almost sickening, satisfying smile upon her face, ”Tom, it’s a fresh one!” Excitement was in the air as never before. Success at long last, I suppose. However, for the very first time in my entire young life, I was covered from head to toe with a feeling that was foreign to me. In later years, I realized that I was blushing because I was “embarrassed.”

Ladies and gentlemen, I am very proud to say, playing bridge never once appealed to me simply because I associated playing bridge with sniffing a hen’s crotch. I believed that they went hand in hand. However, with all of that being said and done, Hettie Holland’s chicken salad was declared Barnwell’s best, and I can testify that it was by far “the freshest” because I was an eyewitness at a very impressionable age!