I don't know when I've had a more interesting birthday. Worm and I were (and still are) on the road in search of elusive treasures. Wednesday, my first full day of being 54, Worm decided he'd take me out for a fancy supper. We were up around Nashville, in an area with lots of foreign sounding restaurants, and they all looked expensive: Perfect! Two years ago, he took me 45 miles up the interstate to "Pink's Truck Plaza" because some truck driver he'd met at Big Helen's told him the food was good. It wasn't. (Another bit of American folklore bites the dust.)

I chose a place called the "Yoko-something-or-other." It was packed.

When we walked in, they made us take our boots off and put them in a line with about 200 pairs of shoes of all different types. (There was a pair of heels I just couldn't resist slipping on for a moment. They looked great, but they felt horrible. The whole evening, I kept looking around for a skinny woman with bunions.)

A young guy pushed a cart full of raw food and utensils out from the back and fixed our supper right there ON the table, which was really a big griddle. Worm, who's a meat cutter by trade, had to tell him a couple times that he'd better be careful with that big liver knife. He was trying to get done too quickly, and we weren't really in that big of a hurry.

We shared our griddle/table with three other couples. Jim and Arlene were locals (he owns apartment buildings that he rents to students.) Billy Ray and his girlfriend, a mousy little thing named Nella or Della, were in town from Pulaski, Kentucky. I think this was the first time they'd been together on an overnighter. She looked like it would take some intimate electrical appliances to get her in any kind of a mood. I hope I was wrong about that because Billy Ray certainly had his hopes up.

The other couple introduced themselves as "Mr. and Mrs. Campbell from Indianapolis, the capital of Indiana." They were about my age and called each other "Mother" and "Father" all night long. I really wish we'd strangled them before we left, but we didn't. We decided they were old enough that the likelihood of them breeding and having offspring was slim.

The Hogs Ate My Little Brother

We all went down to Big Helen's Bar and Billiards last Thursday night. It was a big "send-off" party for our trip to Washington this week. Elwood, Macon, and Nephew met us at our place and we all jumped in the pick-up and rode out there together. The place was pretty busy for a Thursday, and four young bucks were playing pool. Elwood walked back there and talked to them a minute, and they not only quit playing - they left like their tails were on fire.

He came back to the bar. "They decided they were tired of playing."

I said, "Woody, that wasn't very nice. You and Worm don't own that table." - Later he told me that one of those kids had been sniffing around his daughter, and he'd just wanted to see what he was made of. (Not much, evidently.)

Anyway, we were having one heck of a good time; me and eWoman and Big Helen. We talked about everything and everybody. Helen pointed to Everett who was sitting over in the corner with his latest girlfriend. "Remember how back in high school we all used to think that he was such big deal? Well I went to the drive-in with him back in August, and I can tell you for certain, we were mistaken." We laughed til tears rolled down our cheeks. Then eWoman piped up, "You can say THAT again."

I looked at her - astounded, "What did you say? When?" I was in shock.

She smiled a puerile smile, "Gotcha Ma. This is the first time I've ever seen him." - (My goodness. The little thing has a sense of humor.)

At one point I said I hadn't had so much fun since the hogs ate my little brother. (It's just one of about a jillion trite old country expressions meaning you're having fun - and we certainly were.) We finally just sat quietly; resting our backs against the bar and watching our four big men play pool. They laughed and talked and put their arms over one another's shoulders as they acted out their feelings on my imaginary stage. It's nice for me to have someone with whom to share this, my private theater.

Well, yesterday eWoman and I were folding clothes off the line out back trying to beat the rain. I could tell something was on her mind, so I asked if there was something bothering her.

"No. Not really," she said. "I just thought sometime you might want to talk about that thing that happened to your little brother. It might help."

My instinct was to just say, "No. Not yet. It's just too painful," but I didn't. Instead I explained to her about metaphors and analogies - and country people and how we express ourselves. She seemed quite relieved until I told her that my little brother actually died a hero, trying to save my Grandmother during an incident involving a wringer washer.

TENNESSEE MALL BABES

Worm told me last night that we need to take a little break - just jump in the pick-up and hit the road for a couple days. That sounded great to me, so asked him if he had any ideas about which direction we should head.

"Tennessee - maybe hit all the shops on I-75 from Knoxville to Chattanooga." He thinks I don't know what he's really thinking about: Babes!

Worm still pictures himself as a forty-year-old with a waistline and a shiny new Harley.

Every time we make that trip, we stop in a really fun antiques mall down south of Knoxville someplace. It's run by a bunch of gals who make me jealous every time I go in there. (If I looked as good as they do, I'd have had every strapin' young bull rider for fifty miles in any direction. Come to think of it, they DO smile a lot . . . hmmmmm, )

Anyway, this place (and I wish I could remember the name of it) always has some really great stuff. Last time I was there, I drooled all over the place while Worm leaned against the checkout counter and flirted. (Twenty years ago I'd have been worried, but now I just feel sorry for those poor gals.)

So I guess we're going to hit the road in the next few days. I'll buy some stuff from that mall, just to sort of compensate them for babysitting Worm for me, then I'll drag his sorry butt over to a Tea Room that's next door, and we'll eat. He'll tell me that one of those gals tried to "put the moves" on him, and I'll laugh like a crazy woman because I know it's all in his tiny little reptile brain.

That night, we'll rent us a motel room with one of those big hot tubs and the twenty-five cent vibrating beds in it, and feel sorry for all those young folks who are still in the learning stages. I can hardly wait.

Pieces of Alma Jean Vance