In the lower Rio Grande Valley, Mama had a best friend named Billie Burnside, three young daughters, and an always-traveling encyclopedia salesman for a husband. She also had a job slinging drinks at the Circle Inn lounge. My mother usually left my sisters and me at home when she worked. But there were times she’d have to take us to the bar.
My view of the Circle Inn was from under round barstools and tabletops. On tiptoe I could peer into the jukebox and loved to watch vinyl discs roll, plop, and spin. An arm with a needle would scratch out Don Gibson’s “Sweet Dreams” and “Oh Lonesome Me, ” or Marty Robbins “A White Sport Coat (and a Pink Carnation).”
Redolent of beer malt and wood chips, cigarette smoke and the leather of cowboy boots, the bar reeked familiar smells of home. Mama would prop me on a booth with towers of beer coasters to entertain me. And the first words I learned to read were Budweiser and King of Beers.
I’d sort the cardboard coasters into stacks of circles and squares and watch my mother’s slim legs scissor by. Her skirts kissed the bottoms of her knees, and her trim ankles glided perfectly in high-heeled shoes on what she often referred to as her tired feet.
Unlike me, my nine- and ten-year-old sisters would entertain themselves with mischief. They’d steal an assortment of ingredients from behind the bar and blend potions in the bathroom sink. The worst incident, according to my oldest sister, was when they added the plop, plop, fizz, fizz of two Alka-Seltzer into God-only-knows-what other ingredients, drank it, and promptly threw up.
Billie Burnside, Mama’s best friend, had heard their retching, wiped their faces with cool towels, and cleaned up the mess. A regular at the Circle Inn, Billie preferred the noisy bar to her quiet house. She had a boyfriend but rarely saw him because he lived in Corpus Christy with his nagging wife.
During breaks my mother and Billie would dance with customers or swivel on barstools and chat. They had so much in common—both redheads, both chain smokers, and they were exactly the same size, which doubled their wardrobes. They even both dated married men, though Mama did so on the sly, while Billie had been long divorced.
Roger, Mama’s other man, wasted plenty of time swigging beer at the Circle Inn. He looked like John Wayne and smoked Sir Walter Raleighs. He didn’t like my mother hanging around with Billie. With an erupting, deep voice he’d yell at Mama sometimes, which sent me under tabletops plastered with wads of chewed gum.
Unfazed, my mother would rest her hands on her hips and tell Roger he could just go to hell or home to his wife and kids before she’d stop being friends with Billie Burnside. She loved Billie so much; she almost named me after her best friend. Then I would’ve been Billie Wilkerson. Thank goodness my father intervened and named me Darrelyn, a girl version of his name.
On nights Daddy was gone and Mama didn’t take us to the bar, my sisters would babysit me. Mostly I’d camp at the telephone table in the hall and sneak calls to my mother. We had a heavy black phone with a rotary dial, and the only way I could call was through the operator.
“This is the operator.”
“I need to talk to my mama.”
“Well—where is she?”
“At the Circle Inn. I need you to connect me.”
My oldest sister Jeanne would huff, cross her arms, and correct my manners. “Ask the operator to please connect you.” And then, “Stop calling Mama!” My middle sister, Janie, was too busy watching Wagon Train or Have Gun Will Travel to discipline me.
The operator would oblige my request numerous times throughout the evening. When Mama was too busy to talk, I’d draw pictures of telephones. I covered the hallway and both wallpapered bedrooms of our rental house with those black-eared marvels that held the voice of my mother.
It was the same telephone that rang in the middle of the night with bad news about Billie. The lights snapped on and Mama plucked my sisters and me out of bed and into her Rambler. As we sped to Billie’s house, Mama kept saying, “A fire! Billie got burned in a fire!”
Sure enough, when we arrived, Billie’s house stunk of smoke. We found her lying on the not-burnt side of the bed with a blue nightgown pulled above her singed waist. Mama said she needed a doctor because her wound was the size of a 45 LP. But Billie said, “If I step foot in that hospital, the whole town’ll be talkin’ about Billie Burnside burning her side.”
It would’ve been funny, except Billie’s voice wavered when she said it. We stood in silence and braced for her to wail or scream. Instead, she steadied her jaw and said, “Just pour me a drink.”
Mama didn’t leave the room to concoct Billie’s tonic. A half-empty bottle of Taaka and a cocktail glass sat next to a dirty ashtray on the bedside table.
“I fell asleep with a lit one, ” said Billie. She pulled back the bedspread to show us a black hole in the sheets. Then she gulped vodka while Mama dressed the lesion that would surely leave an ugly scar.
Afterward, Mama determined we’d spend the night. She corralled her brood into the living room and made us a pallet in front of the TV. I snuggled between my big sisters to watch Jack Paar. But I couldn’t pay attention for wondering if a person’s name could seal their fate. Had Daddy’s name spun mine? I had no way of knowing. What I did understand at the age of five was that adults had the worst kind of luck. Made even worse by the simplest of things—a drink, a cigarette, a name.
Photo by Alan Turkus, Creative Commons license via Flickr. Post by Darrelyn Saloom, co-author of My Call to the Ring: A Memoir of a Girl Who Yearns to Box.
Read more of Darrelyn’s story: “Too Close for Comfort”
Browse more Memoir Notebook
__________________
Buy a year of Every Day Poems, just $5.99 — Read a poem a day, become a better poet. In February we’re exploring the theme Purple, Plum and Indigo.
- Memoir Notebook: Sweet Talk - July 24, 2015
- Memoir Notebook: Too Close for Comfort - July 17, 2015
- Memoir Notebook: The Worst Kind of Luck - October 31, 2014
Dave Malone (@dzmalone) says
Wowee! You really take us there. So moving. I love how you crafted this piece and how we are left with the blunders of adulthood through a child’s eyes. There are too many great lines to say a favorite, but–“her wound was the size of a 45 LP” is tough to top!
Darrelyn Saloom says
Thank you for the kind words and for all your help, Dave. You’re the best friend and first reader in the world.
Donna says
This was so wonderful to read…. I’m with Dave… you took us there. Right there. Under barstools, and under tables stuck with gum. Dialing the Operator and rushing to Billie. I loved reading every word.
Darrelyn Saloom says
Thank you, Donna. I’m thrilled you enjoyed.
Richard Gilbert says
Speaking of great lines: “And the first words I learned to read were Budweiser and King of Beers.”
Love the kid POV and some adult retrospection but it’s really such a loving portrait of your mom and her friend and how big an incident can seem to a kid.
Darrelyn Saloom says
Good morning, Richard. South Texas gave me a great education all right. And you’re correct about how big an incident can seem to a kid. I found the old Circle Inn buiding on Google Maps. And it’s so small! But it seemed so large with those tall cowboys and that colorful jukebox. Thank you for stopping by and leaving a comment. Hope to see you soon on your blog.
Jenny Fickey says
You captured the fierce love of best friends through the eyes of a child. It’s an incredible story.
And I’m glad your Daddy intervened. You definitely aren’t a Billie Wilkerson.
Darrelyn Saloom says
Thanks, Jenny. I seemed destined to have a boy name. But much prefer Daddy’s. 🙂
Syd Webre says
Loved this so much. Such beauty in truth even when it’s not a pretty picture!
Darrelyn Saloom says
So glad you enjoyed, Syd. It’s much different through a child’s perspective of innocence. Not a bad way to look at the world or the crazy ways of our parents. And ourselves. Thanks for reading and taking the time to leave a comment.
Debra Marrs says
A lovely capture, Darrelyn. I loved how you mined the depths of the small girl’s memories to evoke the story of a free-spirited mother who was equally tender-hearted. I want to spend more time with this mama and her three girls. I love them. Every day.
Darrelyn Saloom says
Thank you, Debra. I’m working on a collection, so I hope to share more with you. xo
Matthew Kreider says
Yep. Old wounds can spin for a long time. Like a 45 LP trapped in a jukebox for decades. With repetition, some of those refrains — like “adults had the worst kind of luck” — can take on the irritating, underground life of ear worms. In our own inner-jukeboxes.
Darrelyn, your words are vinyl. Solid gold, even. They encourage me. And remind me of how the sound brightens, once we put pencil to paper and allow a new needle to kiss some of those old 45s. That’s what good writing does. Gives a kiss to our songs, a kiss to our wounds.
Thanks for sharing the song.
Darrelyn Saloom says
Aw, Matthew, such a beautiful comment. Thank you so much for your kind, poetic words.
Frank Camalo says
Wow…what a lovely piece of writing. So many memories of growing up in the 50’s..the heavy black phone, jukebox 45’s and early TV shows. You wove all those in such a way that we can all cherish our own experiences of that innocent time.
Thanks for sharing.
Darrelyn Saloom says
Thank you for reading and commenting, Frank. I wondered if anyone else would remember those songs and TV shows. So glad you enjoyed.
LeAnne McBennett says
Wonderful! I loved it : ) reminds me of stories my Daddy would tell about his mother. They surely would have been friends!
Darrelyn Saloom says
You’ll have to share those stories with me one of these days, LeAnne. 🙂
SimplyDarlene says
i’d forgotten (conveniently? purposefully?) bits of me that are similar to yours… until i read this. i mean, i’ve always known the overall and general, but the specific points had been rubbed dull.
my daughter-of-a-rancher momma owned a bar (before she was a secretary, a waitress, a sawmill worker, a construction store laborer)- what i’ve got from those early years: a ginormous, glass Mr. Peanut canister, a younger sister who used to hustle pool for pac man money, and a vietnam veteran father, liver corroded and in the ground.
when one’s writing sparks memories, unites pains, offers hope, reminds us of our foibles, it’s a gift for both, aye?
blessings.
Darrelyn Saloom says
Oh, goodness, it sounds as if you have a gold mine of memories, Darlene. Just visited your website and love the layout and photos over there. Thank you for the kind works and anecdote, a gift for both indeed.
Kary Marcks says
Great piece! I really can’t wait to read more!
Darrelyn Saloom says
Thank you, Kary. So glad you enjoyed. 🙂
Darrelyn Saloom says
Oh, goodness, it sounds as if you have a gold mine of memories, Darlene. Just visited your website and love the layout and photos over there. Thank you for the kind works and anecdote, a gift for both indeed.
Darrelyn Saloom says
Oops, this reply went in the wrong place. Just remedied, I think.
Barbara Weibel says
My gosh – the more I read about your childhood, the more I wonder how you turned out so well-adjusted. It’s astonishing how resilient children can be, and how they accept thoroughly dysfunctional situations as being “normal.”
Darrelyn Saloom says
Well, I’m not sure how well I turned out, Barbara. But I learned a long time ago to cherish the characters in my life. And I always enjoying hearing from you, my friend, wherever you are in the world. xo
Fred F says
Absolutely brilliant piece. As always, your child’s point of view is hilarious. (My favorite line is “She had a boyfriend but rarely saw him because he lived in Corpus Christy with his nagging wife.” Too good.) Before I knew it my heart was pounding as the news came about Billie. Best piece I’ve read in some time.
Darrelyn Saloom says
I’m glad you enjoyed and got the humor, Fred. I worried over that line. 🙂
Sally G. says
Such a great big picture with so few words! With those words you have to love the big personalities not despite, but because of their flaws. A real testament to strength of character and kindess. I loved it.
Darrelyn Saloom says
Flaws and all, Sally. Thank you, my dear friend.
Deborah Cutler says
Darrelyn
I always enjoy reading your stories of growing up.
What I like the most is the lack of judgement in them.
A lot of people would feel sorry for themselves.
You tell the story and it’s a shiny jewel.
Darrelyn Saloom says
Thank you, Debbie. So kind of you to say. 🙂
Daniel J says
Agree with Dave and Richard on favorite lines. It’s the last one that stays with me though. I really enjoyed.
Darrelyn Saloom says
Oh, my goodness. A comment from my dearly beloved. Thank you, honey.
Shirley Hershey Showalter says
“I’d sort the cardboard coasters into stacks of circles and squares and watch my mother’s slim legs scissor by.”
I pick this sentence for its great visual impact. Love the essay and can’t wait to see what the final memoir is like. You are in top form here. So good to read something of yours again, Darrelyn. I missed seeing you.
I’m going to share!
Darrelyn Saloom says
Can’t wait to see it, too, Shirley. Wish someone would quarantine me for 21 days with food delivery. I could get so much done!
Btw, I love getting your magical memoir moments in my inbox.
Thank you for sharing. 🙂
Mandy Trahan says
Very touching. You must have missed your mama when she wasn’t there. The telephone calls to her reminded me of when my mom worked nights at the hospital. I missed her a lot when she was gone from home. You love and care about your mama then and you still do today.
Darrelyn Saloom says
Thank you, Mandy. It’s great to see you here. Hope you take a look around. Tweetspeak is a beautiful place to spend time.
Yes, you and I have taking care of our mothers in common. Hard to believe she’ll be 88 in December! When I showed her the picture of her I posted on my blog, she said, “I sure miss looking like that.”
Her sense of humor is firmly intact.
Megan says
After a long day of decorating, innumerable candy snacks, and annoying costume malfunctions, this story was just what I needed to get away. The prose dragged me into the story with such grace it was as if I were reading atop a unicorn darting through space on a galactic rainbow.
Zeke says
I love your style Darrelyn. As always, it’s a pleasure to read your work.
Darrelyn Saloom says
Thank you, Zeke. 🙂
Darrelyn Saloom says
The most Halloween comment, ever. 🙂
Carolyn says
An emotional story. Thanks for sharing.
Darrelyn Saloom says
My pleasure, Carolyn. Thank you for stopping by.
Jessica Fern says
I feel as if I’ve just experienced time travel. I imagined myself there with you, under the table watching your mom’s legs scissor by.
I can’t wait to read your memoir! I’m so in love with your family.
Darrelyn Saloom says
Your words mean the world to me, Jessica. Thank you so much for taking the time to read and to comment. xo
Sharon says
Darrelyn, I loved this story! I am new to Tweet Speak, so I have not read many stories by anyone here. Your story does take your readers right into it. I was able to visualize everything as I read onward! Hope to see more of your stories, and maybe one day you will see some of mine when I get the courage to post them! Cheers and keep up the great work!
Darrelyn Saloom says
Welcome to TS, Sharon. I’m so happy you enjoyed. You may want to sign up for Tweetspeak’s poem a day in your inbox. Reading poetry is the best way to begin a writing day (or any day).
I hope you find the courage to share your stories, too. Please let me know. xo
cynthia newberry martin says
I love this piece, Darrelyn, as I knew I would. And your words are so vivid I felt as if I were watching these scenes instead of reading about them. It sure was a different world back then.
When’s the next installment : )
Darrelyn Saloom says
Thank you, C. It was the wild wild west. Not only my physical landscape, but the shows on TV.
Not sure what’s next. But I do have more in the workshop, and I’m tinkering away.
Julianne Ross says
Loved this so much. Can’t wait to read the rest!
Darrelyn Saloom says
Thank you, Julianne. 🙂
Jill George says
I so loved your character Billie. I can identify with her and her “accident”. I, as a smoker have done a little of the same. I also would say “give me a drink”! It is so wonderful to continue to hear of mama’s antics,and daddy’s dysfunctions. Don’t you wish you had a photo of the black telephones that you drew on the walls? Something that I also did as a child. My first complete sentence was “look mama, I write on walls”!! She then took my purple crayon and made me help her clean it off! Loved this story and can’t wait for more. xo
Darrelyn Saloom says
Jill, no wonder we connected when I met you in Ohio. I don’t have photos of the phone, but I do have a black, rotary telephone that sits on my desk. And memories much like your purple crayon one. Except Mama never helped me clean it off. Though she did go to great lenghts to hide my drawings from landlords. 🙂
So glad you stopped by and shared your first sentence (sounds just like you!) and your purple crayon story. xo
Sandra Heska King says
Oh my word, this piece is ALIVE!
Darrelyn Saloom says
Thank you, Sandra. I’m so glad you enjoyed 🙂
Bridgid says
Can’t believe you could have been a ‘Billie’! Love hearing your story. Keep ’em comin!
Darrelyn Saloom says
Yep, Bridgid, we could’ve both had B names. But I’m thankful Daddy intervened. And I’m thrilled you enjoy my stories. Thanks for stopping by. xo