When my dad died, the international lemon market took a hit

If he were alive, July 18 would have been my dad's birthday. He would be 72.

My dad was ever a lover of iced tea, long before Uncle Si hit the scene. Sweetened, lots of ice and always with fresh lemon. He never went through a grocery store without buying fresh lemons. We never ran out. Never. Because someone would always run to the store and get one or some if the stock was low. To say that we bought a whole lot of lemons is almost an understatement. Growing up I thought everyone kept fresh lemons on hand all year round and as an adult, I still feel slightly guilty that I don't.

Then there was coming of age, and learning to avoid the lemon squeeze droplets. The kid who sat next to dad at dinner was sure at some point to get an eyeful of lemon juice from an errant squeeze. Ok, so not an eye full, but enough to make you wince. By the time we were five or six years old, we had a nice dodge reflex and could almost sense the lemon juice coming.

On the rare occasions we went out to eat (Shoney's, Catfish King, or Joy Young's, but that's another story,) I imagine we were a funny sight. Kids ducking for seemingly no reason, because you couldn't actually see the lemon juice droplet unless you were about to be hit by it. From a distance, it probably looked like my parents had a table full of children with Parkinson’s, heads ducking and bobbing like ours did.

Until my own narcolepsy was diagnosed with genetic testing, I never understood my dad's love and need for ice tea. But I see now how vital it was to his staying awake as long as he did during the day. Not that he didn't nod off on occasion, even when driving, but thanks to the tea fuel, those occasions were not so bad. Except in the case of the Green Chevy Impala with the buckets seats and the bridge guardrail keeping Dad and Frankie from landing in the Tombigbee one fine Saturday afternoon. They were coming back from a deer hunt and Dad had to call Papaw to come pick them up and boy was Comer mad. (But that's another story.)

Fixing dad's tea at dinner was a coveted chore. You knew you had arrived when dad asked you to refill his tea glass. "Up to the ice line" he'd say. Because the tea had to stay very cold, you never put too much tea in the glass on the refill. Each serving had to be chock full of ice, and if the ice was half way down, then the tea was refilled to that point. No more, no less. Unless of course you added more ice, but for some reason we usually didn't. And you learned it early, how to refill that tea! It became second nature to us older 3 kids.

The day finally arrived that Beth was asked to refill dad's tea. She probably got pushed into it before she was ready, but S**** was away at college, Frankie was away, away and I had been at work all day that day. And it being a Tuesday, Bonnie was at Sweet Adeline's. So Beth jumped up quickly and practically skipped around the table to bring the tea pitcher in from the kitchen, happy as a lark to be asked to do something. (She was always happy that way, but that's another story.)

I casually watched as she poured dad's tea. And poured dad's tea. And poured dad's tea. All the while Dad was saying "Just up to the ice line baby, up to the ice line...." but Beth just kept that tea a coming like there was no tomorrow. And it was a mighty big glass. Before you could say "No Mas!" Beth had the tea glass full of slightly warm tea, which of course quickly started melting the few pieces of ice left. Oh the stunned looks on all of our faces. You just can't imagine how shocked we were when Beth went past the ice line, and then some and then some more. It was a day that would live in infamy in the Baucom family.

“Baby, what happened?” asked Dad in a dazed sort of voice.

Beth replied, "Well Dad, when I poured the tea in, the ice started floating and the ice line kept moving up!"

And somehow, coming as it did from Beth, it all made sense.

I missed my great grandparents so much on the 4th of July

I'd been missing my great grandparents (Foster Norris Maddox and Virgie Snider Maddox)  for a few days already when the 4th rolled around. I dreamed about them the night of the 3rd and I woke up on the 4th determined to visit their graves At Valhalla that day.

I thought I knew where they were, but as it turns out I didn't. Even with Beth's help over the phone, it was a no-go. We went there with some regularity, up until about ten years ago. But time changes all it pertains to, as the song says.

However, I did see the grave of Mr. Pete Mitchell, which I've always thought was interesting. His headstone says "The King of the Gypsies."

When my dad would take us out to visit the graves of my great grandparents, he would point the headstone out and say, "That's where the king of the Gyspies is buried."

It seems like I remember him telling me that a rather large number of Gypsies from around the US attended the funeral.

I couldn't find any information about Mr. Mitchell online, but I remembered my friends R and M  B mentioned something about him coming in an office they worked in. So I asked them what they remembered, and R remembers Mr. Mitchell coming in to see about a bad check someone out of North Carolina wrote, and wanting to see if anything could be done about that. (R recalls that he was known back then as the king of the Gypsies.)

M also mentioned that she knew where there home was on Bessemer Super Highway, a very pretty white brick house, somewhat large.  I think I know which one she's talking about, up on the hill to the right if you are headed to Bessemer away from Birmingham. Just a few tidbits of information, but I thought it was interesting.

As a kid, I remember going down Bessemer Super Highway on the way to visit my great grandparents. My dad would point out the palm reader house that the Gypsies ran. I don't recall if my dad mentioned Mr. Mitchell in connection with the palm reader, I just add that to say that it seems like the area was sort of a Gypsy stomping grounds, so to speak.

Also remember as a kid being told that we didn't go a certain back way home through Bessemer because it was in the "cutoff." Strangely enough, when I grew up I ended up living on the "cutoff" road. When we first moved out here, there was a trailer park about 3/10 of a mile from our house that some Gypsies still lived in. Now Hoover has built us so much, the city limits are just a few blocks from the former Gypsy camp.

Not too long after we moved out this way, someone bought them out and later, the Flowers Bread Company built a location on that site.

And that's a little history of the Gypsies in Bessemer. Very little, I know. But I expect that no one except me was interested anyway. :-)

Headstone of Mr. Pete Mitchell, King of the Gypsies, and his wife, Annie

It also reads "Chief Justice and Criminal Investigator of the Gypsy Nation"