Make A Wish
Make A Wish
I'll never forget the day Momma made me go to a birthday party. I was in Mrs.
Black's third-grade class in Wichita Falls, Texas, and I brought home a
slightly peanut-buttery invitation.
"I'm not going," I said. "She's a new girl named Ruth, and Berniece and Pat
aren't going. She asked the whole class, all 36 of us."
As Momma studied the handmade invitation, she looked strangely sad. Then she
announced, "Well, you are going! I'll pick up a present tomorrow."
I couldn't believe it. Momma had never hade me go to a party! I was
positive I'd just die if I had to go. But no amount of hysterics could sway
Momma.
When Saturday arrived, Momma rushed me out of bed and made me wrap the pretty
pink pearlized mirror-brush-and-comb set she'd bought for $2.98.
She drove me over in her yellow and white 1950 Oldsmobile. Ruth answered the
door and motioned me to follow her up the steepest, scariest staircase I'd
ever seen.
Stepping through the door brought great relief. The hardwood floors gleamed
in the sun-filled parlor. Snow-white doilies covered the backs and arms of
well-worn overstuffed furniture.
The biggest cake I ever saw sat on one table. It was decorated with nine
pink candles, a messily printed Happy Birthday Ruthey and what I think were
supposed to be rosebuds.
Thirty-six Dixie cups filled with homemade fudge were near the cake, each one
with a name on it.
This won't be too awful, once everyone gets here, I decided.
"Where's your mom?" I asked Ruth.
Looking down at the floor, she said, "Well, she's sorta sick."
"Oh. Where's your dad?"
"He's gone."
Then there was a silence, except for a few raspy coughs from behind a closed
door. Some 15 minutes passed, then 10 more. Suddenly the terrifying
realization set in. No one else was coming. How could I get out of here?
As I sank into self-pity, I heard muffled sobs. Looking up I saw Ruth's
tear-streaked face. All at once my eight-year-old heart was overwhelmed
with sympathy for Ruth and filled with rage at my 35 selfish classmates.
Springing to my white patent leather feet, I proclaimed at the top of my
lungs, "Who needs 'em?"
Ruth's startled look changed to excited agreement. There we were, two small
girls and a triple-decker cake, 36 candy-filled Dixie cups, ice cream,
gallons of red Kool-Aid, three dozen party favors, games to play and prizes
to win.
We started with the cake. We couldn't find any matches, and Ruthey (she was
no longer just plain Ruth) wouldn't disturb her mom, so we just pretended to
light them. I sang "Happy Birthday" while Ruthey made a wish and blew out the
imaginary flames.
In a flash it was noon. Momma was honking out front. Gathering up all my
goodies and thanking Ruthey repeatedly, I dashed to the car. I was bubbling
over.
"I won all the games! Well, really, Ruthey won Pin the Tail on the Donkey,
but she said it wasn't fair for the birthday girl to win a prize, so she gave
it to me, and we split the party favors 50/50. Momma, she just loved the
mirror set. I was the only one there, out of Mrs. Black's whole third-grade
class. And I can't wait to tell every one of them what a great party they
missed!
Momma pulled over to the curb, stopped the car and hugged me tight. With
tears in her eyes, she said, "I'm so proud of you!"
That was the day I learned that one person could really make a difference. I
had made a big difference in Ruthey's ninth birthday, and Momma had made a big
difference in my life.
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