Off the Cyber Shelf

When I was a young boy, there was a restaurant on the north side of Atlanta, in Buckhead, called Farrell’s. It was paradise for a kid, the entrance of the restaurant consisting of a large room you had to walk through, kind of like a Cracker barrel. The only difference was that instead of nick-knacks you’d buy for your grandmother, Farrell’s had nothing but candy, and lots of it, a paradise for kids.

Large barrels, looking like they had just been taken off a pirate ship, sat in the center of the room, full of lollypops and lickerish. Some of the pops were the size of your head—a small kids head—and I would stand on my toes to look over the edge of a barrel at all the brightly colored candies, breathing in the smell of their wax wrappers.

The restaurant, itself, had a sort of ice cream parlor motif. And before the days of chucky-cheese, Farrell’s was a hot commodity for birthday celebrations. One of the earlier memories I have is of my third birthday, when my mother took my sister and I to Farrell’s with my grandmother. It’s not the earliest memory I have, but it’s definitely one of them. How could a child not forget the first time he walked into a room with nothing but barrel’s of candy and buckets of ice cream? Too, this was the first birthday party I can remember. I’m sure my parents did something for the first or second birthday, but that, obviously, predates my faculty of memory, and I’m kind of glad I don’t actually remember the day I was actually born.

Farrell’s had a way of letting everyone know it’s your birthday, by sounding the alarm. It was the real thing, from an old fashioned fire truck, all the bells and whistles attached. And as the siren exploded into life, firelights would flash all around the restaurant.

In those days, my parents had not yet known that I was legally blind. Everyone just thought that I was slow until I was four-years-old. And there’s nothing wrong with a kid being slow in the South, at least, not then. I thought everyone just saw the same stuff I did, or lack their of. Though Farrell’s became quite an eye opener.

So needless to say, I was a bit startled when the alarms started sounding and lights started flashing, and I had no clue what was going on around me. The surprise of the siren scared me so much that I jumped under the table and started screaming as I tried to push my way under the heavy wooden booth, scrambling for any safety I could find.

The party, to say the least, was a complete failure. It was also, as my mother recalled, the point at which I would no longer ask for birthday parties. Surprises were also frowned upon and not encouraged while I was present. The whole event changed the course of my life, as far as birthday parties. Sure, my grandparents would come by for dinner, but nothing really fancy after that. There was the time when I was living with the Franciscans in Chicago, and they made me a prime rib dinner for my birthday, forgetting that I had become a vegetarian.

Farrell’s is part of the reason why I never got into Candy that much, and soon after that, birthday cakes were replaced with sandwich deli trays. Have you ever tried to put a candle in a mound of pastrami?

Last night, that all changed; no, not the pastrami, but surprise parties. I had been hinting around for a while that it would be nice to have a surprise party. Yeah, I know; you’re not supposed to know about those things. But I figured I had a right since I never really had one. Farrell’s was a surprise of a different sort.

Now, not to brag, but I’m a pretty smart guy. And I had a hunch that maybe my wish would be granted. But, for the life of me, I’ve spent the past month driving myself crazy trying to think about the when and where my surprise party might take place. Surely, I thought, no one would travel all the way to Bay Ridge just to see me?

Well, I was wrong. And I was quite surprised to see those who ventured south, despite the wacky R-train this weekend. Lauren did an amazing job, and put in an extraordinary amount of work, serving home made chili (ala the Grit Cookbook, which is the catalyst for our first encounter on-line a year ago this month), grit corn bread, lots of wine, and a homemade ice cream cake. Although I’m not a cake person, I do love ice cream cakes. It’s a different breed of cakes, a dog and cat kind of thing.

The dinner was amazing, all of us gathered around the table with great conversation and wine flowing freely. Thanks again to H & J Queezy for the kind gift and cup cakes, and all the others who came out for the gathering.

Surprises really are fun.