My name is Beatrice Baker. I was born and raised in the town where Elvis was born. My parents were George and Grace Baker. Daddy's mother was Margaret Beatrice Baker, and I was given her middle name. I would have rather had her first name, but I didn't get to choose. I didn't particularly like my name growing up. It was fodder for the boys to tease me in elementary school. One particular boy that I liked sat behind me in reading.

I thought he liked me until one day he leaned forward and whispered, "Are you a bee, Atrice?" The other kids would snicker, and I had to sit there and take it. When recess came, I would chase after the boy, wrestled him to the ground, and make him take it back. That was the end of that romance. I was somewhat of a tomboy, & eventually became the big sister to my four siblings.

I finally grew into my name and even started to like being called B. Life seemed hard for our family back then, but having a loving, God-fearing mother, she took my siblings and me to church every Sunday and always saw to it that we had clean clothes and food on the table. When we were young, she read us Bible stories before bedtime. Daddy was another story.

Although he had a loving mother, he wasn't always good to my mother, nor an affectionate man to his children. I'm sure there is some good somewhere in all of us, we just have to look a little harder to find it in some people. I reckon my mother saw some in Daddy or she wouldn't have married him. This was not an easy trip to take alone. I was retired now and wanted to come back to Tupelo to visit the cemetery where my loved ones were buried. Out of curiosity, I wanted to go by the old farmhouse where we once lived to see if anyone was living there, and see if the buttercups still grew wild in the back yard, I would ask if I could pick a bunch to take with me to the cemetery. I still missed my mother, even after all these years. Daddy and I never had that much to say when he was alive, so I barely remembered any conversations we had. I believed he loved his children; he just had a peculiar way of showing it. I was not a good driver, so I had to be careful not to miss my turn as I turned off highway 45 and cruised slowly through the town. The place had grown since I had last visited, and there were more streets and buildings than I remembered. The skies were clear, the temperature a warm seventy-seven degrees. The buds on the magnolia trees were blooming, and I can still remember the sweet smell of honeysuckle vines that were always in the air at this time of year. I couldn't smell them now because I lost my sense of smell as a young girl, but I haven't forgotten what things smelled like back then. I believe my sense of smell slowly started to disappear when I was a child and was gone by the time I was a teenager. I never understood why I couldn't smell the things other people did, but I got used to it. Contrary to popular belief, my sense of taste is just fine. As I drove past all the familiar places, I was reminded of growing up here and riding down these very streets with my girlfriends. As I turned onto Main Street, I continued to travel across town to the farm. I don't remember the country road having a name back then. We just always knew where to turn by our surroundings. Most of the roads were paved now, and I wondered if I had missed my turn. Then, in the distance off to the right, I recognized the flag. Daddy had run a flagpole all the way to the top of the barn, and I noticed there was still one there, standing tall, blowing in the wind. Daddy was never in the service, but he honored our country with stars and stripes and the red, white, and blue. I noticed a sign had been put up where we had always turned. It read "Dead End." Little did people know how appropriate that sign was now. As I turned onto the road that led to our farm, my mind drifted back to my childhood.