There was a band playing gospel in front of the hall and there were at least 300 people there, and at least half of this crowd was singing in perfect harmony with the music. It was beautiful and there was a lot of energy in the darkened hall. It was feeling more like church or a concert than a birthday party.

I passed Layla to Maggie and went looking for a beer. I spotted a few men in the back and asked them where the bar was, and they looked at me and then each other and then laughed. The older one said, “Oh, you must be Layla’s daddy! You’re Mister Jim!”

“Uh, yes,” I said.

Then he said, “You don’t know, but Mama she don’t allow no drinkin’ at her parties!”

As I stood there with that sinking feeling that I was the only guy at the party who wasn’t getting the joke, I heard what appeared to be an MC tapping on the microphone at the bandstand. Just as I was turning around and making my way through this now-packed hall, wondering how on earth I was going to find my wife and child, the MC said, “Welcome, everyone, to Mama’s birthday party.