The Pancake House Fire – True Story

My family had been through many hardships after the divorce of our parents in 1959. Once the divorce was finalized, my sister, Suzanne, was born. Suzy and I were the youngest, and a separate family from our much older brothers. I was four when Suzy came to be on that Easter Sunday, wrapped in pink; and I became a little mother to her. I carried her on my hip, taught her to walk, and ride a bike. We slept in the same bed until I married in 1975. It really doesn’t get any closer than that.

Having two mothers got to Suzy sometimes, and when it did, she’d dig in her heels. One episode in my memory was from a Florida vacation that we’d dreamt about for weeks in advance. To make it special, our mother had ordered us matching bathing suits, sandals, and sun hats from the JCPenney catalog.

Our glamorous Aunt Babe, otherwise known as Frances Jane Dupree, went with us, and drove the longest station wagon either of us had ever seen. We left Roswell, Georgia, and headed south to Clearwater Beach, Florida, on a hot summer’s day in August of 1963.

Not long after we crossed the border, the lumbering station wagon hit a torrential storm, forcing us to reconsider our plans. Aunt Babe wouldn’t hear of it, and plowed ahead with the windshield wipers on high; our mother looking more terrified by the minute.

We finally made it past the near hurricane, and stopped for breakfast at a busy pancake house off the main highway. We all loved pancakes, but no one more than Suzy.

After we ordered, I went to the bathroom to scope it out before taking a pee. It was decent, so I lined the seat with toilet paper, then sat. Dark smoke started to fill the lavatory, and I could hear people yelling, “Fire…fire in the kitchen!”

I finished as fast as I could, then scrambled for the door. I was immediately swept out of the emergency exit in a frenzied stampede. Once outside, I realized everyone was accounted for except Suzy. My mother looked faint when she realized I was by myself. Stepping backwards from my mother, I let go of her hand.

“Sally… don’t you dare!” she begged.

“Mom, I know where she is…. I’ll be right back.”

Calming myself, I ran back through the adults to the inside, yelling for my sister.

And there she sat, right where I thought she’d be, undisturbed, eating her pancakes.

“What are you doing?” I cried. “There’s a fire!”

“Sissy, I’m not finished eating!”

I picked up her plate and fork and hurried her out the closest door to my mother. Once the fire was extinguished, we went back inside and had some more pancakes.

Our dear mother never scolded either one of us, especially me because I had disobeyed her. Thankfully, she had seen my heart.

Down through the years, whenever we had the chance to be together, we’d always talk about this crazy trip, and how Aunt Babe looked as she drove through the storm, and Mom’s fingernails digging into the dashboard. Mostly, we’d remember the pancake house fire, and little Suzy refusing to leave. Baby Cakes has never been able to live this one down.