There’s a birthday party going on over at the Moreland Hosiery Mill. We had to park the truck a block and a half away because all the parking spots down by the old mill are taken.

Moreland, Georgia is the embodiment of small town USA. Population 382. Two church buildings that represent both the Baptist and Methodist traditions. A gas station. A fire department. An old General Store that sits empty. Then there’s the brick textile mill that once was the town’s primary employer but now serves as a special events venue.

It’s a sunny afternoon as we walk around the corner down the sidewalk toward the crowd gathered outside the main doors. The air is warm. We left our jackets in the truck knowing that we might need them later. As we approach, we can hear the laughter of people who sound like they haven’t seen one another in a while.

“Oh my goodness. I’m so glad to see you.”

“Hey there. How long has it been?”

This is the conversation of people in their prime years north of 70 who have known one another for more decades than anyone cares to count. The guest of honor is turning 75. I can tell this by all the signs taped to the walls and hanging from the ceiling that say, “Happy 75th Bonnie.”

I reckon 75 years is a milestone worth celebrating. Three quarters of a century. Born in 1951. Old enough to have vague memories of the first time Elvis walked out on stage. The perfect age to have squealed her head off over the boys from Liverpool. Bonnie grew up in a time when ashtrays were part of the living room décor, long hair and peace signs defined the age of “love not war,” and Vietnam was on the CBS Evening News with Walter Cronkite every night.

As we stand waiting to get inside, Bonnie is making her way down the line hugging necks and thanking folks for coming. I don’t know Bonnie. I don’t think I’ve ever met Bonnie. Marion is the one who has the connection here. Their friendship doesn’t go as far back as high school like with some of these folks, but it goes back quite a few years, and they’ve shared their own stories of making it through this life.

She hugs Marion first. Then she makes eye contact with me, and at the same time reaches for my neck and draws me into the circle of hugs.

“I’m so glad y’all came.” And looking my way she adds, “I feel like I know all about you. I keep up with all your travels on Facebook.”

No kidding…when I’m with Marion, I tend to meet total strangers who seem to know more about me than I do. It just goes with the territory.

The old mill building is perfect for the occasion. Big windows. Large post and beam construction that leaves lots of open space for tables and a dance floor. Narrow, thick floorboards designed to hold up under the weight of heavy industrial machines. Low voltage lights strung from beam to beam.

Quiet, little Moreland is getting ready for a party.

The theme is based on the music and culture of the 1950s. Several of the grown grandsons are dressed as Elvis impersonators. There’s a couple of guys who look like they stepped out of a scene from Happy Days. Even the guest of honor is wearing a poodle skirt and bobby socks, which I think is odd because she’s more of a teenager of the sixties.

“So,” I ask her, “when’s the last time you wore a poodle skirt?”

She laughed. “I don’t think I ever wore one. I was more of a mini-skirt and bell bottom girl.”

Bonnie has two daughters, which is really how Marion has stayed connected to the family. Brandy, one of the daughters, is her hairdresser. They see each other once a month like clockwork. They stay caught up on kids and life and holidays and birthdays, which is how we got the invite to ride down to Moreland on a warm Sunday afternoon.

A young fella grabs the microphone and blesses the food. Plates are filled, seats are taken, and the music of the sock hop era begins to blare over the murmur of conversation in the room.

It wasn’t long before a few folks got up to dance. I told Marion, “This is gonna make it into my next story.”

I should be ashamed, I suppose. I should have been just enjoying the festivities. I should have been simply celebrating the moment. I should have admired that they were willing to get out there and still shake it a little bit.

But a writer never just watches. I have less honorable principles.

What I saw were people just five years older than me who perhaps shouldn’t be shaking anything in public anymore. Not that there was all that much shaking going on. It was more like a gentle swaying and slight toe tapping than anything else.

One couple, I noticed, danced for two entire songs and their feet never lost direct contact with the floor where they stood. And by the time Chubby Checker got finished with “Do the Twist” most of the crowd walked back to their seats to sit a spell and catch their breath.

I made a vow right then and there never to be caught dancing in public anywhere, for any reason. It’s just not worth the risk. Besides, if I did, Marion would video it and taunt me with it for the rest of my life.

The highlight came when Bonnie’s daughters got up and gave a tribute to their mom. It was obvious that the three of them share a tight bond and a deep respect for one another.

I leaned over to whisper to Marion. “Where’s Bonnie’s husband? Did he pass away?”

“Lord no,” she says to me, “and don’t bring that up around Bonnie. We don’t talk about him.”

Suffice it to say that Bonnie is known as a strong woman in this community of friends. She survived a pretty awful situation, finished raising those two girls on her own, and managed to keep her self-respect intact long enough to emerge from it all with grace and a good sense of humor.

“I look at her,” Marion says, “and the kind of mom she is and the kind of joy she has with her girls, and I say to myself that I want to be like that.”

She went on to tell me about the pain and the strength, the determination and sacrifice that Bonnie went through. How she refused to let it turn her heart sour on life.

“To meet her, you’d never know what she’s been through,” Marion says. “She’s one of the sweetest and kindest people anywhere.”

I can see her out on the dance floor. She and “the Fonz” are cutting a rug.

Here’s a woman who’s been making her own way for a lot of years now. In my mind, it takes a special person to navigate that path alone.

Then I looked around.

Remarkable women like Bonnie are never alone.