Sunday, December 17, 2000
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Sunday, December 17, 2000 |
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I must've been the belle of the ball By MARY JANE HOLT Just after Thanksgiving, one of the sisters called to invite me to coffee on Saturday, Dec. 9, from 3 to 5 p.m. I mentioned to my would be hostess that I would have company that weekend, but would try to slip out and come to her home for a few minutes. Such a lovely home it is in the heart of Gay, which is where I usually tell folks I'm from now. I tried saying Meriwether County for a while, but I'd always be asked what town. Though I have a Greenville phone number, and a Woodbury address, I live just three miles from Gay, so I say Gay. Unless it is a delivery service. Then giving directions can get complicated. The locals call my road one thing while the map gives it another name. For the most part, it is quiet country, and I love it. But it was not always quiet country. In the early 20th century Gay was a busy cotton production community and home to a prominent cotton merchant who built a grand two-story brick home that is still occupied by his two daughters. My husband had met the two sisters in 1998, just after we moved here. They came by our house while they were out campaigning for their niece, who was running for public office. I missed them that day, but was welcomed into their home on two occasions earlier this year. So gracious they are. Well informed. Well educated. Well traveled. And the kicker... they are real Southern ladies. A rarity these days. So, Saturday came and so did all my company. I'd been cooking for two days previously so I could be free to enjoy the day. I arose quite early and slipped into a favorite pair of black jeans and my best-looking festive red sweat shirt. It would be a glorious day. I was sure of it. From my early morning time, with just me and my sister, right through our 8 p.m. tram ride through the Fantasy of Lights over at Callaway Gardens. Ah, yes, it would be a good day. My friend Betty arrived around noon. She also had been invited to the afternoon coffee. About 3:30 p.m., she and I slipped out, leaving a house full of guests to fend for themselves. My sister had lain down for a short nap, but my husband assured me he could hold down the fort. The coffee was unlike any coffee I'd ever experienced in suburbia. I was unprepared for an event. Perhaps the event of the season. Could be that nothing tops it throughout the year, except maybe the Cotton Pickin' Fair. No hay bales at the home of the sisters, however, only pressed linen napkins, the finest china, and sparkling silver service amid an awesome Christmas theme. Dozens of women, at least 50 or so at all times, with cars constantly coming and going out in the grand old circular drive. What a delightful time I had! I met so many ladies. Of course I can recall only a few names, but it was a beginning. I did talk for a while with one who'd lived in Gay for 10 years and another for 14 years. Both acknowledged that they were still outsiders. But nobody felt like an outsider on Saturday. Not hardly. Time stood still as the Old South arose from the ashes of yesteryear to offer a promise of hope to all who would still be called a Southern lady. At least, that's how I felt in my heart. Of course, no fantasy lasts forever, no matter how we long to hold it to ourselves. When I returned home, more company had arrived. My sister was graciously attending all. When I walked through the door her mouth fell open. "Tell me you didn't," she gasped. "Didn't what?" "Wear jeans to an afternoon coffee? Tell me you didn't." "Well, yes, I did." "I knew I should not have laid down for that nap. I started to say something earlier, ask what you were wearing, drop some hint that perhaps you should change... Did they let you in the door?" "Well, yes. What's the big deal?" "What were the other ladies wearing?" The suede suits and beautiful dresses, diamonds and furs, flashed vividly in my mind's eye. She knew she had me from the look on my face. "Don't worry. I shouldn't have said anything at all. Most folks know how weird writers can be anyway. Besides I'm sure your hostesses were real ladies." Did she mean I didn't stand
a chance? I didn't dare ask. For a few brief minutes, time had stood still,
and I'd felt like a real Southern lady. For the moment that was enough
for me.
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