Evansville’s claim to fame began in April of 1958 with the news that Miss Mary Elizabeth Farrell, who’d just graduated from Wesleyan College in Macon, was going to be married. She was the daughter of Mr. Augustus Farrell, who owned the John Deere dealership, the cotton gin, and a silo. Everybody said he was the richest man in town. A tea was to be held in Miss Farrell’s honor and Miss Lila was assigned to write the story. I wanted to go to that tea so bad I could taste it, but my mother said I was too young and I wasn’t invited anyway.
From all I’d heard, Mrs. Martha Barton Farrell, Mary Elizabeth’s mother, was absolutely determined that everything be perfect for her only daughter, having also raised four out-of-control sons. I could attest to that since Bart Farrell was in my class at school and I had heard plenty about his older brothers. In her eagerness to give her “baby girl” the perfect bridal experience, Mrs. Farrell periodically came by the newspaper offices, carrying etiquette books or bridal magazines, to pepper Miss Lila with questions.
Mary Elizabeth’s father was a different story. He was known to be a practical minded, salt-of-the-earth kind of man who, according to reports overheard by Mrs. McCall, objected constantly to all the fuss and expense that went along with his wife’s perfect plans. He’d even been heard to call the whole process hogwash or perhaps something stronger that Mrs. McCall wouldn’t repeat—at least not to me.
Mrs. Farrell became, in her own eyes, Miss Lila’s best friend, and regularly sought her advice on the various teas, fetes, and showers given for her daughter. And if, through her amazing writing skills, Miss Lila’s reports stretched the truth concerning the beauty of the honoree, the cooking skills of the hostess, the stylishness of the party goers, or the abundance and elegance of the gifts, Mrs. Farrell didn’t object one bit—at least, not until the last tea.
The last tea for the town’s most honored daughter was to be held at the home of Miss Bertie Mangum, a retired school teacher and a favorite of Miss Farrell. Miss Mangum was famous in Evansville for her butterscotch cream cake and almond macaroons. At school bake sales, Miss Mangum’s cake and macaroons were always the first to be sold. Miss Lila was certain to eat her share of the wonderful desserts and write a wonderful review. I envied her ability to eat as much as she wanted to without ever gaining an ounce.
I was at the receptionist’s desk when Miss Lila returned from Miss Mangum’s tea party. I was dying to know all about it, but, as usual, she told me I’d have to read about it in her column. That meant I’d either have to wait until after school the next day to read it or pry information out of my mother who never tuned in to the details of an event the way Miss Lila did.
At home that evening, my mother skimmed the highlights of the party for me: The party started a little late because Miss Lila arrived a little late; she complimented Mrs. Farrell’s dress that my mother overheard Mrs. Walker say she’d made for Mrs. Farrell from a Vogue designer pattern; Miss Lila was very enthusiastic about Miss Mangum’s butterscotch cream cake and almond macaroons; and yes, Miss Lila seemed to thoroughly enjoy herself. Unfortunately, my mother didn’t remember which designer had designed Mrs. Farrell’s dress from the Vogue pattern book or what kind of fabric it was made of, nor did she remember what Mary Elizabeth was wearing—all essential information in my opinion.
When I arrived at the Courier offices the next day, the place was in an uproar. Miss Mavis explained that Miss Lila had stretched the truth once again in her column and trouble was brewing. She read the offending paragraph out loud to me. After describing the “moistness and creaminess” of Miss Mangum’s cake and the “airiness and crunchiness” of her almond macaroons, the “geniality” of the “beautifully attired” guests, the “welcoming comfort” of Miss Mangum’s home, and the “frothy elegance” of Miss Farrell’s crepe de chine gown, Miss Lila described Mrs. Farrell’s dress as an “Oleg Cassini original gown imported directly from Paris.”
Apparently, Mr. Farrell had read the column immediately after receiving a number of bills in the mail and had blown his top. Miss Mavis said that Janie Windom, Mr. Farrell’s secretary, told Mrs. McCall that Mr. Farrell had yelled “Paris!” and then, said a bad word. Everyone in his office was shocked because Mr. Farrell was a church deacon and hadn’t behaved like that since he’d walked the aisle of Evansville First Baptist to give his heart to Jesus. But he’d stormed out of the building and walked the two blocks to his Victorian house on Main Street in record time. Once there, he caused such a commotion that people on the street overheard it and stopped in wonder.
In addition, Miss Mavis reported that, shortly after Mr. Farrell’s “appalling” behavior, a very upset and sobbing Mrs. Farrell had called to talk to Miss Lila and that, afterwards, Miss Lila had stayed in her office with the door closed the rest of the day.
I didn’t know what to think. My heroine was in trouble. I knew Mr. Woolsey had not reacted badly to prior problems with Miss Lila’s columns, but this was Mr. Farrell, the newspaper’s biggest advertiser and the most important man in town. Of course, as far as I knew, neither Mr. Farrell nor Mrs. Farrell had complained directly to Mr. Woolsey, so I didn’t know how bad this was.
I found out the next day. Hattie Mayberry, who worked for the Farrells on Tuesdays and Thursdays, let it be known that Mr. Farrell shook a fistful of bills in one hand and Miss Lila’s column in the other in the faces of his startled wife and daughter and shouted “No more! Not another dime! She can get married in a croker sack, if necessary. I’ll not spend another red cent on all this phony, baloney bull . . . “ Mrs. McCall, my informant, suggested he’d used another bad word.
The news flew all over town. I was bombarded with calls from my friends from the moment I got home. The Evansville wedding of the year not happen? How could the father of the bride not buy her a wedding dress? And what about the reception? Everyone had looked forward to it for months. Surely, Mr. Farrell didn’t mean it! Everyone in Evansville immediately took sides. Some were offended by the idea that the richest man in town wouldn’t do everything possible to make his daughter’s special day memorable. The others thought Mrs. Farrell must have spent a huge amount of money to warrant such an extreme reaction from her deacon/husband. This last group considered his behavior justified and immediately forgave him. They were all men.
I was questioned repeatedly: “What does Miss Lila think? What has she said?”
The truth is Miss Lila kept her door closed and didn’t say anything to anybody. I did notice that she began leaving the office earlier and several people told me she visited the Farrell house often over the next few weeks. Unfortunately, no one was able to pry one piece of information out of Hattie Newberry. Mrs. McCall claimed that Mrs. Farrell and Miss Lila, who talked on the telephone several times each day, appeared to be talking in code. Nothing they said made sense to her.
In the midst of all this, I received an invitation to a kitchen shower for Mary Elizabeth. Mrs. Grace Parker, the kindest soul in town, invited everyone from sixteen to seventy. I thanked my lucky stars, I had just turned sixteen. Miss Lila made my birthday extra special when she gave me a copy of a book she said had meant a lot to her: How to Win Friends and Influence People by Dale Carnegie.
Mrs. Parker’s invitation asked everyone to bring an appetizer—Miss Lila called them hors d’oeuvres—to share. I was thrilled to be included. On my break, I ran over to Fletcher’s Hardware and bought a pretty, painted trivet for my gift.
The kitchen shower was two weeks later on a Saturday afternoon. My mother and I made cucumber-and-cream-cheese sandwiches out of white bread cut into little triangles with the crusts trimmed off from a recipe in a party cookbook recommended in Miss Lila’s column, Cuisine for Company.
At least thirty people of all ages were there, including Miss Lila. Mary Elizabeth seemed subdued and acted really grateful toward her hostess and all of us who came. Miss Grace had decorated her house with flowers from her own garden and made Mary Eliza
beth a corsage of daisies and bachelor buttons.
Miss Lila looked beautiful, as usual, wearing a natural straw hat with a silk scarf entwined with silk flowers around the brim.
After we’d all had a chance to enjoy the foods from the buffet, she took my hand in hers and said, “Bravo, Caroline. Your cucumber sandwiches are delicious. You’ll make a wonderful hostess some day.”
I couldn’t stop smiling. Miss Lila’s approval felt like winning a medal.
Mary Elizabeth’s gifts included everything from teapots to picture hooks and she thanked each person convincingly—even when she got a gift just like another. While she was opening the presents, I overheard Mrs. Roberts tell Mrs. Jefferson that Mary Elizabeth was wearing the same dress she had worn to an earlier tea, probably because of her father’s edict. Mrs. Roberts said she felt sorry for “the poor dear” and wondered, a little too loud, I thought, what Mary Elizabeth would do for a wedding dress. I looked to see if Mary Elizabeth had overheard and noticed her, Mrs. Farrell, and Miss Lila exchanging meaningful looks. I couldn’t help but wonder what that was about.
When the shower ended, several people remarked that they’d had more fun at this party than at all the others. I thought that was curious and asked Miss Lila about it.
“Caroline,” she said, “People tend to feel more comfortable when they’re on an equal footing with those around them. And you, my dear, have a gift for making people feel valued and comfortable. I’m certain that one day you will use that gift to benefit not only yourself but also those you love.”
I had a gift? Miss Lila said things to me that nobody else did. Not even my parents. She had a way of making me feel important—like I could accomplish things—great things.
The next day, Miss Lila’s society column reported the kitchen shower as if it had been a grand ball given by a queen in a palace. Miss Farrell had worn the most “winsome frock imaginable.” The description was so completely different, no one would have recognized it as the same dress described in a column after an earlier party. Miss Lila had a natural gift with words. The floral “offerings” were so highly praised, Mrs. Thurston, owner of Evansville Garden Shop, must have turned as green as her plants from envy. And my cucumber sandwiches rated a special mention along with other “delectable” refreshments. She reserved her highest praise for the hostess and the guest of honor, reported to be “so hospitable, charming, and gracious they put all the guests at ease and made each one feel grateful to have been invited to such a superlative affair.” She was right. I was grateful. It was the first really adult-type party I’d been invited to and being there with Miss Lila was a treat I’d only imagined.
Six weeks before the wedding date, the bridesmaids were asked to go to Mary Elizabeth’s house for a fitting. I knew about this because Sue Ann Phillips, my best friend, told me. Her sister Mary Ellen was a bridesmaid. It was the funniest thing. Mary Ellen said that Mrs. Farrell did all the measuring and everyone knew she didn’t sew or she wouldn’t have Mrs. Walker make her dresses. And Mary Ellen said the only measurements Mrs. Farrell took were her height, her head, and her hips. She thought that was pretty strange. In fact she was a little worried she might be embarrassed by what Mrs. Farrell would make her wear, but she couldn’t back out because Mary Elizabeth had been her friend since kindergarten.
The same week the bridesmaids went for their fittings, practically the whole town received invitations to the June seventh wedding. They were hand delivered by Hattie Mayberry’s youngest boy and were written in calligraphy on parchment paper that was rolled up and tied with a white satin bow around a sprig of green silk leaves. I felt like turning a cartwheel when I saw my name written beneath my parents’ names.
Meanwhile, everyone remarked how curious it was that Miss Lila visited the Farrells so often. All Mrs. McCall, the telephone operator, could offer to satisfy their curiosity was that Miss Lila had made more than one call to the offices of the Atlanta newspapers. No one knew why. Miss Lila didn’t have much to say to anyone around the offices anymore and her columns had gotten shorter and shorter.
Two weeks before the wedding, Mary Ellen and the other bridesmaids were told to come for another fitting and bring their high heel pumps. They did and left the shoes at the Farrells. Sue Ann and I wanted to know what the bridesmaids were going to wear, but all Mary Ellen could tell us was that they were fitted in slips to go under the dresses. She and the other bridesmaids had been sworn to secrecy about everything else. We were dying to know more, but, no matter what we promised her, Mary Ellen wouldn’t budge an inch.
Two days before the wedding, Mr. Edward Young, Mary Elizabeth’s fiancé, came to town with his parents. They had been invited to stay at the parsonage by Reverend Whittinghill and his wife. My girlfriends and I had a chance to see the groom when he went by the Rexall Drug Store. He was dreamy—tall and dark-haired, like a prince from somewhere in Europe. My mother told me he was a law student at Mercer University. We thought Mary Elizabeth must be the luckiest girl in the world.
The day before the wedding—it was a Friday—I was on my way to school at eight o’clock in the morning when I saw people carrying boxes out of the Farrells’ house. It was Miss Lila, Mrs. Farrell, Mary Elizabeth, and Hattie Mayberry. They packed the boxes into two cars before I could see what was in them.
After school, I found the newspaper offices buzzing with news. It seems Miss Lila, Mrs. Farrell, Mary Elizabeth, and Hattie Mayberry had spent all day at the church getting it decorated for the wedding. They wouldn’t let anybody else help or come in to look—not even Edward Young.
That same day, a woman wearing large square sunglasses and a head scarf was seen driving around town in a red 1958 Chevrolet Impala convertible, and no one knew who she was. Sugar Miles had seen the car featured in her father’s Car and Driver magazine and was the first to identify it. No one in Evansville had a car like that. Poor Mrs. McCall had been kept busy all afternoon at the switchboard, connecting one person to another, each trying to learn the identity of the mysterious stranger with no luck. I looked for her through the windows of the newspaper office while I was working, but, if she drove by our building, I missed her.
At two o’clock on Saturday afternoon, I was coming out of Woolworth’s where I’d gone to buy some Evening in Paris perfume to wear to the wedding, when I saw a big, white van pull into the parking lot of Evansville First Baptist Church. Four men piled out of the van and, while I watched, along with several other people, they erected a large white tent in an amazingly short amount of time.
Soon afterwards, a truck with a sign on the side saying WMAZ-TV, Macon, Georgia, pulled into the parking lot. Men carrying cameras climbed out of the truck along with a petite blond dressed in a raspberry colored suit. She seemed to be in charge and directed them to follow her into the church. I was a bit scandalized by the idea of TV cameras in a church, but I didn’t have much time to react because it was getting late. I had to hurry home to dress for the wedding.
When my mother and I—wild horses couldn’t drag my father to a wedding—arrived at four fifteen, people were already pushing their way into the church to try to get the best seats. The ushers consisted of Mary Elizabeth’s four brothers and two friends of the bridegroom. The six young men looked utterly perplexed when several ladies insisted on aisle seats and competed with each other to get the ones closest to the front, not caring whether it was the bride’s side or the groom’s side of the church. When they were finally seated, they created additional commotion by making later arrivals climb over them instead of moving to the center of the pews.
When my mother and I had been seated, in the middle on the bride’s side half way back, I looked around and was amazed. Chains of white silk roses and gold fabric draped the baptismal pool, garlanded the sacrament table, swathed the organ pipes, and cascaded down the sides of the stained glass windows. Three unlit candles, set in candle stands trimmed with greenery, stood on the
platform: one large one in the center and smaller ones on either side. I was used to seeing candles at weddings, but only ones arranged in large candelabras.
The camera men had hidden themselves behind various plants so well, I wouldn’t have even seen them if I hadn’t been looking for them. The petite blond from the TV truck sat off to the side at the end of the third row on the groom’s side of the church. While I was looking around, I noticed another stranger—another blond lady, but older. She was dressed “to the nines,” as my father would say and sitting near the front on the bride’s side. She appeared to be writing on something in her lap. I was puzzled. I thought I knew all of the Farrells’ relatives. I waved at Sue Ann when she arrived with her parents and pointed out the lady, but she turned her hands up and shrugged her shoulders.
At a quarter ’til five, the organist began to play, but not the music I was used to hearing at weddings. She played classical music that I was sure only a few people in the audience would find familiar. I recognized one piece by Mozart from an Atlanta Symphony Orchestra concert I had attended two years before when my freshman class left school after lunch one day and went by bus to the Macon Municipal Auditorium.
At five o’clock on the dot, a red-haired woman I’d never seen before stepped from behind a potted palm to the center of the platform. She was wearing a flowing pink gown and what, in my opinion, was a whole lot of make-up.
As soon as she stepped forward, a tuxedo-clad man with a violin stepped in front of the organ and began to play. A silvery, sweet melody pierced the air as the musician drew his bow back and forth across the instrument. Then, the woman began to sing. My mouth dropped open at the incredible sound. I heard “Oh’s” from several people around me as the full, rich tones of an operatic soprano filled the sanctuary. The effect of her voice was so profound I noticed that even Joe Frank Barton, captain of the Evansville High football team and a wannabe country and western singer, sat spellbound in his seat, his attention totally captured by musical words none of us could understand. When the singer and the violinist ended their song, I was so moved I gripped my mother’s hand. I looked around. The entire audience seemed dazed.
On Grandma's Porch Page 20