Then, the Reverend Whittinghill entered from a side door, followed by the groom. At that moment the violinist, accompanied by the organist, began to play a classical piece which has been used at weddings in Evansville ever since. I now know the name of the piece was Pachelbel Canon in D. Back then, all I knew was that it was beautiful. As the music played, the six groomsmen unrolled a white cloth runner over the burgundy rug that ran down the center of the church. When the groomsmen had taken their places on each side of the minister, Mary Elizabeth’s tiny niece made her way down the aisle dropping pink rose petals from a little white basket. She wore a dropped waist, organdy dress in yellow and her hair trailed yellow silk flowers and ribbons.
After a pause, the first bridesmaid entered. A gasp went up from the crowd. She was dressed like pictures I’d seen of flappers from the 1920s. She wore a pale lavender, dropped-waist, scarf-skirted dress with shoes covered in a matching fabric. On her head was a headband covered in multi-colored, silk flowers with an attached white plume. She carried one stem of a white silk rose. The other five bridesmaids followed her, each one gowned in a different pastel color. Amid a hushed silence, they took their places in front of the groomsmen. When the music ended, the bridesmaids looked like a beautiful, gauzy rainbow stretched across the front of the church.
I sat, hardly daring to breathe, wondering what Mary Elizabeth would wear, wondering if her father had given in. I guessed he must have or the wedding wouldn’t have been as wonderful as it already was. All around me people turned their heads in anticipation toward the rear of the church. I expected to hear “Here Comes the Bride,” but, instead, the violinist and organist began to play another classical piece—this time, a piece I learned later was by Bach.
And then, the bride appeared. With a brilliant smile spread across her face, Miss Mary Elizabeth Farrell, on the arm of her obviously uncomfortable, but proud father, stepped onto the white runner and into history as the first “period” bride of the century. The Atlanta Journal and Constitution Society Editor—the blonde stranger seated on the bride’s side, who I learned later was the mystery woman seen driving through town in her red Impala convertible—described the scene in her column, complete with pictures, the following day:
The bride wore her mother’s 1928 wedding gown in heavy candlelight satin, cut on the bias. The draped neckline, long sleeves fitted from the elbows down, dropped waistline, and short train were accentuated by appliquéd silk flowers and beadwork. As the bride and her father made their way down the aisle, Miss Farrell’s sheer net veil, attached to a crown of white silk roses, spread out behind her for ten feet, evoking oh’s and ah’s from the onlookers.
Mary Elizabeth was so beautiful and her fiancé so handsome, they could have been on the cover of a Daphne du Maurier novel. They looked into each other’s eyes with so much love; it was the most romantic thing I’d ever seen.
The bride and groom said their vows and exchanged rings and then their parents lit the smaller candles on each side of the platform. The bride and groom took those two candles and lit the big one in the middle. Reverend Whittinghill explained that the lighting of the candles symbolized two families becoming one. The society editor mentioned that, too, in her column. From then on, every time someone got married in Evansville they made lighting candles a part of the ceremony.
After the Reverend prayed for the couple, he pronounced them husband and wife. Then, to the surprise of everyone, the organist played the “Hallelujah Chorus” while the couple recessed out of the church. Their happiness was contagious. We all felt so relieved that Mary Elizabeth had been given a beautiful wedding after all.
I found Sue Ann and we followed the wedding party through the church doors and into the white tent that had been erected. Inside stood an ice sculpture and a fountain of sparkling grape juice. The Baptists wouldn’t have permitted champagne. A four-tiered wedding cake surrounded by white silk roses stood on a sheeted table to one side and on the other side was a table bearing what appeared to be every selection from the party cookbook recommended by Miss Lila in Cuisine for Company.
Miss Lila had kept out of sight during the ceremony. I caught a glimpse of her as she held each bridesmaid until her turn to walk down the aisle, but I didn’t have a chance to speak to her until the reception. She was dressed in a pale gold silk suit, the same color as the cloth draped in the church. Her hat was covered in the same gold fabric with clusters of gold-and-white silk roses around the crown.
“Miss Lila, it was all so beautiful, so incredible. I’ve never seen anything like it!” I felt like jumping up and down.
“Caroline,” she replied, “you are limited only by the extent of your imagination and your willingness to work. Remember that and you will have an exceptional life.”
Miss Lila always said the most unusual things.
After the bride and groom had cut the cake and shared a piece, the bride cut the next piece and offered it to Miss Lila. With tears in her eyes, she said, “Thank you, thank you, thank you. I’ll never be able to thank you enough.”
Miss Lila was a bit teary herself and replied, “Be happy. That’s all the thanks I need.”
The bride tried to hug her, but we could all see that Miss Lila’s hat and the bride’s veil were in danger of getting tangled and breathed a sigh of relief when they ended up patting each other on the back.
A shout of laughter drew my attention to the rear of the tent where several men had gathered around Mr. Farrell. Being naturally curious, I eased my way through the crowd and stood near the group.
“You had to eat your words, didn’t you? This wedding must have set you back thousands.”
“Not at all. I haven’t paid out another dime—just like I said.”
“I don’t believe it. That’s impossible. You’re telling a whopper.”
“No. I absolutely, solemnly promise that I left it to my wife and daughter to figure out how to produce this wedding without any more money from me and they did. Of course, they couldn’t have done it without Miss Lila. But that’s all I’m going to say.”
Several voices overlapped, each demanding to know how it was done. They knew now that Mary Elizabeth’s wedding dress had been her mother’s, so that mystery was solved; but Mr. Farrell’s friends wanted to know about the silk flowers, the singer, the musician, the food, and everything else. And so did I. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Farrell ever fully explained how the wedding had been accomplished without spending more money, but I knew Miss Lila had a lot to do with it.
I saw the cameramen following the singer and violinist around the reception. They filmed the two chatting with Miss Lila, exclaiming over the bride’s and the bridesmaids dresses, and standing beside the wedding cake and ice sculpture. Both the TV lady and the Atlanta newspapers’ society editor spent a lot of time talking to Miss Lila. The editor’s story on the wedding in the Sunday paper ran a full page with pictures and she praised everything: the originality of the music selections, the performance of the lead soprano for the Atlanta Opera Company and her musician husband, the beauty of the swags of gold fabric and white silk roses in the church, and the symbolic candle lighting ritual.
She reserved her greatest praise for the “period” dress theme of the wedding and the use of color in the bridesmaids’ dresses. She seemed particularly touched by the bride’s sentimental use of her mother’s wedding gown. The society editor concluded her story with the observation that Miss Farrell had set the mark for brides to aspire to for the season, both in Atlanta and the rest of Georgia. Her post note in italics thanked Miss Lila Cole for alerting her to the story and gave her due credit for the astounding success of the event, calling her a “wedding planner extraordinaire, literary critic, fashion maven, culinary artist, and journalist for the Evansville Daily Courier.”
Film from the wedding was shown that evening on the eleven o’clock news on Channel 13, the Macon TV station. The petite blond
I’d seen directing the cameramen reported on it from the reception. The report showed the bridesmaids walking down the aisle and the bride and groom coming out of the church. It also showed some of the decorations and the singer and violinist. On Monday, the story and pictures were used by Atlanta and Savannah TV stations. By the end of the week, newspapers reported that brides all over Georgia were returning their dresses to bridal shops and digging through the attics in their parents’ and grandparents’ homes searching for their own “period” wedding dresses.
When I’d arrived for work on Monday, Miss Mavis told me the phone had been ringing off the hook with everyone wanting to talk to Miss Lila. It seemed that a number of Atlanta brides-to-be insisted their weddings would be disasters without Miss Lila’s personal intervention. A few weeks later, Miss Lila decided to go where her talents were most needed and moved to Atlanta. It was a sad day for me.
I was at college when my mother sent me an article she’d clipped from the newspaper. The article stated that the Georgia Business Councils of 1958 and 1959 had cited the Farrell-Young wedding as responsible for the twenty percent drop in income of Georgia bridal shops for those years. I wasn’t surprised. Mrs. Evalina Deese, owner of Evansville Bridal Emporium, had been heard to say, “Don’t mention that woman’s name in my presence” whenever conversations turned to reminiscing about Miss Lila.
I went to a college up north. I never would have even considered applying to such a prestigious school if Miss Lila hadn’t suggested it to me when I told her I’d probably go to Wesleyan like Mary Elizabeth. I also did something Miss Lila didn’t think was possible. I ended up with both a noble man and a noble career. I met my husband in dental school and we set up a practice together in Thomasville, about forty-five miles from Evansville.
On one of my frequent visits home, my mother, with tears in her eyes, handed me a copy of The Atlanta Journal. The first thing I saw was a picture of an ageless Miss Lila in one of her famous rose-covered hats. The headline read: Miss Lila Cole, Arbiter of Taste in Atlanta Society, Dies in Freak Accident.
I gazed at the headline in shock. How was it possible? Not Miss Lila! She wouldn’t, couldn’t do anything as mundane as dying.
Numb, I read further to see what “freak accident” had killed the person who’d had such an influence on my life. According to the story, Miss Lila had choked on a cream puff at an outdoor tea party after a sudden gust of wind came up that threatened to carry away her “signature” hat. The article went on to extol her skills in writing the perfect review, whether of a wedding or a literary work; her trend-setting fashions; her coveted hats which were credited with increasing Atlanta millinery sales fifty percent in the past ten years; and her renowned ability to produce the most memorable weddings ever.
I continued reading, fondly remembering Mary Elizabeth’s beautiful wedding. The newspaper quoted Miss Lila’s best friend from childhood, an Atlanta opera singer, as saying that Miss Lila’s accomplishments were all the more astounding, considering she grew up as the daughter of a dirt-poor south Georgia pig farmer.
Unbelieving, I stared at the paper in shock and quickly looked to see what else was said. According to her friend, Miss Lila had changed her name from Eula May Dutton to Lila Cole when she’d decided to change her life. She’d succeeded so well, she’d inspired her friend to seek voice training so she, too, could have the life she wanted.
I was flabbergasted. What Martha Jean Cranston and her mother had said about Miss Lila way back then was true. When I was fifteen, I think I probably would have been disappointed to learn that my heroine grew up in such humble surroundings. But now, remembering all that she succeeded in doing and the effect she’d had on my life, I couldn’t help but smile and say out loud, “Bravo, Miss Lila!”
Did You Know?
In 1940, most farms still didn’t have phones or electricity. A lot of people still didn’t own a car or truck.
By the 1950s, 71 percent of farms had a car but only 49 percent had phones.
Popular hobbies included “paint by number” pictures, wood-burning kits, paper dolls and model car sets. Kids had tree houses, “Lincoln Log” sets, pop guns and toy ovens.
Popular candies included tiny soft-drink bottles made of wax and filled with sugary juice. Kids could buy candy cigarettes and pretend to smoke them.
Adults were allowed to smoke wherever they wanted, including movie theaters, airplanes, restaurants and doctors’ offices.
If you wanted ice cubes you had to pop them out of metal trays in the freezer. The trays had metal dividers that rattled.
School didn’t start until September so kids who lived on farms could help harvest the crops.
I’ll See You in My Dreams
by Sarah Addison Allen
“The past is not dead. It isn’t even past.”
—William Faulkner
Great Aunt Sophie likes tight, no-fuss perms that sit close to her head, the curls as round as Christmas peppermints. It used to be that she could easily pedal over to the Fashionette for such a coif. But she retired her bicycle about three years ago. Her doctor said it was time. Of course, her doctor started saying it was time fifteen years ago. It just took that long for her to finally agree with him.
I have a standing engagement with Great Aunt Sophie and, when it’s time for a perm, I leave early from work and drive her to the Fashionette, past the factory out on Clementine Highway. When she was able, she used to go for a wash and set every week, now she settles for a perm every couple of months. I pick her up at her house, and the first thing she always says to me is, “So, do you like working at Staler’s? Did you have a good day?”
And I always answer, “It’s all right. A job, I guess,” leaving her to guess who actually buys those designer briefs and the boxers with chili peppers on them. She’s bound to know the men if I tell her.
I sell men’s underwear at Staler’s department store. I have the dubious distinction of knowing what almost every man in town wears underneath. Sometimes, walking down Main Street, I imagine I’m getting sheepish looks from the men, especially the older ones. Like I know their secret.
It was a fairly bold move for a factory town store like Staler’s to put a woman in charge of men’s underwear, but I guess they figured it was a good plan when they found out that more women buy men’s underwear for their men than the men do for themselves. There was actually a study done somewhere. Great Aunt Sophie doesn’t believe me when I tell her this.
“What kind of person would go up to a stranger and ask her if she buys her man his underwear?” Great Aunt Sophie says. Apparently she has no problem with asking me, though. She called me up last Sunday and said she’d just been to Staler’s with her friend Harriet, who still drives. She said she saw this ridiculous pair of men’s orange boxer shorts with big green dinosaurs on them that glow in the dark. “Tell me who buys those, Louise,” she said to me. “Tell me who actually buys that sort of thing.”
I wanted to know what she and Harriet were doing wandering around in the men’s underwear department at Staler’s when she knows neither I nor Mom work there on Sundays.
Sophie asks me to come in when I take her home from the Fashionette. It’s a feverish late September day. It’s the kind of hot that sticks to the sides of the mountains, like the colors in this particular Appalachian autumn. As soon as we walk to the kitchen, she opens the back door to let the breeze come in and stands there for a moment, looking out as if at someone. Then she turns around and begins to fuss around the kitchen, her feet whispering against the linoleum.
Her kitchen smells like a combination of apples turning soft and the scent of fine linen napkins that have been locked away too long in cabinet drawers. The smell makes me feel good, like when I was young and Great Aunt Sophie wasn’t quite as old. But then it silently reprimands me for not coming to visit as often as I should. Shame on you, Louise, it says.
> “So tell me how you are,” Great Aunt Sophie says, going to the faded green pie safe in the corner and gingerly bringing out an apple pie. Maybe her stiff, knobby fingers are up to no good again. She doesn’t seem to trust them to carry the pie over to the counter. She cuts a piece right there and takes it to the microwave. This is all done before she’s even taken off her sweater, or exchanged her going-out eyeglasses for her at-home eyeglasses.
“I’m fine, Aunt Sophie,” I say, sitting at the heavy wooden kitchen table covered with a finely-kept, flowered oilcloth, which she’s had for as far back as my memory stretches. There’s a huge bowl of apples on the table, waiting for her to do what she does to apples in the fall—can, bake, fry, stew, candy, dry, dip in caramel, marinate in sugar to pour over friendship bread. She keeps promising not to touch another apple recipe until the apples decide to peel themselves. But Sophie’s not that patient.
She puts the piece of freshly microwaved pie in front of me. Warm curls rise up from it. “Smell that, Louise,” she says to me as she hands me a fork. “That’s what my heaven’s going to smell like. Apple pie. Hot apple pie . . . and leather shoes, new ones. The dancing kind.”
I take a bite because I know she won’t move until I start eating. Just as soon as the fork reaches my mouth, she turns and goes to the kitchen drawer to do her eyeglasses exchange. She leans against the counter and rubs her eyes tiredly, at length, before she puts on her at-home eyeglasses.
On Grandma's Porch Page 21