Introduction to August 2001 LUPEC meeting
"Carolina Cocktails: Hats, Purses, Gloves, Pearls"
——True Trixie, July, 2001
"Mrs. Pettigru was my cake and wine guest this afternoon …”
from SO FAR BACK by Pam Durban
When I began preparations for “Carolina Cocktails: Hats, Purses, Gloves, Pearls,” I wanted to be particularly cognizant of what the “past” might have been for Carolina women, their clubs, their interests, and their libations as well as what the “historical present” might be. I mean, with so much there is to know, what stories do you decide to tell? What historical snapshots do you select? These were the questions I kept asking myself.
Why the Carolinas
in the first place? As I thought about a southern-themed party, I was
naturally drawn to my own understanding of what the “south” was. And my
best knowledge was based on being born and raised in the Carolinas. And
when I thought of what mattered to women’s clubs, I came up with a list
that is probably not so different than a list for any women’s club, regardless
of region: good works, good food and drink, good “learning,” and good
company. The differences, however, would lie in the way these things came
about. Perhaps regional foods would be different. Or certain subjects
might be stressed. Maybe the way we talked and what we talked about would
be different.
When I moved to Pittsburgh eight years ago, I was terribly homesick. So I set out to read a lot of southern novels and other books about the south to try to find out why. Many of the people I read felt that there really wasn’t that much difference between the south and other regions except the language. Besides differences in accent, there were differences in words, phrases, and in the approach to communication. For instance, southerners stress the importance of storytelling (from a Protestant, biblical, and African past), with the outcome being that virtually everything is a story, even directions to the nearest convenience store: “You follow the road you’re on here, Morrison Ave., and then, oh, at the 3rd light, you’ll see the sign for Edward Bennington Highway, only it wasn’t always called that. It used to be the old mill pond road because Zeb Carter’s mill used to be out there … it’s a ruins now. And that jackleg builder Ed Bennington, who was the laziest thing from Mecklinburg County, (one county over) – wouldn’t hit a lick at a snake, he was so lazy – got in with old Judge Pritchett and his crowd, and over time his grinning face was on the front page of the paper every other week doing this and that … you know how that kind operates. Anyway, he ends up getting a road named after him. So, if you turn left onto that highway, and follow it four blocks, you’ll see the convenience store on the right, next to the Circle Drive-In. The convenience store is on the same spot where Tom Bennington drove right into the old Fisher grocery that used to be there – he got out, but the store went up in flames. Hit a gas tank. He was drunk as a skunk. Paid his way out of it. So I guess the road’s named after him for more than his good works – of course, the wreck happened after the naming of the road. Janet Smith at the Circle Drive-In can tell you about it. Get her to make you a milkshake. She can make them so they don’t melt too fast. And tell her, if you see her, that …
Well, you get the idea. The above might seem like an exaggeration, but I promise you that it’s entirely possible to be involved in a conversation of similar proportions in case you decide to visit.
So stories have been important to the Carolinas, and writers are just as important. You can’t throw a rock without hitting a writer or an interior designer (both being attached to big industries: storytelling -- and textiles and furniture-making). I thought, I’ll pull some pieces (a poem, a short story, something like that) and make a little “anthology” as a party favor. Provide a bibliography. Easy. Then I started keeping a running list of women – just women, I decided – writers, and I was overwhelmed. I came across this quote by Robin Hemley in the “North Carolina Literary Review,” and realized what I suspected was true: “Nearly eight years ago, when I moved from Chicago to Charlotte to take a teaching job, I thought that Lee Smith was a reliever for the St. Louis Cardinals, and an ex-Cub, one of the many trades the Cubs must regret. Now I know that this name also belongs to a fine North Carolina novelist, whose work I’ve since come to admire. That’s true, but I’m also afraid if I didn’t say I admire Lee Smith, I might be lynched. I’ve never lived in a place that even cared about its writers. In Indiana, where I spent some of my formative years, they name service areas along I-80 after some of the more notable Hoosier writers, like Booth Tarkington. In Chicago, they named a street after Nelson Algren – for one hour, and then they changed the street name back to what it was before. But here in North Carolina, I have a student who proudly told me that he reads writers only from North Carolina. When I asked him why, he replied, ‘Because there are so many.’ … For God’s sake, what other state has the number of writers striking hardcover deals or a publisher like Algonquin? Or the number and quality of literary magazines? Or an organization like the North Carolina Writers’ Network?”
I’ve gone on, in spite of the difficulty in narrowing it down, and photocopied a few pieces for party favors. And by the time I have the recipes ready for the website, I’ll have a “truncated” bibliography, too. There are few things better than good stories, and I hope you’ll enjoy some of these.
“Her bridge club met every Thursday at noon for lunch and bridge, rotating houses. This bridge club went on for years and years beyond my childhood, until its members began to die or move to Florida. It fascinated me. I loved those summer Thursdays when I was out of school and the bridge club came to our house – the fresh flowers, the silver, the pink cloths on the bridge tables which were set up for the occasion in the Florida room, the way Mama’s dressing room smelled as she dressed, that wonderful mixture of loose powder (she used a big lavender puff) and cigarette smoke (Salems) and Chanel No. 5. The whole bridge club dressed to the hilt. They wore hats, patent-leather shoes, and dresses of silk shantung. The food my mama and Missie gave them was wonderful – is still, to this day, my very idea of elegance, even though it is not a menu I’d ever duplicate; and it was clear to me, even then, that the way these ladies were was a way I’d never be.”
from the short story TONGUES OF FIRE by Lee Smith
(from her short-story collection ME AND MY BABY VIEW THE ECLIPSE)
This
was the paragraph that I regularly thought back to as I made my way through
the planning: its excitement and even its sadness. It led me to select
drinks (Sherry Cobbler, Sewanee Rum Tea Punch, and Champagne Julep) and
hors d’oeuvres (something has to remain a surprise) that might reflect
the passing generations of Carolina women’s clubs. Just the other day,
my mother sent me a newsclipping remarking on the anniversary of the “Borders”
Study Club – a 100 year old women’s club in my hometown. The club was
formed with the purpose of “crossing borders” to learn about many subjects
beyond the women’s immediate knowledge. While not in this club, my mother
belongs to “Study Group,” ADK (her teacher’s sorority), AAUW (university
women), Garden Club, Woman’s Club, and two book clubs. My mother-in-law
belongs to at least five. My sister belongs to two or three. My sisters-in-law
probably belong to at least three a piece. And I was in my mother-in-law’s
garden club, the Jr. Dogwood Garden Club, and a club for voting/political
women (through one of my mother-in-law’s friends) before moving to Pittsburgh.
As Pam Durban has written, it’s still a matriarchal culture in many ways.
And women’s clubs and gatherings are regaining their strength, if they
ever truly lost it. I copied the little rhyme at the top of the invitation
I sent from a store display window (filled with copies of actual invitations)
that I saw when I was on vacation at the beach, in Wilmington, N.C. When
I got back to Greensboro, N.C., I went into a comparable store there and
compared it with a huge board full of tacked-up invites. Women were coming
in, examining the different invites, copying some things, changing others.
So the invitations are a current historical reality.
As
for dress, certainly, you can follow the invite and wear what was worn
at another, parallel gathering of sisterly comrades. Or you can wear something
Ava Gardner might have worn (Julianne Moore is also from N.C.). Or Vanna
White (from S.C. – also, Lauren Hutton). These are the glitzy ones, but
there are lots of others who are judges, activists, poets, etc. In general
terms, and perhaps contemporary terms, women in the Carolinas might wear
bright colors, florals, pinks, pastels, white. Linen, cotton, silk – anything
light and airy, to keep the sun at a distance. Accessories and perfume.
But more important than the clothes, the writers, the food and the drinks
is the fun we’ll have telling stories and getting to know one another.
And, in the end, this is the real goal of a Carolina women’s club party.
All Image credits:
Atkins Library, University of North Carolina at Charlotte, or UNC Charlotte
Library.
1. Seven Davidson Sisters. http://libweb.uncc.edu/archives/landmarks/sisters.htm
2. Watercolor Painting from the Historic Rosedale Plantation, North Carolina. (background image) http://libweb.uncc.edu/archives/landmarks/flower.htm
3. Women's Club, Charlotte, North Carolina. http://libweb.uncc.edu/archives/landmarks/club2.htm