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.