As always at this time of year, my mind turns to thoughts of my cousins and extended family. Every Thanksgiving, I spend a delightful lunch with approximately forty of my cousins, aunts and uncles on my father's side of the family. It is a special time of renewed friendships, shared recipes and catching up on the growing and maturing family. I share this next essay as a fond memory of "cousin time."


The Wedding-Ball


My eleven year old daughter found the Lexus keychain in my purse and immediately inquired as to where I had gotten it. Bear in mind, we are a Ford and Jeep middle class family. When I didn’t answer her immediately, the imaginations of the three children in the back seat went the way of Saturday night lotto players…dreams that Mom, our little ole Mom, had hit the big one or at the very least had ventured out on her own and bought a Lexus without the knowledge of my husband. I continued my silent but grinning treatment, wondering how long I could keep them going. As I was soon to find out.. not long. The children locked me out of the house until I told them this story…through the locked screened door.

My parents and I attended the wedding of my cousin, Beth’s, son. We had of course met the bride at a previous Thanksgiving dinner, but with all the hub-bub that forty-two people in a single dwelling can make, we truly did not know much about her beyond her name. Seeing as how my own children are of the age that weddings of distant cousin’s do not mean much, I attended the wedding alone with my parents, driving to the well-to-do suburb of Nashville, called Brentwood. The wedding was lovely. I would categorize it as Protestant-formal, but not lavish or extravagant by today’s standards. We chatted with our immediate family of uncles and aunts on the steps of the church while waiting for the happy couple to pose for the required photographs inside the sanctuary before we were allowed to shower them with flower petals in the beautiful autumn sunset. After the bride dug the petals out of the front of her dress, the throng departed to their cars to drive to the reception location. Thank goodness we out-of-towners had very meticulous directions from the church to the Franklin Country Club.

However, at the first stop sign, my mother interjected, “Don’t you think if we turned right instead of left, we would get to Franklin Road quicker?” My father, in an uncharacteristic male way, declared, “No! I am going to follow the directions as written.” So with my mother reading the directions aloud and me peering over the back seat, making small talk, we made our way from the suburb of Brentwood to the borough of Franklin in the darkening night. Mother was at the end of the second page of directions and we were about to turn left into the Country Club entrance, when we all looked up and saw the white limousine heading straight towards us, also about to enter the Country Club entrance from the opposite direction.

“See, I told you that if we had turned right at that first stop sign that it would have been shorter,” my mother exclaimed.
As we turned, my father asked, “Now where do we go?”
Mother and I in unison said, “Follow that limousine!” as she folded the directions and placed them in the glove compartment. The limousine and the entourage of cars behind it, wound through the golfing neighborhood for about a mile and then veered off onto a gravel road heading towards the brightly lit antebellum home that was obviously our destination. Next to the white columned home, white tents jutted out at various angles.

Now, this was not your typical funeral tent or county fair tent that I was accustomed to. No… indeed. This was the type of tent, with walls, windows and chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. The Cadillac of all tents.
As we drove further along the lane, I whispered, “What does her father do?”
The three of us then noticed all kinds of people running around the great open field in white uniforms. “Wow, they are even providing valet parking, so we don’t have to sink our heels in the cow pasture!” I exclaimed. This was going to be a great reception. My daughter, Emily was going to be sorry she missed this. Everyone in the car was duly impressed with cousin John’s selection of a mate.

As we hopped out of the car, the valet attendant received the pertinent information…
the license tag number,
the key,
the make and model, and
how many in the car? Now why did they need to know that? I heard the incredulous tone in the valet’s voice…three?? We paid little attention. We were going to The Wallace Reception.

My mother, father and I walked grandly towards the old home. The pathway was lit with iron candelabras, the flickering candle light made that much more romantic by the sight we beheld on the wide front porch. Young women in period costumes, hooped skirts swaying in the night breeze, greeted us with genuine Southern hospitality. While one young lady welcomed us to the Carlton House, another young lady explained, “Drinks are available in the Forsythe room,” and “After your tour of the house you will be escorted to the dining tent, now if you would just be so kind to step over here and give us your name.”

We sidestepped to the right of the verandah and stood before a bevy of older women, again in period costumes. Now these women were genteel; they were after all Southerners. Never the less they were all business and sweetly inquired as to our last name. Mother had sent in her and Dad’s reservation for two. I, however, two months ago, optimistically had reserved for the five people in my family. I was paranoid. Here, I had reserved for five people and there was only one of me. How put-out would the host and hostess be, when they realized that the table count would now be all wrong. Would I be sitting alone at a table for five in the big white tent with the chandelier, with the the place cards of my sweet uninterested children and husband around me? My mind was racing. What if they charged me for the four uneaten dinners? Did they take credit cards?

“Ummm, did you say Holder or Holden?” the gray haired matron repeated.
The lady next to her was saying, “Price? Price? I don’t see a Price,” as she painstakingly flipped through a ream of papers.
My father trying to remedy the situation with comedy, “This is the Wallace Reception?” and then a timid laugh.
“Oh yes,” floated a voice from somewhere.
Again the papers shuffled and leafed. Trying to be helpful, one lady inquired, “Could it possibly be under another name? And how many did you say was in your party?”
My father tried again. “We are relatives of the Wallaces. We are here for the wedding reception.”
“OOOOOOOH!” A look of relief passed over the row of antebellum matriarchs.
Mother, Father and I all held our breath for what was next.
“The wedding reception is across the way at the club house for the golf course. This is the Heritage Ball.”

All was made clear, as our trio retraced our steps back down the flickering candlelit pathway and across the red carpet, and back to the valet station. As my eyes now told me, everyone emerging from their limo, Lexus and BMW’s were indeed wearing full evening attire. Black tie, sequins, backless dresses and lots of silicone. As the valet left to retrieve our newly parked vehicle for us interlopers, I couldn’t help but laugh out loud to see Uncle Cleve and cousins Currun and Ann pop out of their Buick and hand their keys over to the valet. I didn't have the heart to let them make the same mistake we had made. I told them they were at the wrong party. Too bad, Uncle Cleve would have liked seeing all those women in hooped skirts.

Later as we drove across the pasture on our way to the correct reception, Mother noticed she was sitting on three little gift wrapped boxes. Thus the mystery was solved as to why the valets needed to know how many people were in the car. I am now the proud owner of ….not a Lexus… but a Lexus key chain.