It started out to be a fairly average Saturday. After all, a Saturday afternoon wedding in Southwest Georgia isn’t anything unusual. Georgia girls get married on Saturday afternoon. That’s the way it’s done. And It wasn’t unusual that my brother and I were asked to accompany our 88 year-old mother to the wedding of her great, great niece, our third cousin. We saw it as a weekend adventure, and the opportunity to visit Daddy’s gravesite in Lumpkin, before going on to the wedding for 350 of my cousin’s closest friends and family at Lanahassee Plantation in Preston. It was neither unusual nor unexpected that our clothing became soaked with sweat and stuck to our bodies in the 90 degree sun and humidity of Southwest Georgia, nor that paper funeral fans were made available. After all, it’s the home of red clay and pine trees, parched grass, and dusty fields of peanuts and cotton. Its redemption: cooling orchards of majestic pecan trees as far as the eye can see. Just nary a one at Lanahassee Plantation. At the same moment I noticed two men with military haircuts sporting conservative black suits and aviator sunglasses, I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. I turned and saw shaking hands holding a pale pink rose corsage. A small voice whispered, “My husband’s and my hands shake so badly anymore, do you mind helping me pin this on?” My eyes rose from her shaking hands to gaze at her face. A sweet, pretty face with a peaches and cream complexion, and kind, gentle eyes crinkled at the corners. Eyes that had seen much love, and great pain, and perhaps far more than their owner had ever bargained to see. “I’d be honored,” I quietly answered, smiling. “My name is Rosalyn,” she sweetly added as I slid a finger under the soft fabric of her blouse to protect her from a possible pin prick. “Yes ma’am, I know. My name is Jo White, and we drove down this morning from Blairsville,” I said with a smile, as I slid the hat pin through the fabric and the wrapped stem of the corsage. “Oh, we love it up there in the mountains. How are you related?” she asked. I answered, “The bride is my third cousin. And you ma’am? How are you related?” She leaned in and whispered, “The bride cuts my husband’s hair.” She winked at me as we shared a moment between two Southern women, complete with the trickle-down effect of our inherent zany sense of humor. We stood facing each other – both from a long lineage of women who grace the geography south of the Mason-Dixon, her generation more belle than mine -- both hot, sweaty, wishing for a cooling, shady pecan grove where none existed. “May I help you with anything else, ma’am?” I offered. But another voice answered. “You were a big help. We appreciate your kindness.” I turned to see a stooped-shouldered older gentleman with beautiful white hair, wearing a sporty plaid blazer and a bolo tie. His face lit up as he reached for my hand and softly shook it. “I’m Jimmy,” he stated. “Yes, sir. You are, aren’t you?” I asked. It was a rhetorical question. He chuckled. They both nodded and arm in arm, shuffling along as the elderly do, wandered off to their seats -- followed by two men with military haircuts, sporting conservative black suits and aviator sunglasses. It had turned out to be an unusual Saturday in Southwest Georgia. A most unusual day indeed.
Posted on: Sun, 25 May 2014 20:13:09 +0000
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