|
jruit :: 18 |
|
|
|
|
You can laugh and say I'm making this up and I'm not. My grandmother owned Orton Plantation in North Carolina, and right away I realized all power, prestige and privilege really amount to is you can move in and out of certain buildings or circles at will. I'd be there at Christmas and see visitors to Orton Gardens furtively peering into the window of the dining room at the main house where Grandmom had more than five servants to serve at the oval table, covered by what had to have been more than a few white linen tablecloths, each place setting properly arranged with china and silverware, and a circumference that easily roosted twenty-five guests. I was small enough to fit under the table, so understood the underneath of tables, which the sunning lizards from the brick terrace couldn't get in on. In high school, I was invited to be an escort at three debutante balls, one in Greenwich, Connecticut, a second in Richmond, Virginia, and a third in Raleigh, North Carolina, this third being by the girl who was my pediatrician's daughter who I married. That was fun. We played hippie in Vermont. |
|
|