Farmville

The room buzzes with the sound of southern ladies, shedding coats and purses at the door and helloing and hugging like it's been ten years. They are high school friends reunited. Instead of books, they hold bloody marys; their style and beauty are no less than when they walked the halls of Rocky Mount High.

Every year, the Monday before Valentines Day, Mom's high school friends get together for lunch at the Colonial Inn restaurant in Farmville, NC. They do it at Christmas, too. A while ago, they had the idea to invite their mothers to the Valentine's lunch, and while the passage of time has gradually dwindled the number of mothers who can attend, it has also graciously ushered in a set of daughters.

On Monday, by virtue of my precious mother, I was one of those ladies lunching in Farmville.

The Colonial Inn is a beautiful, quaint house with a wrap-around porch on the outside. Inside, it's the homiest restaurant you've ever seen. Everything's an antique; you just grab a bloody mary and admire the rugs and the furniture and the collectibles hanging on the walls.

The restaurant belongs to David Whitley, the man of the hour--and not just because he's the only man there for the Valentines lunch. Whitley, as they call him, was in Mom's circle of closest friends. He stands to welcome us and say a prayer and of course mention Anne Pittman, who started the whole thing, and whom he can't talk about without crying. He looks over at Aunt Susan, Aunt Melissa, and me, and says he's especially thankful we're there. Southern know-how keeps me in my seat, but I feel like jumping up, bear hugging him, and telling him the treat is truly all mine. Just to be there, surrounded by Mom's high school friends. Hearing them speak of her, I actually feel famous. I knew she was well liked, but it just keeps getting better.

One of Mom's dearest friends, Susan Skinner, introduces me to classmates I haven't yet met: "This is Susan -- Anne's daughter." I've never been more proud to have her blood in my veins. My identity earns me warm hugs, smiling eyes, and stories.

And I live for the stories.

I hear from Timmie Battle about my Grandpa Kenneth's secret train whistle code: Twice meant "I love you." Once, "I'll be home soon." Meaningless to most, but to Mama Bette, the language of a train conductor's wife.

Whitley recalls how Mom asked him to honk his horn whenever he drove by her house so her mama would think she was popular.

And then Christie tells about one of Mom's many pranks at Meredith College:
Mom (on the phone in her best authoritative-sounding voice): "Hello, our records indicate that you have not yet completed your required jump for graduation."
Poor girl on the other end: "What required jump?"
Mom: "To graduate, you must jump off of Johnson Hall, and our records indicate that you have not yet completed that requirement."
(For the record: The story ends well. No one actually jumped off of Johnson Hall.)

When it's time for a group picture near the end of the afternoon, I almost burst when several women exclaim, "Wait! I gotta put on my satchel!"

That fits right in with Susan asking me if I used my Visine that morning, adding, "does he call you bright eyes?" A slogan Mom borrowed from the Visine commercial and liked to repeat.

When our bellies are full of chicken and shrimp salads, salmon, broccoli, stewed apples, and chocolate cake drizzled in fudge, we roll ourselves out of the great Colonial Inn. In the car ride home with Aunt Susan, Aunt Melissa, and dear friend Christie, the stories don't stop. I hear more about Chombid and poet Jonas Barr and their time in Pinetops. And of course we talk about bitta.

It is secret Anne Pittman code that I am privy to, like Mama Bette and the train whistles.

My heart, full to the brim, smiles wide remembering a woman as compassionate, thoughtful, and kind as she was hilarious and mischievous. Her classmates and their stories are proof, lip satchel and all.

*****

The whole group

Katie Skinner, Me, Melissa, Susan Skinner, Christie Barbee, David, Susan

[The pictures below are of Mom and friends at the Farmville lunches over the years. For the last several years, Dad drove Mom there, got her situated inside in her wheelchair, and then played golf until she was ready to be picked up. That's only one of the reasons my Dad is a saint, and every one of Mom's friends thinks so, too. Said Judy Morgan when I mentioned Dad coming back one year soon to say hello: "Oh, I'd just bow if he walked in that door."]

Farmville 2002

Farmville Christmas 2006