Ray has set out a place setting of each of Little Hilda’s crystal and china. She can hear her husband and nephew loading up their deer hunting gear at the top of the stairs, and she’s not going to let them cross through the dining room and the gift display without her supervision.

Tomorrow Big Hilda, Little Hilda, and the other gals and their daughters will gather around her dining room for tea and a look at all of the beautiful wedding gifts: the four china patterns; the Chantilly silver; the crystal water, wine, and champagne glasses and the assortment of silver trays, vases, bowls, ice buckets, and fanciful knickknacks. It’s the tradition for the mother of the bride to host the tea, but Big Hilda just wasn’t up to having it in her home and Ray has all but taken over the wedding.

Yes, Little Hilda Prescott is getting married this very Saturday. Of course, Ray worries about her unconventional choice of mates, a first-generation Italian, from New Jersey, a Democrat, no less. And Little Hilda has even decided to hyphenate her last name. Now how in the world should they monogram her silver and linens?

Ray and the pack are starting to resign themselves to the fact that their children will neither marry who they hope for nor behave in the way they think is most appropriate. The pack can hardly relate to their offspring, if you want to know the truth, and they were shocked that every last one of them hightailed it out of Jasper after college with no plans to return.

This could be the end of an era for the community that took Ray in more than forty years ago. As she watches the coral-colored condominiums go up along the edge of the Cumbahee River, she envisions the affluent retirees and transplants trickling out of the Kiawah and Hilton Head resorts in search of some little slice of small-town southern living. When she reads in the paper about the plans for the new Sally Swine shopping center with a Starbucks on the far side of town, she suspects that the come-yuhs are migrating her way, and she wonders what their kind will do to Jasper and the quiet way of life she has come to cherish.

Nonetheless, she and the gals must gear up for the good work the upstanding ladies of their community have been performing for many generations now – that is, to ensure that the daughters of Jasper are married in the proper manner.

~ April 15, 1995 ~

“Weddings are of the utmost importance,” Roberta said that day in the Jasper Nursing Home.

She had made it clear that Ray should take the helm of the Wedding Guild because it would not be long before the next generation would be tying the knot. The elderly woman had pulled out all of her files of wedding instructions – from determining the guest list and the way the invitation should read, to the gift arranging for the Tea and See and the acceptable combination of flowers for the church. She had compiled pages and pages of notes and photographs from the weddings she had coordinated, and she drew arrows that pointed out the small but meaningful details, such as the magnolia leaves in the fireplaces in the spring and summer or the corsages for the hostesses and the bridal party to wear at the Tea and See and the bridesmaids’ luncheon. She had a photo of a silver monogrammed tussy mussy with a lovely arrangement of ribbons from the bridal shower for the bride to hold at the church rehearsal, and she had samples of traditional handwritten envelopes that should be referred to when addressing the invitations.

As Ray thumbed through the files, she was overwhelmed with Roberta’s trust in handing this honorable charge down to her. Roberta lifted her arm and made a fist so that the pearl bracelet on her wrist slid down to the edge of her lacy nightgown sleeve and continued, “You’ve already played a significant role in the rites of passage for the younger generation of Jasper ladies, from their christenings to their confirmations to their cotillions and their debutante seasons.” Ray nodded and blushed at Roberta’s recognition of her leadership on these occasions. “But the wedding is the final and most crucial part of their crossing the threshold into adult society, and it is up to you to carry on the tradition of honoring the young ladies of Jasper in the proper manner.”

The old lady turned to look out at the hummingbird feeder that Ray had helped Kitty B. hang outside the nursing home window. “Don’t be tempted by this calligraphy fad. It’s simply not how it should be done.”

“Oh, I know.” Ray nodded emphatically. “I much prefer the hand-addressed invitations in traditional cursive.”

“And I’ll roll over in my grave if you all ever type the invitations or use those awful labels that folks with computers are using these days!”

“Roberta,” Ray said, “You know I would never let that happen.”

“And return cards,” Roberta said. “No return cards. One ought to know that one must respond on their personal stationery when receiving an invitation to a wedding.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Ray patted her mentor’s arm.

“If you cave in, Ray,” Roberta said. “If you go to return cards and provide these sorts of shortcuts, the other traditions that we’ve upheld for so long will eventually fade away.”

“That won’t happen on my watch,” Ray said as she took Roberta’s liver-spotted fist in her hand and rubbed her thumb gently across it. “It is an honor, Roberta, and you can trust me with this charge.”

“I don’t doubt it, child,” Roberta said with that knowing glint in her weary eyes. “I know you understand the value of it.”

* * *

“Careful!” Ray says as Willy and Justin lug their rifle cases through the dining room. The tip of Justin’s case grazes a Blue Canton vase and a hideous red crystal decanter from that Texas come-yuh, Vangie Dreggs, which must have cost a small fortune.

“Please watch yourselves, boys!” Ray clutches her cheeks while the glass display shelves shudder between their brass hinges. Three silver trays rattle back and forth, and a green Herund hare figurine crouched as if in a thicket falls over on its nose.

“Think Jeannie lives in there, Aunt Ray?” Justin points to the decanter with a grin. Her fifteen-year-old nephew was described as s-l-o-w by the William Bull High guidance counselor before she sent him to the special needs school in Charleston. The look on his round face is so droll that she wants to kiss his forehead and rock him back and forth in her arms.

“Even Jeannie wouldn’t be caught dead in that eyesore.” Ray gently pats his shoulders from behind and guides him toward the kitchen door.

August 15 is the first day of deer hunting season in South Carolina, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. Everything is set up for tomorrow’s tea, and the longer Ray can keep the boys out of the house, the better.

© 2007 by Beth Webb Hart. Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used with permission. All Rights Reserved.