Ladies Clubs, Aid Societies and other Niceties

Ladies Clubs, Aid Societies...and anachronisms

Even after 15 years in The South I’m still an outsider – a “Northerner.” A few years ago when I received my first invitation to our neighborhood Ladies’ Club Meeting I looked at it with a mix of curiosity and cynicism. As a Northern transplant the idea of a ladies club seemed odd and anachronistic. Still, being new to the neighborhood I decided I’d check it out.

I dressed carefully for the meeting, choosing neat slacks, a sweater and low heeled shoes. Even in the new millennium the vast majority of Southern women seem to feel compelled to “put on their face” before heading out to the corner store. This is still the land of debutantes and social sororities, after all. Where adult women deliberately join clubs and associations with the unexpressed purpose of excluding other women…

When I arrived it was clear that I was under-dressed. The hostess was wearing a lovely dress, stockings and exquisite high heels. She was an older woman with silvered hair and just the hint of crow’s feet around her blue eyes. She had clearly mastered the art of full hair and makeup a long time ago.

The club consisted of women ranging from their mid twenties into their mid sixties. They had enchanting, old-fashioned names like Josephine and Rosalie. Listening to the conversations around me I discovered that some had young children, some had adult children; some worked, some stayed at home; some played tennis, some golfed. Except for an excess of gentility and makeup they seemed like the women I’d known my entire life.

I perched on the edge of an uncomfortable chair, waiting for the meeting to begin. A woman sat down next to me and patted my hand. “You’re new to the neighborhood, aren’t you, honey?” By then I had already learned that in the South “honey” is short for “I knew your name, but I’ve forgotten it.” The joke is that "sugar" means "I never knew your name and don't want to."

Agenda items included everything from the mundane to the bizarre. The final order of business involved social projects. That was what I had come for. I was looking for a sense of fulfillment more than a social network. I needed something more than reruns of “Say Yes to the Dress” to fill my days.

To my surprise, one of the charities suggested was a Baptist Church. I suddenly understood why my Jewish neighbor hadn’t shown up. Christianity is somehow assumed in the South. I’d realized that in the South people bless you when you sneeze, when you hold a door for them or when you do anything nice at all. “Bless your heart” is as common a phrase as “thank you”, perhaps more so.

After about half an hour, the group decided on aiding a halfway house for teenage prostitutes. I didn’t question the cause, just the motivation behind choosing it. When it was settled that “those sweet things don’t want to do that,” wine was poured and everyone felt much better. They’d saved some souls and the world was a better place thanks to them. Now they could get down to the serious business of secretly assessing each other’s taste in clothing.