A Day Out with the Ladies

Writer’s Note - This one’s for the girls: In memory of Sherry Huck and Vivian Williams 

Early weekend mornings at Nana’s began promptly between 6:30am and 7am, with the aroma of coffee being the primary instigator in waking at such a dreadful hour. Being 13, 14, 15 - any hour before noon was dreadful. The smell of coffee and the promise of a day full of laughs somehow made it better.

Sisterhood is a concept that falls flat with so many women. Well into my twenties I still hadn’t quite figured it out. I’m not sure I entirely understand even now, but what I recognize as the definition of sisterhood was exactly what I’d witness on these cold, fresh mornings.

Nana wasn’t much of a cook. She could cook, but you could tell it wasn’t her preference. Breakfast was almost always eaten out. Except for on days that we met the ladies. Then, feeding myself something ‘light’ was up to me. After I’d stuffed something toasted and buttered into my mouth, ran a brush over my teeth, and gotten myself clothed, we would head out. Nana’s husband was usually either already gone or stepping out the door when I woke up. As impossible as 6:30am waking was for me, I couldn’t fathom why anyone would wake of his own volition prior to that, let alone be ready to step out and face the world before the sun came up. When I asked, Nana always said it was to get a head start on checking on the farm. Now I know it was his way of looking for connection. Being a retired farmer who rents his land lends itself to a lonely retirement when you’ve spent your entirety working hard with your hands under the sun day in and day out. After Charles left it would only be about half an hour before we got on our own way.

Nana drove a forest green Buick LeSabre with grey cloth interior kept absolutely immaculate. This cleanliness isn’t ingrained or even a characteristic she particularly admires. Rather, classy people have clean, fancy shit. So, Nana had clean, fancy shit. Instead of working, though, she paid someone to do it - gladly. Thankfully Nana is a pretty generous woman. Had she not been in these times, some of the things I’m about to tell you could’ve been mortifying.

The drive was at minimum 45-minutes one way from the middle of Wadesville to the Northside of Evansville. Nana drives me nuts, even now, because she doesn’t like music. Not a single note. When I asked her what she liked to listen to, she acted like I was an alien asking her how to speak French. The best she had ever come up with as an answer was ‘Well, I listen to a little bit of Patsy Cline.’ Upon further investigation, Nana hasn’t listened to Patsy Cline since the 1960’s. That’s how much the woman doesn’t listen to music, and it drives me crazy! I digress.

The car rides were long, but we got by alright. I’d chat her up about the itinerary or ask questions about how the ladies had been. That’s where we were going - to meet the ladies. Why she called them ‘the ladies’ I don’t know, but it was always ‘the ladies’.

The ladies originally consisted of four women: Becky, Sherry, Vivian, and my Nana, Ann. By the time I got to hang out with the ladies more, one of them had passed. Becky, from what I remember, was the softest and warmest of the four. When you thought of Becky, you thought of a traditional kind, tender grandma. I wish I’d gotten to spend more time with her.

Sherry was my favorite. I don’t say that lightly, because all of the women were spectacular. Each woman was perfect in their own way - but Sherry was a woman after my own heart. Sherry was the type of woman I found myself wanting to become as an impressionable, lonely teenager. Sherry was gritty, tough. Boy, did Sherry have a sharp wit and impeccable humor, too! Sherry kept the group on their toes, and she did it in such a lovable way. Not only that, she was the one that made us all laugh like we hadn’t laughed a day in our lives. May Sherry be resting in peace - and laughter.

As tough as Sherry seemed, Vivian was tougher but her personality hardly reflected it. Vivian carried herself properly, as a lady born in the early 1920’s would. Keeping her heart and her opinions close to her chest, if Vivian said something it always meant something, so you'd better pay attention and take it to heart. Vivian was great in the sense that when I needed an honest and true opinion, she would give it. She was truly kind, and she was the first person to compliment you in such a way that was realistic and applicable.

Last but not least is my Nana, Ann. Her actual first name is Florence and her middle name is Ann but she’s so despised her name since the time she was young that as soon as she left the house Flo became Ann. Nana had a unique place in the group of ladies as the balancing act. Nana could be funny, kind, generous, and encouraging just as the other ladies, but she also had the ability to bring them closer when they struggled to integrate. Nana, essentially, was the glue that bound everyone together. I can’t say it’s surprising, because my Nana has always been one of the ‘it’ crowd, and she’s never had to try hard despite her obsession with class theatrics. Whether Nana would have tried very much (which she did) or very little, she always would have had her seat at the cool kids’ table.

Finally, we’d arrive at 8:25am. Tee time was at 9am. Why she always insisted on getting there 35 minutes early I don’t know, but every time we would head inside and most times we would be the first ones there, although not by much. The ladies would show up one after the other, with the last one apologizing for being late, which they never were.

Usually they spent time asking how the other’s week had been, catching up on the minutia. Lots of smiling and exchanging pleasantries back and forth. Usually some chatter consisted of complimenting new items each had never before seen.

“Is that a new blouse?” one would ask.

“Oh, yes Penny’s was having a sale and I had been looking for something,” the other would coo.

“It’s lovely,” the other would respond.

“Well, thank you,” the other would say.

But the conversation never ended there. There was always something they had to add, something with a slightly negative slant. These ladies loved a strategic backhanded comment.

“Although,” the one with the new blouse would begin, “it’s not quite long enough. It really would have been perfect for those turquoise slacks I bought at Macy’s last month, but it’s just a tad short.”

Usually the women would then debate whether the blouse really was too short, or if the wearer was being overly critical, which they always were, but none of the ladies would dare say so. Debate would go on until someone else noticed another new piece of clothing or accessory until it finally came to the elephant in the room: the shy teenager quietly hovering behind her five-foot-nine supermodel-shaped grandma.

“Well hello, Sunny!” Sherry would say, enthused.

“Hi,” I’d say, smiling a curt smile.

“Hello, Sunny,” Vivian would say softly as she nodded forward a bit.

“Hello,” I’d reply.

Then of course, there had to be discourse about me as well. Not in a negative way, but because in this group there was always discourse about everything.

“How old are you now, Sunny?” Vivian would ask, and I would answer.

“Oh, fifteen,” the ladies would say swooning, reminiscing about when they were that young of an age.

Usually the discussion would lurch forward from how wonderful it was to be so young to making sure I got a good education. Sherry and Nana were always clear that education was a must, that I didn’t have a choice in that arena. Also, don’t let a man make decisions for you and don’t get married too young. And since men are terrible, maybe just don’t have a man? But, don’t be a lesbian either because God doesn’t like that. Although, do lesbians really have sex? They didn’t think so, but either way they didn’t like the optics of lesbianism so, okay, don’t be gay, but don’t be a spinster either. The world will judge you then, too. Every time they settled on the same advice:

Get married, but wait until after college so you know you can take care of yourself if it goes south. Also, marry a rich man. If you must marry a man, at least make sure he’s worth the effort through locking down a fat pocketbook. There was also the vague implication of marrying white, but really rich trumped everything else, so just look the other way about the rest if he’s wealthy.

By this point in the debriefing I was always mortified. I’d turn to Vivian with a pleading expression on my face. Each time she would smile that they were being so silly, but lifted her eyebrows as if to say, ‘You know these women always do this, mostly because they care. Let them have their moment. You’ll know what’s for you when it comes.” Gosh, that lady was smart.

After the obligatory hypothetical orchestration of my entire adult life was handled, we’d finally move on to golf. By that time, the ladies had already had another cup of coffee and were ready to tackle their caffeine jitters through physical activity...just not too much physical activity.

My favorite part of the whole day was getting to drive the golf cart. I loved driving the golf cart. As much as I loved driving the golf cart, Nana despised me driving. She knew it was the only time I ever got to practice driving, though, so she often times allowed me too. Whipping in and around, zipping and zooming around the green made me feel alive. Driving gave me great joy. To this day when I’m alone, it still does. Secretly I always wanted to race as a kid, but I knew my family would have a heart attack if I, a girl, had the audacity to ask. Not to mention the wasted expense of my joy. But alas - my hair in the wind and the petal to the metal on the golf course with Nana was enough to get by.

The ladies prided themselves on their golfing abilities. They also prided themselves on being good grandmas, and since I’d been around for so long and was the only teen of their collective granddaughters, I was almost like the communal grandchild. It came as no surprise that they expected I play golf, too.

Trying to hit the golfball from the tee for the first time was intimidating. I’d been to play mini golf many times, but playing actual golf turned out to be very different. Though I’d been an expert at close-range shots, hitting a ball hard enough to go several yards proved challenging. I took a deep breath.

“You can do it. It’s really easy,” the ladies would say encouragingly.

“Hell, if it weren’t we wouldn’t be doing it,” Sherry would say. The ladies would chuckle. There she goes, Sherry being naughty again LOL

“Are you all getting hungry?” Nana would ask, as I’m still trying to focus to hit the ball.

Breathe in, breathe out. Here goes nothing: swing and - WHACK!

“Alright!” Sherry would yell.

I turn around, stunned to the smiling faces of the ladies. Never feeling more proud, Nana would pat me on the back as we got into the cart and went to the next hole.

“Good shot, Sunny!”

Turns out, I was pretty good at golf. Although, I didn’t have the heart to tell Nana that I’d never pursue it because her daughter wouldn’t allow it. It was easier if Nana didn’t know the goings on of our house. Sometimes I think if she did know, it would’ve killed her.

After golf it was 10:30am. Never shying away from an early lunch, the ladies would all agree to meet at one of four places: Pie Pan, Bob Evans, O’Charley’s, or JoJo’s. It was almost never O’Charley’s, Pie Pan was always too busy, and JoJo’s eventually shut down, so it was usually Bob Evans.

I looked forward to either because I knew that meant one thing: pie. I LOVE pie. I’m a pie fool. Coconut cream, key lime, chocolate, blueberry - you name it, I like it. However, when I was a kid there was one pie to rule them all: strawberry. And Bob Evans had this delicious strawberry supreme pie which was almost like strawberry pie mixed with cheesecake. My mouth waters just remembering it. Guess who opened the door for me into the great, vast world of pie? (Hint, she’s in many of my writings, including this one!)

Nana didn’t know I was struggling with food insecurity at home. Or body dysmorphia. Or disordered eating. All she knew was that she prided herself on her svelte figure all of her life and the rules she’d played by to get there. Funny enough, she has the fastest metabolism I’ve ever seen, and pretty much for the second half of her life has exclusively eaten desserts for meals. So essentially what I’m saying is, she didn’t ever understand what the weight struggle was about. She had the all too common fat phobic opinion that if people struggled with weight they were either lazy or gluttons. The funny thing is that it never changed her opinion much of the ones she loved. Somehow she was able to gloss over most all of our ‘indiscretions’ big or small, which in some cases was good, and in others catastrophic. Either way, this lead to her sharing a dish three-ways with her lady friends for lunch, or if I was around splitting a lunch with me. I, however, was always starving and never wanted to share. However, I would share under one condition - that she get me my own piece of pie. It always irritated her that I bargained for food because of the impression it gave her friends, but more often than not she relented just to not be in disagreement in front of her friends.

Before we ate there was always coffee time. During the meal there was more coffee. Of course, how could you ever manage to eat dessert without a cup of coffee? Coffee, coffee, and more coffee. Looking back I now understand why we were always stopping for someone to use the restroom.

Coffee, as you may have guessed, was an important part of the ritual for the ladies. Discussion about the coffee was even more paramount. The best part is that I don’t think I ever once heard them say that it was ‘good’ coffee. They might say hot, but never good.

The ladies were a lot of things, but patient was not one. Vivian was the least likely to express displeasure of the group. She held the fort down on one end of the spectrum along with Becky. While Sherry and Ann were unable to maintain even the slightest bit of contentment for too long. Once someone even breathed, hinted that the coffee may be too cold, Nana sprung into action.

"Is it cold? Mine’s cold. I’m sure I can get her attention,” she begins. “Hun,” she says as she nudges me, “See if you can get the waitress’ attention.” Nana was always someone who knew how to get shit done - you ask someone younger than you to do it.

Invariably since I was a somewhat shy teen at the time, I could almost never get the poor lady’s attention. To be fair, Nana only gave me about thirty seconds before the second wave of interventions began.

“Hun,” Nana would say somewhat loudly in a bustling restaurant as she started sort of half-waving, half-jolting her fingers into the air. This would last about another thirty seconds before she would put her hand down, frown, and huff a bit. About one minute after that the conversation would catch fire once again.

“I can’t believe the service has been this slow today,” Nana would half-whisper disapprovingly.

“They seem to be short-handed again,” another would retort.

“Hmm,” the other would hum.

In a final hurrah, Nana would take her coffee cup and start gently banging it in its saucer to make a series of clanking noises as she simultaneously mischievously smiled and snickered. Every once in a while Sherry would join in for a moment, and then they’d cackle, all while being amusingly self-depreciating.

“You know, my first husband would clank his cups like this at the waitresses and I always thought it was so rude,” Ann would say.

“It is rude,” Sherry would reply, “but they do notice.”

“Not always in a positive way,” Vivian would gently chastise.

“Oh, I know, we really shouldn’t do that,” Nana would say as she did it another time for a laugh.

They would all finally agree that the behavior really was revolting, and not too long of a time later a frazzled young waitress would come up to the table and apologize for the wait. Every time they would say it was fine, and they’d be kind toward her. Thank the good Lord that they always left a good tip, because WHO-WEE. 

Eating my piece of strawberry supreme pie was always bittersweet. The pie was delicious, but I always ate it too quickly. I found my lack of impulse control frustrating, but more-so, an empty plate marked lunch as almost over, and I would soon be on my way back home.

The end of the meal was officially wrapped up with a bow when the ladies began leaving their tips. One woman would calculate the perfect 15-20% and then figure how much each party owed in order to meet that threshold. Dollar bills fell to the table like feathers while quarters, nickels, and dimes clanked against the cool tabletop. Drawing this memory to the forefront of my mind now makes me realize how infrequently I hear these sounds, and I get a pang of nostalgia, longing to hear the coins clash one more time.

The ride home was always short - too short. I always thanked Nana, or at least I hope I did, for the lunch. The quietness we always experienced on the way home was a physical manifestation of my ever-widening dread. Although Nana could be boring and demanding every now and then, I truly enjoyed spending time with her. I still enjoy spending time with her.

The ladies kept me company and gave me the little boosts of confidence I sorely needed as a teenager. They appreciated me as a person, a human. They corrected me when I was wrong, and they taught me to love myself better. Oh, and they always made sure my belly was full before the end of the outing. The ladies nourished me beyond the physical, and I adored them for it.

What I truly learned in my lunches and golf games with the ladies is that women are truly unmatched. Unmatched in humor, wit, intelligence, and warmth. Unmatched in the beauty of embodiment, the beauty of being. The beauty of fiercely loving. Unmatched in the richness of self, soul, and heart. I would not be the same person today without the many lunches with the ladies, and honestly I’d give almost anything to be with them on the golf course once again.

Rest in peace kind and lovely Sherry Huck and Vivian Williams. May I be blessed to see you again some day.