The Ladies in Beige

On bridge party days, my grandmother rose even earlier than usual and tended to be testy about the smallest things.  We knew this and always did our best to do as we were told and stay out of her way.

The island ladies arrived promptly at 1:30 - to be early was in bad taste, to be late, a disgrace - and for the next few hours, the sunporch was transformed into a lively and chattering sea of beige - it was a matter of blending in, Nana said, no one under the age of 60 was even considered for an invitation and men, although allowed to drop the women off and pick them up at the end of the afternoon, were strictly forbidden.  Once the  heavy door to the sunporch swung shut, it stayed shut for the duration - neither hell nor high water would've persuaded Nana to open it until the games all concluded and even then, the ladies left by the side door, arm in arm and in pairs, still as giggly as schoolgirls.  My mother, excluded due to her age and seriously offended by my grandmother's absolute refusal to a make an exception for her, called them a flock of gossipy old hens and would then position herself by one of the windows, one ear pressed as nearly to the glass as possible.  This struck me as comical - perhaps because I hadn't learned the word hypocritical - and usually got me sent outside with a healthy smack to my backside and a warning to be seen and not heard if I knew what was good for me.

I didn't know much about bridge and didn't care much about the grown up gossip, but I was fascinated by the fact that the ladies took such care to look alike, all in their various shades of beige with the occasional flash of 
dark brown.  Beige skirts, beige blouses, beige stockings, beige makeup and if one were feeling a little racy, a hint of vanilla shine on their lips.  If they wore jewelry - and most didn't - it might be a single strand of pearls but certainly no more.  I hated to admit that my mother was right in anything but the overall effect of this carefully cultivated neutrality did suggest a certain barnyard flair, not unlike chickens at feeding time.  When I asked Nana why they all wore the same colors, she looked startled.

Do we? she replied and frowned, I never noticed.

Oh, Good Lord, Mother, my own mother said with a nasty edge to her voice, You look like a wheat field, for God's sake!

Nana's frown deepened.

I'll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head, Jan, she said acidly, No one asked for your opinion.

No one ever does! my mother snapped back and began to cry, a time honored but overused ploy which my grandmother refused to be moved by.  Without a word, she simply hung up her apron and left the room, beckoning me to follow.

The ladies in beige didn't much go in for flashy colors of medodrama.