By Marilyn Norford
In days of yore, folks “went visiting,” usually on Sunday afternoons. Rarely did anyone pre-arrange these visits; they just showed up. If it happened around mealtime, of course, they were fed, per the rules of southern hospitality.
One Sunday afternoon . . . I guess I was about 12, a couple with two children came to visit. I didn’t recognize them, but that wasn’t unusual, as my parents had lived in Charlottesville prior to moving to NC, where I was born. Since our family’s move back to VA, many friendships had been renewed.
The folks were pleasant enough, and immediately addressed my dad by name, apologizing for forgetting mom’s name. I was introduced, and they asked me to just call them Tom and Hattie.
Since Sunday Dinner was about to be served, they were invited to partake, and eagerly accepted. Mom whispered to me to leave the drumsticks for the little boys, which was not a problem at that juncture of my life, as I had discovered blood veins in a chicken leg, and wouldn’t touch ‘em for years.
The grownups visited after the meal, were served light refreshments in the afternoon, continued to visit, lingered on, were invited to supper. While helping Mom in the kitchen, I asked who these people were. She had no idea and assumed that they were someone Dad had met in his meanderings.
The evening continued, until almost bedtime, when Dad said, “Well, Tom, I guess it’s time to get your young’uns home to bed. Tomorrow’s a school day.”
They did finally leave. As soon as the door closed behind them, I asked Dad who they were. He had absolutely no idea whatsoever; said he thought maybe Mom knew them. They just about fell in the floor laughing.
We never saw them again, and never figured out who they were. My theory is that maybe they found the name and address in that long-ago relic, the telephone directory.
Carpe Diem, Y’all!