The mansion shimmered with mica and feldspar embedded in the granite stonewalls, giving it the name Glimmerstone. Built in 1847, the home had 14 gables, 11 bathrooms, 10 bedrooms, and 8 fireplaces – an elegant masterpiece in the small town!

We were summoned to dinner by the antique dinner bell that could be heard for miles – the same bell that rests in my kitchen some 55 years later. Dinner was served in the formal dining room, with the old grandfather clock looming in the corner. Grandma Gay set the stage for expected dinner-table behavior. I’d catch my Dad’s eye, whispering, “I don’t like this,” pointing to some seedy orange mush on my plate. And just as silently, Dad whispered back, “I don’t like it either. Just eat it!”

I invited them into my dwelling in the woods, where I poured sweet-smelling tea from a rose-flowered porcelain pot into their dainty, daisy-patterned cups. My friends were always polite and held their cups just so, with pinky outstretched, sipping my delightful warm creation, lacy embroidered napkins placed on their laps.

Unlike the regal Gothic architecture of Glimmerstone, my house had a dirt floor with leaves scattered around, logs to sit on, and always a green canopy of tree branches forming a roof over head. It served as a refuge from the hot summer sun and was a place where everyone could enjoy good company.

The pleasantries had just begun when I heard, “Ring, ring,” resounding from my parents’ big house on the hill. It was the antique dinner bell.

“Suzie, it’s dinner,” called my mother, following the ringing of the bell.

I hated to end my tea party so suddenly, but Lynn and Bonnie promised to return the next day. My imaginary playmates vanished, and I reluctantly climbed the hill to dinner, perhaps to be served a spot of tea.

Reference

Tea, A Magazine. Issue 42, Spring 2005, pg. 30.