(Revealed at last)
By Susan Kelly
Opening caveat: No judgment here, as the millennials say. Simple reportage.
As brides-to-be, both my daughter and my daughter-in-law looked blankly at me when I mentioned a trousseau present. They had no clue as to what — much less how to spell — a trousseau is, er, was. OK, fine. One less gift to buy. (This, from the bride-to-be whose mother went with her to buy a honeymoon nightgown. For my trousseau. Later, I chopped off my mother’s peignoir to wear as a dressy top to cocktail parties. Draw your own Jungian, Freudian or rebellion conclusions.)
Like the era when mixing metals was simply not done, the time of wedding trousseaus, in which your mother’s friends brought gifts for your lingerie or linen or stationery drawer, has gone the way of children being seen and not heard. More’s the pity. But never fear, plenty of Unwrittens — obscure social mores you’re meant to follow that aren’t recorded anywhere and, often, have no basis in existing — are still out there, and I’m making a few publicly available. Ready?
Blacken the wicks of all candles even if they’re so fancy and curved and hand-dipped or whatever that you never plan to burn them. The brief sulphur aroma may cause your children or husband to sniff and say, “Have you been smoking?” to which you can point to the candles. Then they’ll say, “Why did you do that?” Good luck.
Answer all formal invitations in black ink only.
Honeydew should always be served with a slice of lime.
No front yard flowers. Exceptions: naturalizing bulbs (not tulips or hyacinths; crocus debatable) and these should only be growing in ground covers.
No botanical prints or skirted tables downstairs. (These last two from a Charleston friend’s mother. You should hear her on non-Christmas front door wreaths.)
Nice people have blanket covers.
No bare shoulders at a funeral. (This dictate from a friend whose baby nurse actually told her this as my friend was trying to get her post-natal body to a funeral.)
Beginning Labor Day, wear transitional dark cottons. This was an actual phrase at my house, and translated, for me, as cotton Black Watch plaid smocked dresses to school. (The brand new book satchel provided some offsetting comfort.)
Do not say purse. Say pocketbook. (Although my sister’s high-fashion boss at Belk told her that if she said pocketbook instead of bag one more time, she would fire her.)
Do not say hose. Say stockings. Exceptions can be made for pantyhose. (Though personally, as an Anglophile, I think we should switch to tights and be done with it.)
Do not say panties. Say underwear or underpants or, in a pinch, borrow u-trou from the boys. If you say panties, we can’t be friends. End of story.
Literally. PS
In a former life, Susan Kelly published five novels, won some awards, did some teaching, and made a lot of speeches. These days, she’s freelancing and making up for all that time she spent indoors writing those five novels.