SUMMER FROCKS...

It was a biting, black fly summer, years ago, in a small town in Ontario, on the edge of the Ottawa River. Days filled with the incessant chirp of crickets, late in the evening, to lull you to sleep, in the dark,rain starved heat.

It was the middle of August that I got the invitation. “You are cordially invited…” Oh dear…not that…”To a retirement party. A High tea.A ‘cherished experience’ with tea, buttery scones, clotted cream, jams, finger sandwiches, small cakes and light entertainment.”

That was us. The light entertainment.

There was a dress code. “All ladies will wear summer frocks, hats, stockings and shoes.” Really? Summer frocks? Stockings? 

The hall was huge. Round tables spread with white linens,and a vase on each, with a single, drooping sunflower. Standing fans perched in front of huge open windows. But it didn’t help.

The air was dead and dry. Smoldering.

Tons of peach and floral prints, small and large hats, with fake flowers, bobbed on a sea of permed hair. The murmur of countless women, waved and eddied in  the stifling room. They poured tea and munched on sweets.

In the far corner, our string group dutifully scraped away. Old songs mostly. Some new . We even took requests, but stopped short at “Poison” by Led Zepplin. It was a hit that year, in 1989.

Besides us, there were two opera singers in red satin, ferociously singing excerpts from “Bizet’s Carmen”. 

Speeches afterwards, droning on  endlessly, in the sticky air. Sweat beads plopped into tea cups. 

And the tea. Lemon custard tarts, tiny, heart-shaped scones, bowls of watery cream sitting precariously on ice cubes. There were sweet jams, walnut bars, warm strawberries, and questionable sandwiches, with oozing cream cheese. 

When they had eaten their fill, the sea of summer frocks stood as one, crinolines rustling like rusty leaves. There came an unmistakable band aid-ripping screech, when they all peeled themselves off of the leather chairs.

A table toppled. Dirty dishes, tea cups and cream splashed. It was over. 

Sunflower centre pieces were auctioned off, only to find they were full of  earwigs, all trying to make a break for it. Our quartet played the theme from Doctor Zhivago, till our sweaty fingers slipped off the fingerboards.

There was a slimy, forgettable hush, broken only by the squelch of so many shoes. I guess I forgot to mention that most of us got around the dress code by wearing socks with sneakers. 

After all, the invitation didn’t specify what kind of footwear……

Photographs 2025