Auntie Mac was frankly shocked to hear of an event in Hampton this past month about which she knew absolutely nothing! Imagine her surprise and embarrassment, and the excruciating curiosity that followed, to be advised (for she is not without spies in every corner) of a gathering held by several members of the secretive “1932 Club” just scant weeks ago on an unseasonably warm afternoon in the private wooded garden of an unnamed patron of the arts. It seems that famed Hampton painter, 91-year-old Virginia O’Brien, had been commissioned by Prince Ernst August, great-grandson of the last resident of Hampton Court, London, to fashion a portrait of our Hampton’s notables in a setting reminiscent of his ancestors’ grounds. In honor of the season, Virginia was hoping to evoke a combination of Stravinsky’s “Rites of Spring” and Keats’ “Ode on a Grecian Urn,” but her independent and mischievous subjects had other ideas.

Ida Plourde, 97 and resplendent in Jeanne Lanvin French couture, posed gracefully on a smooth oversized boulder, urging her companions to gather round her on the grass so the artist could begin, but only Betty Garner, nearly 90, took heed, murmuring that she adored Ida’s lovely British accent and wanted to sit as close as possible. She begged Morris Burr, 93, to join them, but he was having none of it, as he’d been tasked with creating an after-portrait chicken barbecue for the group and Jack Meister, 91, had hidden his tongs. “I can’t let you do it, Morris,” Jack was heard saying, having recently converted to vegetarianism after years as the town vet and currently running a foster home for errant Rhode Island Reds.

“Oh do sit still, for heaven’s sake!” cried Virginia. “Sylvia, help me out here,” she implored retired elementary school teacher and fellow artist Sylvia Curry, nearly 90, who looked sternly at the group and managed to grab Helen Zisk, 97, by the hood of her parka and sit her down at Ida’s feet where Anne Mitchell, 95, had spread a camel’s hair throw and was sipping a hot beverage. “I may be tiny but I don’t need to sit in the front row,” muttered Helen to Anne, before climbing into a small lilac behind the group, settling on a branch above Jane Marrotte, 90, who Ida and Betty had asked once again to hear the story of how Jane was born in what became her own bedroom, on the family-named Robbins Road.

Sylvia finally coaxed Morris and Jack into position—Morris on the blanket beside Jane, and Jack standing beside Ida with a brotherly hand on her embroidered shawl, and Virginia captured the sylvan tableau in what I hear was a pastel masterpiece of light and shadow. The chicken was then served with a delightful Domain de Miroirs chardonnay flown in as a gift from the Prince himself. Sadly, the painting was whisked away to London before anyone other than the woodland guests could admire it. “Darn shame,” Morris was reported to remark to Jack later. “I think Virginia really did justice to our ageless physiques.”

I truly wished I’d been there to witness this adventure, my dears, but the season is just beginning, and you have Auntie Mac’s word that she will leave no social stone unturned in the coming months, so no Hampton event, fete, soiree or revelry will escape her notice.

Auntie Mac