This is obviously a bad photo and taken without bothering to take the shot out of the reflective sleeve. In this photo, my brothers brought me to the altar (actually, an outdoor space with a judge presiding). The home where I was married, a Tudor-style home built in the 1920s, was very recently razed to accommodate corporate projects. The house, Glenridge Hall, was the set for The Vampire Diaries most recently, and it has served for other movies, including Driving Miss Daisy.
In an effort to attempt saving this home, I shared a personal narrative about my day of matrimony, to no avail; the house was completely demolished last Thursday.
Below is my narrative about the choice of the venue, and my remembrances. Feel free to skip it all. I haven't written many narratives lately, but this one is dear to my heart. And aren't my brothers handsome!?
My 19th wedding anniversary is coming up April 13, and every day this week, my thoughts have gone to the place where my husband and I exchanged vows: Glenridge Hall, a historic tutor-styled mansion in Sandy Springs built in the 1920s. It is scheduled for demolition any day now. Glenridge Hall is the place where I spent the “best day of my life” – a mother should not say that this day trumps her children's births, but it does. It was the most intimate, magical, joyful, sacred day of my life as I joined in matrimony with my love and best friend in front of our entire families and our closest, dearest friends.
Some of you may know of Glenridge Hall’s history, but many of you probably have had glimpses of its interior on the set of the Vampire Diaries, or in the movie Driving Miss Daisy. Or maybe you have attended any number of charitable events held there in the last 10 years or so. It’s one of Atlanta’s “gem” estates—held privately by the Glenn and Mayson family all these years.
How did I come to experience a lavish wedding on my public teacher’s salary (which was about to be suspended as I planned a one-year sabbatical for graduate studies) and my husband’s entry-level position at a hospital in Roswell? A dear friend of mine close to the Mayson family asked Joey Mayson to entertain the idea of letting us have our wedding at Glenridge Hall. It was a long shot. The whole idea of the bride’s family covering the cost of a wedding was not a consideration. My family was generous, but the bulk of the expense would be ours alone, so going to see Glenridge Hall as a wedding venue was similar to me going to Saks Fifth Avenue to try on wedding dresses for the experience, and I mean the experience alone. I’d end up at the bargain boutique trying to find the perfect dress. I figured after visiting Mr. Mason, I’d be returning to investigations of scenic public park venues or courthouses as soon as our meeting would end.
Meeting Joey Mason at Glenridge Hall was intense. He asked us about the providers for catering, tent services, servers, entertainment, and he was particularly interested in their insurance coverage as understandably the estate did not want any liability issues. He reviewed the property with us, showed us the available spaces, recommended that we plan for indoor and outdoor scenarios; he was gracious and exacting at the same time. He also had a very cute blond-haired daughter, a little sprite who showed up here and there on our tour. This house was hers actually, as she was the full heir. I remember her bouncing in and around the house, and I wondered what it must be like living there—was it too big and remote for just the two of them back in the beautiful woods almost oblivious to the fact that the entire estate was surrounded by office complexes?
Joey was clear that very few weddings were held here (this was 1996) and that when he rented the home, it was almost exclusively for major charitable functions. All money he made from events went towards restoration of the home, as he was passionate about returning it to its original glory. My heart sunk because here was this place that would stand “for all time” because it was historical and magical and would be preserved by someone who cared very deeply about it; I just wouldn’t be able to exchange my vows in this forever place because I knew it was so far beyond our means.
However, I answered all his questions honestly. I told him that I have a friend who caters, and she was going to cater it for me at cost of the grocery bill as a gift to me. I told him that I have a friend who is a florist, and he similarly wanted just the cost of the floral purchase as his gift for all arrangements. The DJ we would hire was going to do his “last gig” for us at a very low rate. And finally, I had a friend who had agreed to pick up the beer and wine we’d serve, and other friends had volunteered to serve (we had done the same for their wedding). We were old-fashioned barterers, possibly the last before the turn of the century!
We had, however, saved just enough we had hoped for the following: the venue; the tent (if necessary—it was); the required Classic Cheesecake wedding cake (I blame husband, but it was worth it); a dress (at the bargain boutique), and a tux (my sister-in-law worked for Ralph Lauren, bless her, so not full price). We would not have enough for a photographer or a videographer, but my aunt and uncle took wonderful photos, for which I am eternally grateful. You see, we had so many friends who wanted to help us have a champagne wedding; we just happened to be on a beer budget.
I don’t doubt that Mr. Mason was skeptical about what we proposed, but with the assurances of our friend and on my hope that he was enchanted by my husband and me (we were pretty cute), he agreed that we were worth the gamble.
The day? There are no adequate words. I gathered with my sisters-in-law upstairs with my little niece and we put on makeup, got dressed. My husband came with the others in a van that would transport all our guests/family from the then MARTA park-and-ride lot nearby (now another huge office complex). He would pose funny photos of him pointing to the “emergency exit” sign in the van before arriving to stay in a gentleman’s study on the first floor as he waited for the ceremony to begin. It had rained in the morning, so I thought our ceremony planned for outdoors would take place in the chapel-like living room with an organ loft above and a huge “walk-in” fireplace below. I remember thinking “rain or no rain, win-win.”
When we were all ready to begin, my niece, grandmother and my step-father at the time, my father and mother, my husband’s parents, my sisters-in-law, and my brothers and I all went to a secret path below the expansive back terrace to coordinate our arrival up some stone stairs where we’d end up in front a beautiful archway entrance to the mansion to take our vows. I remember my borrowed veil from my sister-in-law was flowing in the wind and we tried to keep it straight as it was long. My niece began as a flower girl, placing only one and I mean exactly one…petal…at…a…time in a line (as if to say, “Aunt Daryl, follow this line to all your happiness”). Then came my grandmother and step-father, my parents, Mike’s parents, my sisters-in-law, and me—arm in arm with each brother by my side. As we entered, our guests, all standing, surrounded us like a warm embrace. Our wonderful professional actor/singer friend sang “Danny Boy” for us. Two dear friends provided a reading and a poem. A judge blessed the union, and we cried, and blushed, and shook with nervous joy.
After the ceremony, the elegance of Glenridge Hall overwhelmed me. We would have conversations with friends in the side rooms, and in the breakfast room surrounded by a commissioned Menaboni mural—stunning. Each room was “themed” so it was almost a surprise every time we entered a new door frame. We danced on the stone terrace, while looking up at the enormous slate roof or at the dramatically blooming dogwoods in the woods. Our cake and catered meal stood elegantly on a stage above the living room on solid, weathered, mahogany (I think) double-pedestaled tables surrounded by windows shedding just enough light to feel warm, but mysterious and dark in a romantic way. In the living room, guests sat in the lavish sofa and drank wine or Guinness (we’re Irish). The back to the sofa was so high, you could avoid being seen at all from the dining hall.
When the first dance was announced, my husband, who does not dance, like ever, held my hand and held me tight as we swayed to “Dreaming my Dreams” by the Cranberries. Ironically, the best wedding shot of the evening was of us laughing with our heads tilted back during that first dance. And then we switched partners, and I danced with my father, who said this to me: “Daryl, you have wonderful friends here. I can tell from my conversations with everyone how much they love you.” I responded, “I only invited people who love me.” I still tear up with that remembrance; it’s still true.
One of my favorite memories of the evening, once the dancing went into full force, was my grandmother who was in her 90s dancing with her shoes off along with my mother, and I remember dancing with my dear friend’s son holding him up and swinging him around to “Don’t Go Chasing Water Falls.” And so many conversations with people who had come from far and wide. I was drunk with joy and never had one full drink the whole time because I’d set my glass down and start talking.
The place just transported us. I’m sure every couple says this, but it did. So enchanted were we that my husband and I were the very last ones to leave. It was almost like we felt we were going to head in for the night right there because we were the estate owners and had just hosted a lovely evening. Then, Joey Mason sat with us for a few minutes to help prepare us for coming back to reality. He wished us well, and he genuinely was glad he had been able to host us—that made me feel relieved, and as we revisited the glory of the day and evening, he gave us a gift of a Southern Homes Issue from November/December 1988 in which the home was featured. He signed it on page 112, “With best wishes on your wedding day, Love, Joey & Caroline Mayson.”
https://drive.google.com/file/d/0BwMRW52kX688U0x1Y2owRXd5NG8/view?usp=sharing
Joey Mason gently ushered us out to our aging Toyota Camry, waved to us, and disappeared under the canopy of the brick entrance. For one last second, we had the place all to ourselves. I honestly believed one day I would return with my two daughters to give a play-by-play of our wedding in hopes they, too, would find a place where they would recall the “best day” of their lives and share it with others, like I am doing now. It’s almost like with the impending destruction of the home, I fear that with it will raze all my wonderful recollections, so I have to write it down now before it vanishes (expect edits; this is a rough draft).
As of this moment, the lavish interior of Glenridge Hall has been completely stripped of its furnishings, auctioned off a couple weeks ago. The city has issued a permit for the estate to be razed. And all I’m left with are my memories as I look toward the 19th year since I last graced those stone steps. Deep down, I hope that something can be done to save this wonderful home as it passes from Private Estate Hands into Corporate Hands. Corporate Hands may not embrace ingenuity at this very moment, but it is my sincere hope that they learn to draft a plan that includes saving this gem in the woods as they go about planning a future for their businesses for generations to come, just as the Mayson family has kept the home for the sake of future generations. What will be the Corporate Hand’s mark I wonder? I hope it will include a unique signature, like the one on page 112 of our 1988 Southern Homes issue, which offers the estate and its beloved future visitors its best wishes. It’s all I can do.
Wonderful story, fabulous memories, so nicely told.
Hope there is another happy ending , to match your own.
What a beautiful bride you were!
We have history here in Sydney that has either been demolished or is under threat - I am hoping that someone out there has sense enough to at least retain some of the beauty and history