By Mary Buford Hitz
Some towns, via trouble or glory or a mix of either, produce striking ladies. Richmond within the early 20th century, ruled through its favorite households and nonetheless haunted by means of the ghosts of its accomplice earlier, produced a galaxy of such characters, together with Ellen Glasgow, Mary Cooke department Munford, and Lila Meade Valentine. Elisabeth Scott Bocock, Victorian in values yet smooth in outlook, carried in this culture together with her precise mix of relatives wealth and connections, boundless strength, eccentricity, and visionary zeal. Her daughter Mary Buford Hitz's candid memoir unearths the pleasures and frustrations of turning out to be up with a girl who anticipated quite a bit from her young children and from the town whose self-appointed mother or father she became.
Elisabeth Bocock's imaginative and prescient used to be of a urban that will take old renovation heavily, of a society that might settle for the significance of conservation. Impatient with method and society's conventions, she used her huge, immense own magnetism to bypass them while founding a few of the associations Richmond takes with no consideration at the present time. within the production of the old Richmond origin, the Carriage Museum at Maymont, the Hand Workshop, and the Virginia bankruptcy of the character Conservancy she performed the twin roles of visionary and bulldozer. whereas a part of a practice of sturdy southern girls, Elisabeth Bocock's strategies have been detailed, as she sought to persuade others of either the sensible and aesthetic hyperlinks among protection and the environment.
One of the "five little Scotts," little ones of the founding father of the funding company Scott & Stringfellow, she grew up with nice privilege, and he or she schooled her young ones in find out how to benefit from such privilege and the way to disregard it. even if of their iciness place of dwelling at 909 West Franklin road in Richmond or at their summer season domestic, Royal Orchard, within the Blue Ridge Mountains, in her loved ones she insisted either on success and on heading off boredom in any respect costs.
As Mary Buford Hitz recounts with intelligence and feeling, her mom usually gave the impression of a ordinary strength, leveling something that stood in its means yet leaving in its wake a brighter, replaced global. by no means Ask Permission is not just a daughter's sincere portrait of a charismatic and hard lady who broke the threads of conference; in Elisabeth Scott Bocock we realize the unsuitable yet feisty, enduring personality of Richmond.
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Additional info for Never Ask Permission: Elisabeth Scott Bocock of Richmond, A Memoir by Mary Buford Hitz
Both the fireplace and ceiling had decorative friezes; a chintz-covered chaise longue sat invitingly by the fireplace piled with throws and lace pillows; and the wide Victorian windows were hung with heavy curtains. A Persian rug covered the floor, and dominating the room was an enormous four-poster, canopied bed. Mother's closet and bath opened off of one side of the room and Father's off of the other. A short corridor between Father's closet and bath connected their bedroom with an upstairs sitting room that was home to comfortable reading chairs, a sofa, and Mother's desk.
I took pride in learning them backwards. * * * The signal that Father was home from the office was the sound of the heavy iron-and-glass front door shutting on itself. He would yoo-hoo up the stairwell, and usually get one in return, before taking off his hat and overcoat and hanging them in the closer under the stairs. His routine was unvarying. First he came upstairs and traded his business jacket for a burgundy-red velvet smoking jacket with a black collar and his shoes for a comfortable pair of evening slippers.
Grandmother Bocock's big, square portrait was hung over the sideboard. She was seated on an Empire sofa, and with her were Bessie and Freddie, who looked like English children in a Romney portrait-unrecognizable as the brother and sister I knew. They were playing with their long-haired dachshund, Pumpernickel. On the wall opposite was a portrait of Grandfather Scott, regal and unsmiling-slightly annoyed, as if he had gotten wind of a business deal gone sour. Dinner was a three-course meal that usually began with soup.
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