Being Chosen

That time Elizabeth Taylor designed a necklace for me.

In 1977, I was crowned Queen of the Apple Blossom Festival in Winchester, Virginia.

It does not escape me that the above image tends to endorse a sort of antiquated notion—doesn’t every little girl want to be a princess? The truth is, I barely wanted to be a girl. A tomboy by brand and instinct, I showed far more interest in playing basketball with my dad, climbing trees, and rummaging through trash cans in the alley behind my house. Eventually, I stepped into my own brand of tom-girl.

I graduated Marymount School for Girls in ‘76, a solid C student, and anxiously wondered what might be next for me. No one at home was talking about taking a gap year—of course, my parents pulled the most weight when it came to decision-making. We considered colleges together, but there were strict rules about that; my sisters and I knew that when our classes were over each day, we needed to get home in time for dinner. I was experiencing plenty of apprehension about my skills as a student, not-to-mention my social prowess as a sheltered young woman.

In the meantime, Cherry, 23, and Lindy, 21, met their husbands, and their weddings were lined up and carried out quickly. Babies followed. Debby had jumped into a solo singing career that took off on its own wings. In 1977, she was preparing to record “You Light Up My Life” for music producer Mike Curb when an offer came across my parents desk asking for her to become some sort of debutante princess near Washington, DC.

Lucky for me, she wasn’t interested; I was the frothingly excited recipient of her sloppy seconds.

At nineteen, I would become queen. Officially, Queen Shenandoah of the Apple Blossom Festival in Winchester, Virginia, a three day, pomp-and-circumstance blitz with a full schedule that included being escorted by cadets, making small speeches at formal events, and interacting with senators and their wives.

Also, I could wear a crown.

When we first got the news that the festival would allow me to step into Debby’s place, I was informed they would need me to send a picture in my coronation gown. Umm. My what?

Clearly, this was going to be a stretch. First of all, I felt overweight, an I'm idea that mystifies me still when I look at photos within that time frame. My eating was compulsive, but my weight wasn’t a big deal during my senior year at Westlake, covered by my navy uniform and sweater tied strategically around the waist. But, how was I going to navigate balls, luncheons and parades?

The first dilemma—the coronation gown— solved itself when my mother suggested I pull my graduation dress out of the closet. It was entirely white with drapey folds in the skirt. Done.

My mom had negotiated this role in the first place thinking I could use the self-esteem shot in the arm of being queen-for-a-weekend. She quickly jumped into action, enlisting our friend and expert in glamour, actress Joann Phlug to help me find an appropriate wardrobe. The three of us went to Neiman Marcus with parent-financing, and purchased an array of appropriate jackets, skirts and collared shirts, heavily coordinated in navy, reds and pristine whites. Having never had the opportunity before to walk into a large dressing room with wall-sconce chandeliers and beverages provided—with kind ladies offering me tasteful, albeit uber-patriotic clothes to sample—I thought, this is what it’s like to be in the lap of luxury. When I left for home with an array of shopping bags, I felt prepared.

But I still planned to dive into yet another strict diet. To stack the deck, I took to religiously running up and down the streets of Beverly Hills trying to sweat off the pounds I believed I needed to shed. I was afraid the event would all feel more embarrassing than fun, more shameful than joyful. In spite of the pressure, I recognized this once-in-a-life-time opportunity and I embraced my fears. I did what I could do to prepare, and I packed up my clothes and took off, unattended, to step into my role as a pseudo adult and temporary royal. Before I left Los Angeles Airport, I had already received a fully articulated schedule accounting for my time there.

This was not the first time I needed to try on a persona. But it was the first time I had to fully commit. I was being watched, recorded, followed and quoted. I had to figure out who I was, and stick the landing.

If seven-year-old Laury could have imagined such a thing, she would have wished for it—to be chosen.

The Shenandoah Valley in the Spring is blanketed in green, rolling hills, apple orchards, colonial style homes with horses and barns, and if you’re lucky, trees cloaked in pink and white blossoms. As I stared out of my window on the drive into town from Dulles Airport, it made me sad that no one came with me to enjoy the scenery. Once I arrived in Winchester, I was escorted promptly to “Courtfield,” home of Senator Harry F. Byrd and his wife, Gretchen, where I would be hosted and cared for in true southern form. My room was lovely, and the hospitality, gracious. Truthfully, though, I spent very little time there.

My first duty was to participate in this interview for the Winchester paper. When I look back at the clipping, I remember that young girl affectionately, even her round cheeks and wide jaw. I tried to represent the family values, and I did, but in spite of all of the good intentions, my representation of a Boone girl in her teens was slightly manufactured and inauthentic. I held my own and shook hands, made short speeches, ate brunch, and open gifts. I wore panty hose.

The Apple Blossom Festival of 1977, it turns out, was one for the history books.

This particular event—a milestone Golden Anniversary. As the 50th Queen Shenandoah, I was crowned by the stunning Elizabeth Taylor and her husband, then-Senator John Warner. Their roles: Ministers of the Crown. At nineteen years old, I had a less-than-complete understanding of the couple’s significance. Ms. Taylor was a dazzling and fiery movie star, and he, a prominent legislator, but this brief descriptor falls short. She wasn't just a star. She was also a brilliant actor, a benevolent activist, and a kind soul.

She's looking right at me!

At the top of the high school steps, I kneeled while Elizabeth Taylor placed a crown on my head. We paused while she gifted me a necklace she designed herself—a small golden apple, with a shiny diamond hanging in the middle. She wore a larger duplicate. That necklace is a treasure, but seeing her dazzling eyes resting on me in the photo above is the gift of a lifetime.

The coronation was followed by a parade, and I was delighted to ride alongside the festival’s Grand Marshal, the late Tom Bosley, dad on the television show, Happy Days. Surrounded by my “court” on a float that drove down main street in Winchester, I practiced my parade wave while a gallery of reporters snapped pictures wherever I went. Children jumped and waved back at me.

Finally, the last dance afforded me an opportunity to lean into the risk of being assigned a handsome escort, a cadet who was gracious and charming. We danced. I wore my coronation gown, and he wore his military style uniform, saluting when appropriate. His posture was impeccable, and he looked like a model. I briefly entertained the notion that he and I could become future pen pals and, who knows? Unfortunately, I was so shy and insecure, he would never have guessed that I liked him, so no numbers were exchanged, and there would be no closure on that heavily anticipated after-the-ball-goodnight-kiss.

Still, the entire town of Winchester, VA, rolled out the red carpet and treated me kindly. While it was so much more of an honor than any girl of nineteen could have earned, I was only one of so many girls with minimal credentials who would receive this title over the years, just by virtue of being someone’s daughter. I came by that honestly, I guess.

When the good people of Winchester asked me questions about my future plans, college or career, I made some evasive moves that alluded to prayer, purpose, and perhaps, more work with my family in entertainment and ministry. But I knew, I really had no idea.

U.S. Senator Harry F. Byrd Jr. was my distinguished escort. His steady arm supported me down the steps of the John Handley High School.

The weekend sped by like a spaghettified view from inside a spinning merry-go-round—I was mostly steady on my feet, but the names, activities and events blurred together, and still remain partly out of focus. It was a lot. There were lunches, dinners and dances with handsome dates. I met delightful people who treated me like an honest-to-god queen, and I opened gifts from various civic organizations as if I was a celebrity.

But the real star of the weekend was the festival itself, a tradition that honors the apple harvest, it's spring-time bounty, and the delicate nature of those pink and white blooms. It’s the local participants, and their hard work, that hold this tradition in place, reminding all of us to celebrate the gifts of the harvest.

An addendum: When I was packing to fly home, I was asked to offer a suggestions for a possible future queen. I recommended my gorgeous, grade school bestie, Gigi Garner, daughter of the movie-star Maverick, James Garner. She followed me in the role of Queen Shenandoah in 1978 and became a favorite.