A Cinderella Story, Going to the Veiled Prophet Ball

When I found out that I was going to attend the Veiled Prophet Ball, I felt a bit like Cinderella, a commoner with nothing to wear. I had one week to find a formal dress and above-the-elbow white gloves.

That may sound like plenty of time to some, but in girl world it is nerve-rackingly too close, especially with Christmas fast approaching, holiday travel and a heavy workload already on my calendar.  

I was thrilled to attend such a beautiful event, even if I was only there to take photos and gather information for writing about it. But with so much to do, I was also a bit concerned. I am not sure who was most concerned, me or the Ladue-Frontenac Patch editor, Jim Baer. He called every day asking, “Did you find a dress and gloves yet?” Formal dress was required for everyone, even those who were working.

At 4 feet 11 and ¾ inches, finding a dress to fit is quite the challenge. I shopped every spare minute. It was power shopping at its finest.

In store after store, I went straight for the formal dress racks. With imaginary blinders on, I bypassed every other tempting item that called out to me. I dared not look—there was no time for that.

With an armful of dresses, I felt somewhat like Goldilocks, “this one is too big”, “this one is too small.” I only needed one that was “just right.”

Finally, after trying on so many dresses that I lost count, I found one that fit perfectly—well, almost. It was a floor-length, form-fitting, black, satin dress with skinny straps. It was simple and elegant.  Most importantly, I could move easily and work the cameras without worry. But, just like Cinderella, I only needed a few mice and a few birds to complete the alterations because the hem and straps were too long. And the ball was only a few days away. If only my mother was in St. Louis instead of Oklahoma.

Enter Barb Baer, Jim’s wife. Much to my amazement, she was willing to help me make sure my beautiful dress was just right. She was my fairy godmother. With a wave of her dressmaker’s ruler and some chalk, she marked the new length of my dress. A few stitches and it was perfect.  I cannot thank her enough.

The ball was a wonderful excuse to really look like a girl with black satin, white gloves, rhinestone jewelry and black satin heels. I love dressing up, but it wasn’t always like that. To put it in the words of a dear friend after seeing photos of me dressed for the ball, “They would never know you were a tomboy.” I smiled to myself.

The night of the ball, my chariot arrived. It was not horses and carriage, but a red Kia Sportage instead.

Jim Baer, my editor with his newly acquired title of chauffer, offered to take me to downtown St. Louis as navigating traffic and parking in a fancy dress and heels were sure to be challenging, not to mention expensive to park. He gave teamwork a completely new meaning. I was thankful he was willing to go the extra mile. It made all the difference.

The Hyatt Regency, lovely on a normal night, was transformed into the social event of the year. More than 2,000 chairs draped in pristine, white covers were perfectly placed in several rows in the ballroom. A long runway was placed in the center. Regal curtains of gold concealed the Maids of Honor at the start of the runway, while the splendid platform at the end was reserved for the Veiled Prophet, his court, his queen and his maids. The room was art meets elegance. It was truly magical.

Upon my arrival, I was assigned an escort to assist me. He was delightful. Everything was carefully orchestrated like a waltz. He led me to all of the places I should be at just the right time. Before the ball, the junior maids gathered and were presented in a smaller room, the maids of honor waited on the fourth floor in various rooms for their presentation, and there was a cocktail party in front of the entrance to the ball. We were like Santa Claus; we were everywhere. I was thankful my shoes were not only fabulous, but comfortable.

My escort was charming and accommodating, but so was everyone I met. Each greeted me politely with a handshake and a smile. I felt like I was a part of their society if only for the night.

Although I have attended formal events, none could match the caliber of the Veiled Prophet Ball. I have never seen as many tux tails, formal dress and white gloves in one place at one time in my entire life. It was a sight to behold. It made me feel as though I had traveled back in time to an era where dressing was a norm rather than an exception for only one exquisite night. I remember thinking how odd it was to think that just outside of the walls of the Hyatt there were people in blue jeans and tennis shoes. Normally, I am one of them.

While we waited for the ball to begin, men dressed in brightly colored costumes reminiscent of Mardi Gras entertained the crowd by waving, juggling and doing other comedic acts. It was a party, a celebration.

A live orchestra played behind the place where I was seated. Many times throughout the ball, I forgot it was live because they played so beautifully without error.

While there are debutante balls in both Oklahoma and Arkansas, I was never a part of that world. I had never seen young women “presented” to society. As each exquisitely dressed young maid of honor walked down the runway I could only imagine how lovely she must feel and how proud her parents must be.

I had never seen such a large bouquet of flowers as those the Special Maids of Honor and the Queen of Love and Beauty carried. All I could think of was, “Those poor girls, their arms must be ready to fall off!” They amazed me as they bowed at the right and then the left of the stage without falling. I am like Sandra Bullock in Ms. Congeniality—I’m not that graceful. They must have practiced for hours.

After the crowning of the queen, many congratulations were said and hugs were given. It was almost time for the Queen’s Supper. A few more photos, and my duties were done. The supper was a private affair.

Just like Cinderella, about midnight, the magical night was over. It was back to tees and blue jeans.

This is an experience I will never forget. A special thanks to Jim Baer for asking me to pursue the story and to Tom Cooke for agreeing to let me be a part of the photographers and journalist allowed to cover this prestigious event.