several residential complexes began, including a few luxury high-rises—505 Main Street was among the very first—and Welfare Island was renamed Roosevelt Island (with the wonderfully self-effacing tagline, “Manhattan’s
other
island”).
And it is in this very place that my mother’s journey from being a cleaning lady to the type of person who “summered in the Hamptons” began.
—
In the end, my mother cleaned the businessman’s apartment for a full year before they actually met, but she says she knew the very minute she first walked into his place that she would like him. For a person whose prized possession at the age of twelve was an antique vase, it might come as no surprise that it wasn’t the
size
of his place that most impressed her (though her friend forgot to tell her it was a duplex) or even the panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline (though she spent nearly a half hour at the end of the job staring out the window), but his antique furniture and artwork.
She had presumed that a single, well-off man’s apartment would be some terrible display of wealth and nothing more—a smattering of the tacky 1980s furniture she despised, purchased by an assistant or some hip minimalist decorator, maybe. Instead, she opened the door, and her feet stayed glued to the floor; it was as if she was right back at Uncle Jelly’s home (only better, and minus the antique mahogany birdcage collection, making it slightly more possible that this businessman was not gay).
The floors were covered in antique Persian rugs, and the walls were lined with gold-framed paintings and brass candle sconces. The rustic round farmhouse table in the dining room was fully set with white linen napkins, real silverware, and fine porcelain plates, and behind it was a matching pine hutch that held floral-painted soup tureens, pitchers, and bowls. In the living room were tufted wingback chairs with claw feet, a brass-tacked olive-green leather couch with a worn steamer trunk for a coffee table, and a highly polished, ornate wooden inlaid desk. All the pieces were from completely different eras, but they worked together—she could tell right away how carefully chosen, looked after, and loved they were. She was blown away.
One day my mom arrived to her cleaning job to find a note on the kitchen counter next to a heap of dirty pots and pans in the sink:
So sorry for the extra dishes. I have been taking an Indian cooking class and experimenting like mad! —Mark
My god,
she thought,
an Indian cooking class?
Who
is
this guy?
He was a complete departure from any man she’d ever known.
As Mom was cleaning Mark’s apartment, I was making a mess of ours. One day I toddled up to the end table that held my mother’s treasured vase and took a swat at it. From as early as I can remember straight up to today, my father has told and retold the story of what came next between his baby girl and his wife’s beloved antique vase with the same long-drawn-out sense of drama he otherwise reserves for retellings of horse races, ball games, and bar fights. And like any storytelling dad worth his salt, the tale always starts the same way: “I ever tell you ’bout the time…?”
“Yup, you have. But tell it again, Da!” He shakes his head no, feigning that he isn’t going to go on, and I urge, “C’mon! What’s the story?”
“What? What!? You damn near got us killed, is what!! Musta turned away no more than a second, and by the time I turn back, there you are, all shit-eating grin, just about to take a swing. Your mother’s most prized possession! And I think, oh, boy, this is it—Mel’s gonna kill us both! Now, as luck would have it, you couldn’t reach it, short little shit that you were, but you musta clipped the table edge, and that thing just took off, straight up into the air! Higher and higher it went, till it just stopped, as if the little bastard was giving me a wink before, of course, down it came! Now, I’m on the couch, right?
other
island”).
And it is in this very place that my mother’s journey from being a cleaning lady to the type of person who “summered in the Hamptons” began.
—
In the end, my mother cleaned the businessman’s apartment for a full year before they actually met, but she says she knew the very minute she first walked into his place that she would like him. For a person whose prized possession at the age of twelve was an antique vase, it might come as no surprise that it wasn’t the
size
of his place that most impressed her (though her friend forgot to tell her it was a duplex) or even the panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline (though she spent nearly a half hour at the end of the job staring out the window), but his antique furniture and artwork.
She had presumed that a single, well-off man’s apartment would be some terrible display of wealth and nothing more—a smattering of the tacky 1980s furniture she despised, purchased by an assistant or some hip minimalist decorator, maybe. Instead, she opened the door, and her feet stayed glued to the floor; it was as if she was right back at Uncle Jelly’s home (only better, and minus the antique mahogany birdcage collection, making it slightly more possible that this businessman was not gay).
The floors were covered in antique Persian rugs, and the walls were lined with gold-framed paintings and brass candle sconces. The rustic round farmhouse table in the dining room was fully set with white linen napkins, real silverware, and fine porcelain plates, and behind it was a matching pine hutch that held floral-painted soup tureens, pitchers, and bowls. In the living room were tufted wingback chairs with claw feet, a brass-tacked olive-green leather couch with a worn steamer trunk for a coffee table, and a highly polished, ornate wooden inlaid desk. All the pieces were from completely different eras, but they worked together—she could tell right away how carefully chosen, looked after, and loved they were. She was blown away.
One day my mom arrived to her cleaning job to find a note on the kitchen counter next to a heap of dirty pots and pans in the sink:
So sorry for the extra dishes. I have been taking an Indian cooking class and experimenting like mad! —Mark
My god,
she thought,
an Indian cooking class?
Who
is
this guy?
He was a complete departure from any man she’d ever known.
As Mom was cleaning Mark’s apartment, I was making a mess of ours. One day I toddled up to the end table that held my mother’s treasured vase and took a swat at it. From as early as I can remember straight up to today, my father has told and retold the story of what came next between his baby girl and his wife’s beloved antique vase with the same long-drawn-out sense of drama he otherwise reserves for retellings of horse races, ball games, and bar fights. And like any storytelling dad worth his salt, the tale always starts the same way: “I ever tell you ’bout the time…?”
“Yup, you have. But tell it again, Da!” He shakes his head no, feigning that he isn’t going to go on, and I urge, “C’mon! What’s the story?”
“What? What!? You damn near got us killed, is what!! Musta turned away no more than a second, and by the time I turn back, there you are, all shit-eating grin, just about to take a swing. Your mother’s most prized possession! And I think, oh, boy, this is it—Mel’s gonna kill us both! Now, as luck would have it, you couldn’t reach it, short little shit that you were, but you musta clipped the table edge, and that thing just took off, straight up into the air! Higher and higher it went, till it just stopped, as if the little bastard was giving me a wink before, of course, down it came! Now, I’m on the couch, right?
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