The Downs and Ups of Mummy's Cooking

My mother, MD, was not a good cook.  She was able to get food on the table when she had to, Dear Reader, but her cooking was, well, uninspired at best.  Born into a world where the lady of the house was expected to supervise those who did the cooking, rather than do it herself, MD was an indifferent and reluctant mistress of the kitchen.  She much preferred to leave the culinary arts to others, whenever possible.

One of MD's "go-to" cookbooks
Image courtesy of Misprinted Pages

Until I was twelve or so, my parents employed a revolving door of domestics whose primary responsibility was to prepare and serve our family's meals.  MD would supervise them, plan the menus, and do much of the shopping, but she gladly surrendered to them what she considered to be the drudgery of their occupation.

"Mmm-mmm good!"
Photograph courtesy of TV Guide

I remember the excitement and anticipation I felt when a new cook would join our household, as the prospect of learning her specialties was appealing: Who knew what tasty dishes we would come to enjoy?  Would there be cakes and cookies, too?

"Nothin' says lovin' like somethin' in the oven . . ."
Photograph courtesy of LIFE Images

When the cook was from England, as we once had, we dined on a steady diet of roasts, puddings, and pies.  When she was from South America, such as the nefarious Marta (the subject of a previous series of mine), we encountered strange vegetables and indeterminate meat dishes (that is, until my father put his foot down, demanding that he be served "real food").  And if she was African-American (as several of them were), we happily tucked into fried chicken, corn bread, and other Southern staples.  MD generally gave the women who cooked for us a fairly free rein, so long as the meals they prepared and served were balanced across the primary food groups.

The cover of the 1964 edition of Joy of Cooking,
MD's default cookbook

But there were times when we didn't have someone cooking for us, and my mother would resignedly pick up such responsibilities.  That invariably meant our meals would take a turn for the worse.  If it didn't come in a can or jar or carton or box or frozen package, it was unlikely to make an appearance on our dining room table when MD manned the stove in the 1960s.  She did pride herself in buying only best-quality meats, which she invariably broiled, but fish was a rarely served.  We would sometimes get fresh vegetables instead of frozen ones.

Is there any other kind?
Image courtesy of Sunburst Kisses Rowena

MD's idea of a salad started and ended with iceberg lettuce tossed with Good Seasons carafe-made dressing.  She was not a baker.  I don't remember her ever making a cake when I was growing up, although I do have a dim memory of baking Christmas sugar cookies with her and my sisters.  Once.

This is not a childhood memory that resonates with me
Image courtesy of Pintarest

The only baking I recall that MD did with any regularity was of potatoes or squash, and chicken.  She loved butter and half & half, and she used them both liberally.

MD's well-used copy of Joy of Cooking
owned by my dear sister Camilla
Photograph courtesy of same

When it came to seasonings, a dash of ginger powder or nutmeg was about as adventuresome as MD would get.  Thoroughly rinsed spaghetti with pressure-cooker made tomato sauce and Kraft Parmesan Cheese was considered ethnic in the Darling household, and was—not surprisingly—served infrequently (and only when my father was out for the evening, as he considered it nursery food).

This was not MD's idea of "fun"
Photograph courtesy of the Daily Green

But that all started to change in the late 1960s.  Two things happened.  First, my mother took over, once and for all, the cooking in our house.  By then it was just me and my sister Hermione left at home (Camilla had by then graduated from college, and Frecky was away at boarding school), and we no longer needed the level of domestic support our once-larger family had required.  Second, the food revolution had begun in this country, and people were realizing that there was more to be had than the packaged and processed food that filled supermarkets' shelves.

The interior of a Giant supermarket in Rockville, Maryland, in the 1960s.
MD shopped in a similar Giant on Wisconsin Avenue
in the Cleveland Park neighborhood of Washington, D.C.
Photograph courtesy of LIFE Images

Slowly and gradually, MD's cooking became more imaginative, or at least experimental.  She tried a recipe for stew that a friend brought back from a diplomatic stint in Africa (not a success), and she enrolled in classes to learn Japanese and Chinese cooking techniques (both of them successes, but quickly abandoned due to the amount of effort required).  Brie and yogurt appeared.  And once, I think, she may have even cooked with fresh garlic.

MD owned a copy of this cookbook.
I think she may have used it . . . once or twice
Photograph courtesy of Etsy

But MD never became an accomplished or inventive cook, as she might have under different circumstances, because shortly thereafter my parents' marriage sputtered to an exhausted end, as did what had once been family dinners.  Within a year or two I left for Saint Grottlesex, and that was pretty much the end of my sharing home-cooked meals with MD, at least with any regularity.  Shortly after I graduated from college MD moved into a life-care retirement center, where she—much to her relief—gave up cooking, once and for all.

Proust may have had his Madeleines,
but nothing evokes memories of
Reggie's childhood like frozen peas . . .
Image courtesy of Vintage American Advertisements

Even though MD was, in retrospect, an indifferent cook at best, when I was a little boy I enjoyed the meals she prepared for my family.  I loved the frozen peas, canned corned beef hash, and Betty Crocker® Au Gratin potatoes that were in her regular rotation.

A Darling household favorite!
Image courtesy of General Mills

It was only after I left home for boarding school and then college that I came to appreciate that one's cooking (and eating) horizons could stretch far beyond the extremely basic meals that MD had fed us.  MD was very much the product of her class and times, and I bear her no ill will for her limited cooking skills.  I certainly appreciate that getting meals on the table for one's family, day in and day out, isn't necessarily everyone's idea of creative heaven.

But I have to say, Dear Reader, that I am most grateful we have upped our food game in the intervening years here in America.  I attribute that to the back-to-the-earth/locavore food movement explosion, the incredible advances made in food distribution, and the broad acceptance and availability today of food, spices, and cooking practices brought to these shores from distant lands and cultures that were but the subject of stories in National Geographic to most Americans when I was a child.

And I think this would have suited MD just fine.

Tell me, was (or is) your mother a good cook?  Do you cook differently from the way she did when you were growing up?

The Abortionist in the Basement, Part V

An Unsettling Visit From the INS

When MD received the telephone call from the office of the United States Immigration and Naturalization Service with a request for an interview about Marta, her stomach sank.  What could Marta have done to merit such a call?  Why was her employment by my family of any concern to the government?  What was this all about?

INS badge image courtesy of
the National Museum of American History

Several days later, a man from the INS came by our house to interview MD.  He explained to my mother that he was a case officer and was gathering information about Marta.  He informed MD that Marta was in custody and that the INS was preparing a case to deport her, for reasons that he would explain to MD once he had completed his interview.  With that agreed to, they proceeded.

"Mrs. Darling, what kind of employment did you provide Marta when she worked for you?"

"She was a maid and cook, and she took care of my children.  She and her daughter lived with us for about a year and a half.  I let her go a year ago."

"Why was that?"

"Well, although Marta was a nice person and a good worker, and I liked her, she had issues of truthfulness, and she got herself into hot water a few too many times."

"Hot water?  What do you mean by that?"

"She got caught shoplifting at Woodie's once, and she did some things that made me uncomfortable, and which I had asked her not to do."

"Such as?"

"She had a 'gentleman-friend' who would visit her, and he would occasionally spend the night in her room, even though I expressly forbade it."

"Who was this 'gentleman-friend'?"

"He was a chauffeur at the Ecuadorean Embassy, and we all called him 'Big Daddy.'  I don't know that I ever learned his full name."

"Were there any other things that Marta did that made you uncomfortable when she worked for you, Mrs. Darling, that you can recall?"

"Oh, there were other things, yes.  One problem we had with her toward the end, and which was all rather straining, is that she had too many visitors come by in the evenings, mostly her friends among the domestic staffs from the other embassies.  I had to put a stop to that, you see, because I felt my own house was being overrun!"

"Did you see these visitors, Mrs. Darling?"

"From time to time, but since Marta lived in a room in our basement and she had her own door to the outside, these people would come and go without us ever laying eyes on them, unless I or one of my children went downstairs to get something."

"What did they do, Mrs. Darling, during these visits?"

"As far as I can remember, officer, I think they mostly sat around talking, all of them, listening to Spanish music on the Hi-Fi.  Social stuff, really."

"Do you know how Marta's visitors got to your house, Mrs. Darling?  You live in a neighborhood that isn't exactly easy to get to from the embassies downtown, and these people typically don't have cars."

"Well, I suppose that some of them may have taken a bus.  But most of them, now that I think of it, would come with Big Daddy, who would give these ladies rides back and forth."

"What was it that led you to let Marta go, Mrs. Darling?  Was there a specific incident?"

"The final straw was that Big Daddy moved into our house when Mr. Darling and I went out of town on a trip, and they all moved upstairs, and made themselves right at home.  When I found out about it I had to let her go.  You see, I just couldn't trust her anymore."

"Was there anything else about her that you didn't trust, Mrs. Darling?"

"No, officer, that's about it.  That's all I know."

The man form the INS closed his notebook and looked at her.

"Mrs. Darling, as you know, we have taken Marta into custody, and we are planning on deporting her.  We have determined that she is an undesirable person, and we are sending her back home to Guatemala."

"Yes, I understand that, officer, but would you please explain to me why?"

He drew in his breath and paused.

"After Marta left your employment, Mrs. Darling, she set herself up in an apartment downtown, where she went into business performing abortions, mostly on maids and such from the embassies.  She worked with this fellow, whom you called 'Big Daddy,' and for a while they had a pretty active business going.  That is, until she mangled some of her customers, and the whole thing collapsed.  We picked her up just in time.  She was packing her suitcases when we arrested her."

MD was shocked beyond belief.  She had difficulty comprehending what the man from the INS had just told her.  It was all too horrifying.

"But—where is her daughter, Telma?" she asked, her head spinning.

"Nowhere to be found Mrs. Darling.  Also, her 'gentleman-friend,' the one you called Big Daddy?  He skipped town before we were able to get to him.  He's back in Ecuador now.  If he knows any better, too, that's where he'll stay.  We've informed the Ecuadorean Embassy about all of this."

MD sat there, dumbfounded.  As she processed the information her heart began to sink, though, for she realized that there was, more than likely, more to the story, and it was much closer to home.

"Tell me, please, officer, what does this have to do with Marta's time working for me?" she asked.

"Mrs. Darling, we have reason to believe that Marta had already set herself up in business when she was still here in your house.  While some of these 'friends' who would come by and visit with her may actually have been just friends, we believe that more than a few of them were actually customers.  This Big Daddy fellow acted as a procurer, where he put out the word in the Latin community here in the city, and he would ferry these poor girls back and forth to your house, where Marta would take care of them."

"Do you mean to tell me then, officer, that Marta was performing abortions in the basement of this very house?!"

"I'm afraid so, ma'am."

MD kept this sickening story from me and my siblings for many years.  It was not until I was in my early thirties that MD told me of her conversation with the man from the INS, while she and I were sitting in her living room one gray autumn afternoon, reminiscing of days gone by.

The Abortionist in the Basement, Part IV

The Final Straw

I am well aware, Dear Reader, that I had promised that this installment would be the last in this series.  However, while writing this post I realized that it would take yet one more installment for me to complete Marta's saga.  I appreciate your forbearance.

One evening during my parents' out-of-town trip, Marta announced at the dinner table that she and Big Daddy were going to take me and my siblings and Telma to the beach the next morning.  We were going to leave at dawn and drive to Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, where we would spend the day taking in the pleasures of the beach and boardwalk.

Even though Rehoboth Beach was one of the closest seaside resorts to Washington, D.C., Hermione, Frecky, and I had never been there before.  That's because MD considered it to be a plebeian and down-market destination, and an out-of-the-question one when compared with our family's usual seaside haunts of Nantucket and the coast of Maine.  MD thought Rehoboth Beach to be, in a word, unsuitable, for people "like us."*

Furthermore, we had a perfectly nice country house in rural Maryland that we went to on most weekends, so why go to the beach in Delaware?

According to MD, "our kind" didn't go to Rehoboth Beach, as it was all rather honky-tonk, what with its cheap cotton-candy-and-salt-water-taffy boardwalk culture and throngs of sunburnt mid-Atlantic sorts who didn't know any better than to enjoy themselves there.

Needless to say, the prospect of our spending a day at Rehoboth Beach was terribly exciting, if not thrilling!

Marta told us that we could only go to Rehoboth on two conditions: the first was that we must never, ever tell our parents about Big Daddy's moving in with us, and the second was that we must keep secret our trip to the shore.

With that agreed upon, we all got up early the next morning and piled into Big Daddy's limousine.  My sister, brother, and I sat in the back, along with Telma.  Big Daddy and Marta rode up front.

A one-day round trip to Rehoboth Beach from the Cleveland Park neighborhood in Washington is a considerable undertaking, under any circumstances.  Today it takes about three hours to make the 125-mile one-way trip.  In the early 1960s, when we made the journey, it easily took four or more hours to drive each way, particularly on a busy summer weekend.

But how could one object to spending the better part of the day in transit when one was riding in the Ecuadorean Embassy's limousine, with Big Daddy at the wheel?  Riding in the back of the car was exciting, and it was highly entertaining to watch the people in the other cars staring at us with open mouths, as we drove by in the huge, black limousine.  We became giddy with pleasure and astonishment when Marta told us to throw our leftover food wrappers, soda bottles, and napkins out of the car's windows instead of properly putting them into a paper bag for later disposal, as MD had taught us to do.  I still remember the delight I took in flinging the trash out of the car's window and watching it fly away as we rolled down the highway.**

Our brief visit to Rehoboth Beach was a blur of sun, boardwalk rides, fried seafood, and saltwater taffy, sandwiched between the long car rides to and fro in Big Daddy's limousine.  On the journey home, all of us stuffed and sleepy, Marta reminded us of our pact.  We three Darlings promised, again, that we would never, ever tell.

My parents returned to find the house as they left it, with all its occupants in their proper places and Big Daddy nowhere to be seen.

Several days later, though, MD found out that all was not as it seemed.  She overheard a conversation among Hermione and me and our little neighborhood friend Antonia de Peyster, in which we talked about going to Rehoboth Beach and how much fun we had there.

MD summoned Hermione and me in front of her.

"What's this I hear about your going to Rehoboth Beach?"

Silence.

"Come on now, you two, tell me!  When did you go there?  Who took you there?"

With the jig up, Hermione and I sang like jailbirds.  The whole story came tumbling out that we and Frecky had gone to Rehoboth Beach with Marta, Telma, and Big Daddy in the Ecuadorean Embassy's limousine.   MD further extracted that Big Daddy had moved into our house while she and my father were away, and that Big Daddy and Marta and Telma had made themselves comfortable upstairs for the duration of my parents' trip, with Telma sleeping in my sister Camilla's bed, and Big Daddy and Marta sleeping downstairs, in Marta's room.

MD was furious.

She angrily confronted Marta, who tearfully corroborated our story and begged forgiveness and another chance to redeem herself.  MD, however, had finally had enough of Marta's wayward ways, and she sent her packing.***

Hermione and I were beside ourselves.  We had betrayed Marta, and had gone back on our word to her that we would never tell MD what had happened while she and our father were away.  I had grown very fond of Marta and Telma while they lived with us, and the fact that they were being sent away because of our stupid blunder was extremely upsetting to me, and I bawled like the little boy that I was.

Marta and Telma moved out that very afternoon, driven away in Big Daddy's car, never to be seen or heard from again.

Well, not exactly.

One year later MD received a telephone call from an officer at the Department of Immigration and Naturalization with a request for an interview about a woman named Marta, who had once been employed in our household.

Marta had apparently got herself into very big trouble.  And a whole lot more trouble than any of us could possibly have imagined.

Next: An Unsettling Visit from the INS

* Reggie understands that MD may well have been entirely wrong in her disapproval of Rehoboth Beach.  As he has written before, MD could be a terrible snob, and she had very strong opinions (not always entirely well informed) on almost everything.  Reggie spent several weekends at Rehoboth in his twenties, where he enjoyed himself immensely, and he understands that the seaside resort has been much improved since then.

** To the best of his knowledge, this was the only time in Reggie's life that he ever consciously littered, a practice of which he highly disapproves.

*** MD said years later that she had felt sorry for Marta and Telma, and that she gave Marta three months wages in cash, even though she felt she was under no obligation to give her anything, considering the circumstances.

The Abortionist in the Basement, Part III

Hello, Big Daddy!

One day, several months after the shoplifting incident, Marta approached my mother with the news that she and her "gentleman-friend" were becoming serious about each other.  She asked MD's permission for him to visit Marta at our house one or two evenings during the week, after she had completed her domestic responsibilities for the day.

MD did not think this was a good idea.

"Marta, this is most unusual.  It is one thing for you to see a man during your day off, and I'm happy that you have found someone you are fond of.  However, it is another thing entirely for him to come by this house for regular visits during the week.  What about Telma?  What will happen with her when he spends more time with you at the house?  I'm concerned about her, since she lives with you in your room downstairs, and about my own children, too.  They won't understand who this man is or what's going on, particularly since you aren't married to him."

"Oh, but Señora, we plan to get married!  We must save up our money first so we can get a place of our own together, so he can become a father to my little Telma."

"Marta, is this the same man who would park the car on the street that Mrs. Westerfield called me about?"

The 1963 Cadillac limousine Mrs. Westerfield spied parked next to our house
Image courtesy of Cadillac by Bond

"It is true, Señora.  He has a good job at the Ecuadorean Embassy where he drives the cars, and he is a good man."

"Marta, he may be a 'good man,' as you say, but I'm concerned about the appearance of a strange man you are not married to spending time at my house.  What am I to tell Mrs. Westerfield when she calls me again, and what am I to tell my own children, or Mr. Darling, for that matter?"

At this point, Marta was in tears.  She promised that if MD agreed to allow Marta's gentleman-friend to come and see her, Marta would ask him to take her out if he was alone.  She would not invite him into the house.  She also promised my mother that she would only ask him in to visit with her if he was accompanied by one or more of her girlfriends, who would act as chaperones and keep an eye on Telma during the visits.

After thinking it over and talking about it with my father later that evening, MD reluctantly agreed to Marta's request.

And so Big Daddy came into our lives.

The present Ecuadorean Embassy in Washington, D.C.
Image courtesy of Wikipedia

True to her word, Marta lived up to her side of the bargain.  Whenever Marta's gentleman-friend called during the week he would either take her out—if he was alone—leaving Telma behind in Marta's room, or he would arrive accompanied by one or more of Marta's girlfriends, drawn from the community of Central American domestics who worked in the city's embassies.  He always arrived and departed in the Ecuadorean Embassy's black limousine, ferrying Marta's girlfriends back and forth with him.

This arrangement continued for several months.  During that time my sisters and brother and I got to know Marta's gentleman-friend, who was known as Big Daddy, reasonably well.  I don't recall if I ever learned his actual name, because everyone called him Big Daddy, including Marta, Telma, my siblings, and me—and my parents, too.

Our basement became something of a clubhouse for Marta and Big Daddy and Marta's girlfriends, who would assemble there after dinner and spend several hours sitting around gossiping in Spanish, watching television, and listening to records.  While I was curious about what was going on downstairs, MD discouraged me and my siblings from visiting there, saying that we should leave Marta and her friends alone and not bother them when they were socializing.

On the other hand, MD would occasionally send me down to the basement to find out what was going on, asking me to report back whether the coast was clear for her to go downstairs to fetch something in the laundry room or get something from the freezer.  MD was not comfortable going down herself, unannounced, as it created a commotion among Marta and her friends when "La Señora" unexpectedly appeared among them.

This arrangement became increasingly trying for my parents, though, who felt their house was being overrun during the evenings by Marta's friends.  My mother informed Marta that she needed to limit the gatherings to no more than once a week, as things had simply gotten out of hand.  Marta was probably not all that surprised by this development and promised she would do so.

Several weeks later my parents went on a week-long trip out of town and left me and my sister Hermione and my brother, Frecky, behind in Marta's care.

An advertisement for 1963 Cadillacs.
Is that Big Daddy's in the rear?
Image courtesy of Cadillac by Bond

No sooner than my parents' car pulled away from the curb did Big Daddy arrive at our house in the Ecuadorean Embassy's limousine and move into Marta's room for the duration.  Telma was dispatched upstairs to stay in my sister Camilla's bedroom.

While Big Daddy and Marta may have slept in her room downstairs during my parents' trip, they spent all of their waking hours upstairs, making themselves at home.  They hung out in our living room,  watched television in my parents' study, and ate all of their meals with me and my siblings and Telma in our dining room.  Big Daddy sat in my father's chair.  Marta sat in MD's.  It was as if we were one big happy family!

But such happiness was all too brief, Dear Reader, and it came to an abrupt end only shortly thereafter . . .

Next: The Final Straw

The Abortionist in the Basement, Part II

Woodward & Lothrop & Trouble

When MD arrived at the police station she had no idea what she would find.  What could Marta have done?

MD approached the desk.  "Good afternoon.  I am Mrs. Darling.  I received a call that my maid Marta has been arrested for heaven-knows-what and that I should come to the station and get her.  Do you know what this is about?"

The flagship Woodward & Lothrop department store
in downtown Washington, D.C.
Affectionately known as "Woodie's"

MD was ushered into a small office where she was asked to wait.

Several minutes later a man entered the room and introduced himself as Detective Stuart.

"Mrs. Darling, thank you for coming to the station today.  I'm very sorry for this inconvenience.  Do you have a woman by the name of Marta in your employ?"

"Yes, I do, detective.  She is one of my maids.  What has she done?  What is this about?"

"Well, I'm afraid we picked your girl up shoplifting at Woodie's.  She was helping herself to some of the merchandise.  She had quite a stash of it, too, in fact."

"Oh, dear!"  MD said.

"Mrs. Darling," the detective continued, "how long has this Marta been in your employ?  Do you know her well?"

"Marta has worked for me for six months or so.  I'm really quite surprised that she's been arrested for shoplifting.  I haven't had any trouble with her to speak of and, as far as I can tell, she's honest.  I'm very surprised about all of this."

"Mrs. Darling, do you know how long your Marta has been here in the States?"

"I think maybe a year or two.  Why do you ask?"

"Well, we find these girls who come up from south of the border just aren't accustomed to life how we live it here.  Most of them are from small towns in the country, and the shops they have there, well, everything's under glass, so no sticky fingers can get to it.  These girls get here and go into the big department stores and they just can't help themselves.  Well, they help themselves, that's right, to what's spread out on the counters.  That's what happened here, I think, with your girl Marta."

"I see."

A postcard of the main floor of Woodward & Lothrop at Christmas,
ca. 1964, around the time Marta was picked up there for helping herself

"Now, Mrs. Darling, your little Marta doesn't strike me as a bad girl, and she's been scared out of her wits by all this.  She's been crying like a baby for the past couple hours.  She's all shook up."

"I would imagine she is, Detective Stuart."

"Here's what I propose to you, Mrs. Darling.  I'm prepared to let her off this time, and so is Woodie's.  But before we do, Mrs. Darling, I'm going to give Marta a real talking-to, and I'm going to scare the daylights out of her about what could happen if she gets caught again helping herself to something she has no right to.  She'll get the message loud and clear, believe you me.  I'd like you to sit in on this conversation, Mrs. Darling, so you know what I'm saying to her, and so she can watch you hearing it, too.  And if that's okay with you, Mrs. Darling, I'll let you take her home with you afterwards, and we'll let the matter drop, so long as she doesn't get caught again, which I hope she won't.  What do you say to that plan, Mrs. Darling?"

"I believe it is one, Detective.  Thank you."

And so Marta got a talking-to by Detective Stuart about the perils of shoplifting and what happens to the bad girls who do it here in America—particularly those who get caught doing it more than once.  And, true to his words, he did "scare the daylights" out of poor Marta, who sat in a chair in his office, blubbering with fear and remorse.

Afterwards, in the car, Marta tearfully promised MD that she would never, ever shoplift again, and she pleaded with my mother to give her another chance.

"It's all right, Marta," my mother said. "I'm not going to turn you out for this.  But you must promise me that it really will never happen again.  Do I have your word?"

"Yes, Señora, I promise," Marta said, crossing herself. "You have my word in the name of La Santa María!"

"Okay, Marta, I believe you—you don't have to get carried away about it . . .  Now, for more pressing matters: What are we going to do about dinner tonight?  It's late, and Mr. Darling will be home in only half an hour.  We had better be ready!"

With her reprieve in hand, Marta was on very good behavior for the next several months.  There was not one bit of trouble to be had with her.

That is, until her gentleman-friend returned to the scene . . .

Next: Hello, Big Daddy!

The Abortionist in the Basement, Part I

Morning Coffee

One of the interesting things about growing up in a house where there was staff, as Reggie did, was the relationship that one developed (or didn't) with the individuals so employed.  As I have written before, there were times in my boyhood that I spent more of my hours in the company of the Annas, Ninahs, and Henrys in my parents' service than I did with my own mother and father.  I'm not complaining, mind you, Dear Reader.  I'm merely stating a fact.

Just as today it is difficult to find and retain reliable household help, so it was in the early 1960s when my mother, MD, was responsible for staffing and running the various houses among which we divided our time.

MD was always on the lookout for a good maid.

One day, when speaking with one of our neighbors in Washington, D.C., MD learned that a maid at the Guatemalan Embassy was looking for a live-in position in domestic employment.  Apparently she wanted to leave the embassy because the hours were long and the wages were low.  She could be had at a very attractive rate.  MD jumped at the opportunity to hire a maid who was trained at a level of service expected in a Washington embassy.  And so into our lives came Marta.

Today's Embassy of the Republic of Guatemala in Washington, D.C.
Image courtesy of Wikipedia

Our house in Cleveland Park was a commodious, rambling structure that contained several servants' rooms.  One of those rooms was in the basement, with its own separate entrance, as our house was built into the side of a hill.  This afforded whoever lived in the room a degree of privacy that she would not have otherwise had, as she was free to come and go without disturbing the upstairs occupants.  It was in this room that Marta came to live.

Our house in the Cleveland Park neighborhood of Washington, D.C.
The door to Marta's room can be glimpsed in the
bottom right corner of the photograph, under the plate glass windows.
(Note: Young Reggie is pictured standing, to the left, next to the
front steps, possibly on a very early PDA.)
Photograph likely taken by MD around the time Marta came to live with us

Marta quickly made herself indispensable.  She was a diligent worker.  She cooked and cleaned like a dervish, served at table beautifully, and had a good nature and jolly sense of humor.  First thing every morning, Marta cooked and fed a hot beakfast to me, my siblings, and my father.  She then walked me and my sister Hermione the three blocks to our nearby school, Beauvoir.  After the return walk, Marta would wake my mother by bringing her a cup of hot coffee and the morning newspapers—to consume while propped up in bed—before MD would rise for the day.

MD, who was not a "morning person" (to put it mildly), was in Heaven!

Not long after Marta entered our employ, she asked MD if she could bring her teenage daughter, Telma, from Guatemala to live with us.  A month later Telma arrived and moved in with her mother.  Telma was probably thirteen or fourteen at the time, only spoke a few words of English, and was soon enrolled at the nearby public school.  She was a nice, well-mannered girl.  After school and on weekends Telma helped her mother about the house, where she quickly made herself a happy fixture.

It all seemed too good to be true!

And—as it turned out—Dear Reader, it was . . .

Several weeks later my mother received a telephone call from one of the neighborhood ladies.  The woman called to ask MD if she was aware that a large, black Cadillac limousine was routinely parked overnight on the side street next to our house.  Did MD know that a man would emerge early most mornings from the basement door of our house and drive away in the car?

MD was flabbergasted.  She had no idea what this caller was talking about.  But that's not all that surprising, Dear Reader, since she usually didn't rise much before nine in the morning anymore, given her morning coffee-and-newspaper-in-bed routine made possible by the oh-so-helpful Marta.

The next morning MD asked Marta about the neighbor's inquiries.

After a certain amount of hemming and hawing, Marta admitted that she was, in fact, seeing a man who worked at the Ecuadorean Embassy as a chauffeur, and that he would "occasionally" visit her at our house, but never during the working day, and only for a several hours at a time, and certainly never overnight.

"But Marta," MD asked, "why is it that Mrs. Westerfield said that she sees a man leaving your room through the door almost every morning?"

"It is not true, Señora.  I would never allow such a thing.  I am a good woman!"

"Well, Marta, I was concerned when I heard this, particularly since Telma is living with you downstairs.  And for now I will take your word for it.  But, please, Marta, I don't want to hear any such stories again.  Am I very clear on this?"

"Yes, Señora, you have my word."

And for the next several weeks the limousine was no longer seen parked on the side street next to our house.  All was quiet and in good order.

That is, until my mother received a telephone call one afternoon from the police with the news that Marta had been arrested.  Would my mother please come to the station and bail her out?

Next: Woodward & Lothrop & Trouble . . .

Happy MD Day, Mummy Darling

My mother, known as MD, was not exactly what I would characterize as the maternal type.  She was the reverse of sentimental and wasn't one to mollycoddle her children, who—by the time I came around—were largely left to fend for themselves when their needs reached beyond the basics of food, shelter, and schooling—both academic and social.

There were others in our household who were there to greet us when we came home from school and who made sure that we had clean clothes to wear and hot food to eat, but they were employed to do so.  As I have written elsewhere, MD was more interested in pursuing her own interests—primarily her charitable pursuits, smoking cigarettes, and reading novels—than she was in taking care of the more mundane aspects of childcare.  Fortunately, she didn't have to.  As a little boy I spent more time in the care of the woman employed by my parents to look after us (and who they named me after in gratitude for doing so) than I did with my own mother.

MD took a laisez-faire, sink-or-swim approach in raising her children.  Rather than bundling us up in coats and mittens during the winter to go outside and play she would let us go out wearing whatever, assuming (quite reasonably, actually) that we'd come back in for a coat if we got cold.  She didn't get involved in our little activities much, such as music lessons or dancing school, beyond ensuring that we were transported to and from where we had to go, and she categorically refused to help us with our homework from school, since, as she explained, it was our homework, not hers.

When confronted with a childhood disappointment or injustice, MD would listen to us and consider what we had to say, but more often than not her response would be "Get over it!" or "Welcome to the human race, kiddo."  One time, for instance, when I was taking riding lessons, I remember that she was more concerned for the horse than she was with me when I had been thrown off its back three or four times during the lesson.  "You must have been doing something to make him want to throw you," she said.  And while it seemed shockingly cold-hearted to me at the time, in retrospect she was probably right, since I had spent much of the lesson forcing the horse to walk through the puddles of water in the ring rather than around them.

Although I would have preferred a more nurturing type of mother growing up, and devoted half a dozen well-spent years in therapy working my way through and around such issues as a result, I was genuinely fond of MD and came to appreciate the positive qualities that she had, which she passed on to her children.  She was keenly aware that we lived a life of privilege and made sure that we did not take it for granted, nor did she allow us to believe ourselves superior to those who were not as fortunate as we were.  She demanded that we treat everyone with respect and good manners, regardless of whether they were of lofty birth or low.  She also had a remarkably wry, sardonic sense of humor that—although unpleasant at times to be the butt of it—could be extremely funny.  While there were periods in my twenties and early thirties when MD and I didn't speak much, some of which lasted several years or more, we buried whatever hatchets we had by the time I reached my latter thirties when she and I both succeeded in developing a mostly mutually satisfying relationship that lasted until she died, ten or so years ago.

MD willed her body to science with the instructions that her remains were to be cremated and her ashes delivered to her children to do with what they will.  My brother Frecky was the one who received the ashes, and with Frecky they remained until about a year ago, when he contacted me and my sisters with the news that he was going to divide MD's ashes in quarters so that each of us could have some.  Several weeks later, a package arrived in the mail containing a Ziploc bag of a portion of MD's ashes.   

"What on Earth am I going to do with these?" I wondered.  

I knew that MD would have rolled her eyes and snorted if I had asked her where she would like her ashes spread, since she didn't go in for that "sentimental sort of crap," as she would have said.  Besides, no place to spread her ashes came to my mind that had any emotional significance, for me or for her.  I wasn't exactly inclined to make a trip to the assisted living center where she spent the last fifteen years of her life to scatter her remains.  I couldn't bring myself to put them in the trash, either.  

So I decided to do what I usually do when confronted with a particularly vexing, emotionally loaded question, which is to think about it some other day (another lesson that I learned from MD).  I put the Ziploc bag of ashes back in the box Frecky mailed it in and put it in a drawer in the desk in the Snuggery at Darlington House.

Several weeks later, when lying awake in bed one night, I realized that I had the perfect place to put MD's ashes.  Not only was it close to home, but it was a place where I would come into contact with them on an almost daily basis, as a reminder of my dear departed mother.

In our dining room at Darlington we have a pair of French early nineteenth-century tole urns supported by brackets mounted on the walls.  They are handsome and decorative, and they add a certain glamour to the room.  "Why not put MD's ashes in one of those urns?" I asked myself.  It seemed like the ideal place for them and a much better placement of them than if I had mooned about and scattered them in a stream or on a mountainside where MD had never been.  I knew that she would have appreciated the macabre humor of having her ashes stored in an urn in my dining room.  She would also have enjoyed knowing that I would from time to time raise my glass, turn to the urn, and offer MD a toast, particularly if I did so in front of startled guests sitting at the same table.

And what better a day to toast one's dear mother, I ask, than today, commonly known as Mother's Day and which I shall always think of hereafter as MD Day?

Happy MD Day, Mummy Darling.

Photograph by Boy Fenwick

Drapes Is a Verb

Just as I wrote in my post When Is a Vase a Vahz? that one never pronounces "vase" to rhyme with anything other than "place," one also never refers to "curtains" as "drapes."  It's just not done.  The use of that word to describe one's curtains is a genteelism that MD abhorred.  She instructed young Reggie never to use it when referring to what one hangs at one's windows.  That's because "drapes" is a verb and not a noun.  One drapes fabric, one does not hang drapes at one's windows.  There are no circumstances when such use of that word is acceptable.  And I mean none.

These are curtains and not drapes
Image from Authentic Decor: the Domestic Interior, 1620-1920, by Peter Thornton

When Reggie hears someone refer to curtains as "drapes," it's as if he's being subjected to the sound of finger nails screetching across a blackboard.  It makes him cringe.  And that's because it is so obviously wrong.

Designer Jacques Fath drapes himself with fabric
Paris, 1951
Image courtesy of LIFE Archive

I once saw an ad on television when I was a boy that hilariously demonstrated why it is that people educated in such matters do not refer to curtains as "drapes."  I thought it was very clever, and I have remembered it ever since.  The commercial (I think it was for a window manufacturer) amusingly portrayed the progression of a woman's interaction with a household domestic over time, as she moved up the socio-economic ladder from rather humble beginnings to a far richer and more sophisticated existence.

Those are not red drapes at the windows in this dining room,
those are curtains
Image from Authentic Decor by Peter Thornton

The first scene in the advertisement shows the woman and the maid, both wearing plain outfits, in a small attached house in a lower-middle-class neighborhood, where the woman, who is clearly feeling her way through such matters, somewhat self-consciously instructs her maid, "Maggie, draw the drapes!" while pointing to a window dressed with frilly, inexpensive curtains.  The maid responds by rolling her eyes and a "Get her!" shrug.

Alphonse Berge, "the Great Drapo," drapes fabric 
on a model, New York, 1940
Image courtesy of LIFE Archive

The second scene shows the same woman and maid, five or so years later, in a larger, meant-to-impress house in the suburbs, where both are more expensively dressed than before, with the lady of the house wearing a cocktail dress and the maid in a full parlor-maid uniform.  In the scene the woman instructs the maid, "Margaret, draw the draperies, I mean curtains!" while pointing to windows dressed with elaborate, swagged curtains.  The maid again responds by rolling her eyes and giving a shrug.

That diaphanous fabric at the window?  Curtains!
Image from Authentic Decor by Peter Thornton

The final scene takes place yet another five years later in a super-modern, enormous, severely decorated penthouse apartment in Manhattan, where the woman, now wearing capri pants with a scarf rakishly tied around her neck and smoking a cigarette in a long holder, Auntie Mame style, instructs her maid, who is wearing a Courrege-type white outfit, "Margot, do your thing!" while pointing to a wall of plate glass windows dressed with plain curtain panels.  And the maid, yet again, responds by rolling her eyes at her mistress and giving a shrug.

Curtains do not require swags or jabots
Image from David Hicks: Designer, by Ashley Hicks

The advertisement humorously acknowledged that referring to one's curtains as "drapes" (or "draperies" for that matter) was considered to be less than desirable, and that people of sophistication refrain from doing so.  And Reggie thought it was a scream.

They may leave you speechless, but they are curtains
Image from Colefax & Fowler, by Chester Jones

But the advertisement, for all its clever humor, was correct:  People who are knowledgable about such things do not refer to curtains as anything other than curtains.  And they never use the word "drapes" as anything but a verb.

Whether elaborate or plain, they are still curtains 
Image from Van Day Truex, by Adam Lewis

Over the years Reggie has polled various people whom he has heard use the word "drapes" when referring to curtains, asking them why they did so.  And he learned that, in many cases, they thought "drapes" sounds nicer than "curtains."  In other words it's more refined.  Actually, it is anything but.  It is a misguided and pretentious genteelism, much like extending one's little finger while sipping from a teacup, or pronouncing "vase" as "vahz" (at least on this side of the pond).

Ungainly?  Yes.  Drapes?  No!
Image from Authentic Decor, by Peter Thornton

Other people he has asked have said that they believed curtains are simpler, less elaborate versions of drapes, such as one would have at the windows in one's kitchen or bathroom.  They reserve the use of "drapes" to describe the more elaborate, and more expensive, curtains found in a house's more public rooms.  Reggie understands how some people could come to have this impression, but it is a mistaken one, and it is to be avoided.  Curtains, whether hanging at the window of a modest kitchen or in a Duke's lavishly appointed drawing room, are still curtains.  They are never "drapes."  Ever!

To whit:

• Jimmy Cagney, in the film Angels With Dirty Faces, did not snarl "It's drapes for you!" as he pulled the trigger on the gun he was pointing at his hapless victim
• Winston Churchill did not famously describe the division between the free Western world and the repressive Communist one as "The Iron Drape"
• Talulah Bankhead, when curtseying to her audience at the close of a play was not taking a "drape call," nor is the lowering of a stage's curtain at the end of a play or musical performance referred to as "the final drape"
• Dorothy, in the film of The Wizard of Oz, was not ordered to "Pay no attention to that man behind the drape!" when beseeching the wizard to send her back home to Kansas, and
• The mail order business that sells ready-made curtains of dubious taste seen in kitchens across America is not called "Country Drapes"

Because they are curtains, and they are not, nor will they ever be, "drapes."

And with that, Reggie rests his case.

A Cleveland Park Boyhood

When I was a boy my family lived in a leafy neighborhood in northwest Washington, D.C., known as Cleveland Park.  Originally settled as agricultural country estates in the late 1700s, it was developed at the turn of the last century as one of Washington's first streetcar suburbs.  That was when it was named after Grover Cleveland (1837-1908), the nation's 22nd and 24th President, who owned a house in the area in the 1880s that he used as his summer White House during his first term as President.  Grover Cleveland sold the house, known as "Oakview" or "Red Top", when he lost his bid for re-election in 1889.  It was torn down many years ago.

"Oakview" (or "Red Top"), the Grover Cleveland Summer White House (demolished)

photograph c. 1880s

Image courtesy of the Historical Society of Washington, D.C.

Remarkably, the first house that was built in the area, "Rosedale," survives.  It was constructed in 1793 by General Uriah Forrest (1746-1805), a Maryland statesman and military hero, who was an aide-de-camp to George Washington during the Revolutionary War.  It is one of the earliest surviving houses in the city.

"Rosedale", photograph c. 1920

Image courtesy of the Cleveland Park Historical Society

Today "Rosedale" is owned by the non-profit Rosedale Conservancy, which rescued the house and its grounds in 2002.  The conservancy, which was formed by residents of Cleveland Park to save the property from development, has restored "Rosedale" to its original appearance, and its grounds are open to the public.

"Rosedale" today

Image courtesy of the Rosedale Conservancy

Another early survivor is "Woodley", built in 1801 by Philip Barton Key (1757-1815), a wealthy Maryland landowner and member of Congress, and an uncle of Francis Scott Key (1779-1843), the composer of "The Star-Spangled Banner".  Technically the house is not in Cleveland Park, but sits immediately adjacent to one of its borders.  I am including it here, though, because its grounds once extended well into the area occupied by what is now defined as the neighborhood.  Grover Cleveland leased "Woodley" as his second summer White House during his second term as President in the 1890s.

"Woodley" c. 1892

Image courtesy of the Woodley Society

Grover Cleveland was not the only President to occupy "Woodley."  Martin Van Buren (1782-1862) leased the house in the 1830s during his earlier presidency.  Another famous resident was General George S. Patton (1885-1945), who rented it in the 1920s.  "Woodley" remained in private hands until 1950, when it was sold to the Maret School, which owns it today.

The rear facade of "Woodley" today

Image courtesy of the Maret School

When Grover Cleveland bought "Oakview" in the 1880s it attracted a number of other wealthy Washingtonians to the area seeking to escape the city's oppressive summers, and they built large country houses there.  One of the houses that remains is "Twin Oaks", built in 1886 by Gardiner Greene Hubbard (1822-1897), a financier and philanthropist, and one of the founders of the National Geographic Society. 

"Twin Oaks", photograph c. 1915

Image courtesy of the Cleveland Park Historical Society

"Twin Oaks" has been occupied by the Republic of China (Taiwan) since 1937 and served as that country's Ambassadorial residence until 1978.  It is thought to be the largest privately owned property in the city.

"Twin Oaks" today, photographed by Gary Landsman

Image courtesy of Washington Life magazine

By the end of the 19th century a minor building boom in the newly-named Cleveland Park was underway, which really took off in 1891 when streetcar service from downtown Washington was extended to the area.  Development was largely completed within the next several decades, and most of the houses in Cleveland Park today date from between 1890 and 1930, a golden age of American homebuilding.

A typical Cleveland Park house of the late 19th century

Image courtesy of Localism.com

My family moved to Washington, D.C., in 1960, when my father was appointed to a position in the Kennedy administration.  My parents bought a rambling, six-bedroom house in Cleveland Park on the corner of Macomb Street and 35th Street.  I think they paid $40,000 for it.  Built in 1917 in a hybrid Craftsman/Colonial Revival style, it was a comfortable, rangey house with a spacious front porch and pergola, and sleeping porches on the side and on the rear.  It also had a large side yard, a rarity in the neighborhood, and occupied two city lots.  We divided our time between this house and a forty-acre farm in Maryland that we went to on most weekends.

Our house on Macomb Street, early 1960s

Reggie standing out front

photo by Mummy Darling

Cleveland Park was, and remains, an affluent neighborhood.  When my family lived there the husbands of the households were drawn from the professional classes and were employed as lawyers, diplomats, think-tank do-gooders, high-ranking government officials, newspaper editors, and the like.  Almost all of the wives were stay-at-home mothers.

Image courtesy of zillow.com

Most of the houses in our part of Cleveland Park, one of the earlier sections developed, had wrap-around porches that people largely lived on during the warm-weather months, in the days before central air conditioning.  When strolling through Cleveland Park on a hot summer's evening back then, one would see families out on their porches, which were fully furnished with sets of wicker furniture, porch swings, and lamps.  It was a friendly and sociable neighborhood where people knew their neighbors, and where the doors were rarely locked.

Image courtesy of zillow.com

But the doors needn't be locked, since there was usually someone inside the houses both day and night, whether it be the families who lived in them or the domestics who worked there.  For these houses were built with the expectation that the lady of the house would not be the one who did the cleaning, laundering, or cooking--at least most of the time.

Image courtesy of Redfin.com

In Cleveland Park in the 1960s, many of the houses still had live-in help of some kind--ours included--and almost everyone employed a maid, a gardener, or other support staff to help run and maintain the houses and properties.  And there was a large population of people in the city engaged in such professions, mostly drawn from the African-American communities on the other side of town.

Image courtsey of Redfin.com

The company of maids and other staff who worked for my family was a vivid part of my day-to-day life as a boy, as it was for almost all of the other children I knew in the neighborhood.  I, like many of my friends, spent more time in the company of the Annas, Ninahs, and Henrys who worked for my family than I did with my own mother, who was often away from the house engaged in charitable and social activities.  And I have no complaints about this arrangement, for it was a nice life.  I have fond memories of the friendships I developed with the people who worked for us then.

A typical Cleveland Park house of the early 20th Century

Image courtsey of Localism.com

When my parents sold our house in 1970, they did so to a family who hired the architect Hugh Newell Jacobsen (born 1929) to renovate and update it, and who, in my view, butchered it.  He thoughtlessly stripped it of much of its exterior detailing; ripped off its handsome Craftsman-style porch and replaced it with an ungainly, brutalist one; and tore out the six-over-one sash windows and substituted gaping blank single paned ones.  All in the name of "purifying" its architecture.  A subsequent owner restored some of the original features, but the ghastly Jacobsen porch remains, as can be seen in this recent photograph:

A recent photograph of the house I lived in as a boy

Image courtesy of Washingtonian magazine

As you can see, the house really looks nothing like it did when my family lived in it. 

One positive thing that later owners did was to add a swimming pool in the side yard.  I suspect that I would have enjoyed having a pool on our property as a boy, rather than having to walk to the nearby Cleveland Park Club where we went to swim during warm weather.  But now that I think of it I'm glad we didn't have a pool then.  Because if we did our side yard would not have been the gathering place for neighboring children to play in as it was when we lived there, nor would I have had the pleasure of afternoons spent swimming at the Cleveland Park Club, where there were other children to meet and play with.

 

The Cleveland Park Club's clubhouse

Image courtesy of same

Today when driving through Cleveland Park one is met with a very different scene from what one would have come across when I was a boy.  For one thing, there aren't as many people out and about during the day.  Fewer families have stay-at-home mothers, and the population of domestics and gardners that once supported these houses has largely been replaced with cleaning and lawn services, or done away with altogether. 

The difference that the intervening forty years has made is even more vivdly seen at night during the summer.  As I wrote earlier, when I was a boy and when the weather was hot, the porches of Cleveland Park were full during the evening of families out enjoying the cool(er) air.  Today when one passes through the neighborhood during a summer's evening there is not a single person to be seen on its empty porches.  That's because everyone is locked behind hermetically-sealed doors in air-conditioned isolation, watching television, obsessing on their BlackBerries, or staring at a computer screen.  I blame central air conditioning more for this development than I do the explosion of electronic media, but it's guilty, too.

Although Cleveland Park remains a lovely, leafy neighborhood today full of wonderful houses, I doubt there's as much a sense of neighborhood there now as there was when I was a boy.