bathroom.
During the day, she wore dresses that flounced at her hips, just like Harriet in The Ozzie and Harriet Show . I even mentioned that point to her, and the look of pleasure it gave her flooded me with so much happiness, I forgot how she had made me feel the night before. But on Saturday nights, when she and my father, Peter, went to cocktail parties, she would wear black, either her sack dress with her Mamie Eisenhower charm bracelet, or her simple shift accessorized by pearl pop-beads, guaranteed to look like the real thing.
Organized to a T, on those rare occasions when she decided to cook, she had a half-apron ready to go—neatly ironed and pressed in the third drawer down, next to the stove. But mostly, she left that area of expertise to one of my other moms, Bimmy Robinson. That was okay by me. Bimmy was a far superior cook and besides, just watching my mother purse her lips while trying to execute her recipes, made me head for my room, away from the cloud of tension brewing in the kitchen.
Bimmy was her polar opposite. Calm, gentle, patient with me in all respects, even when I would misbehave. She didn't have to wear a uniform and had been told to call us all by our first names. My mother even announced titles and maid attire were a bit too bourgeois, but later in the hallway, when Rose told her stunned maid that she should keep her Negroid hair straightened no matter the cost, even at seven years old, a protectiveness washed over me before I could even think. I charged into our kitchen and started banging pots with the backside of a large soup ladle, anything to interrupt any further instructions from my mother. It worked, because as soon as Rose scurried in, her voice morphed into a high-pitched screech.
“Lily! What in the world are you doing?”
I didn't care if I was in trouble. I had saved Bimmy from something, even if I didn't quite know what. All I knew was that when I found her holed up in her tiny room that night mending one of Mom's church sweaters, I swear her eyes registered more love towards me than usual.
My third mom was our neighbor Sadie Moskovitz. She, too, was completely different from Rose. Somewhat Reubenesque, her body reminded me of a soft, warm fire hydrant, and her frizzy hair surrounded soulful brown eyes that could size you up in a quarter second. She was my favorite and in fact, I cherished her as much as I did my teddy bear, Cassandra, and that said a lot.
During the ‘50’s, my parents and I lived in White Plains, New York, where our Open Plan living room was the first thing you saw after stepping through the vestibule, with a stacked stone fireplace, a shelving divider housing a Hoffman television set, and knick-knacks, all kept at a minimum so as not to interfere with a view of the adjacent dining room area with its brand new credenza. The wall-to-wall carpeting was Rose's pride and joy, along with the strawberry-brown colored Herculon sofa that had cost them a small fortune. Completing the ensemble, was a low Scandinavian coffee table, complimented by two side tables of the same ilk, each topped with Eames table lamps.
When it came to cleaning her model home, Rose was maniacal. During the week, Bimmy did the brunt of it, of course, but when she was back in Harlem on the weekends, my mother would go to town. If my father or I would traipse through the kitchen, she would follow us with a mop in one hand, muttering, “Footprints, footprints!” and if we left a modicum of dirt on the living room carpet, there was always hell to pay.
When I was about four or five, I remember having my friend Debbie over for a play date. We were playing my favorite song Got a Whale of a Tale from 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea , then, because Mom wanted us outside, we pretended to be Bambi and her mother, roaming around the yard on our tippy-toed hooves, arching our backs and looking as deer-like as possible. When we re-entered the house, flushed and happy, we made the colossal mistake of
During the day, she wore dresses that flounced at her hips, just like Harriet in The Ozzie and Harriet Show . I even mentioned that point to her, and the look of pleasure it gave her flooded me with so much happiness, I forgot how she had made me feel the night before. But on Saturday nights, when she and my father, Peter, went to cocktail parties, she would wear black, either her sack dress with her Mamie Eisenhower charm bracelet, or her simple shift accessorized by pearl pop-beads, guaranteed to look like the real thing.
Organized to a T, on those rare occasions when she decided to cook, she had a half-apron ready to go—neatly ironed and pressed in the third drawer down, next to the stove. But mostly, she left that area of expertise to one of my other moms, Bimmy Robinson. That was okay by me. Bimmy was a far superior cook and besides, just watching my mother purse her lips while trying to execute her recipes, made me head for my room, away from the cloud of tension brewing in the kitchen.
Bimmy was her polar opposite. Calm, gentle, patient with me in all respects, even when I would misbehave. She didn't have to wear a uniform and had been told to call us all by our first names. My mother even announced titles and maid attire were a bit too bourgeois, but later in the hallway, when Rose told her stunned maid that she should keep her Negroid hair straightened no matter the cost, even at seven years old, a protectiveness washed over me before I could even think. I charged into our kitchen and started banging pots with the backside of a large soup ladle, anything to interrupt any further instructions from my mother. It worked, because as soon as Rose scurried in, her voice morphed into a high-pitched screech.
“Lily! What in the world are you doing?”
I didn't care if I was in trouble. I had saved Bimmy from something, even if I didn't quite know what. All I knew was that when I found her holed up in her tiny room that night mending one of Mom's church sweaters, I swear her eyes registered more love towards me than usual.
My third mom was our neighbor Sadie Moskovitz. She, too, was completely different from Rose. Somewhat Reubenesque, her body reminded me of a soft, warm fire hydrant, and her frizzy hair surrounded soulful brown eyes that could size you up in a quarter second. She was my favorite and in fact, I cherished her as much as I did my teddy bear, Cassandra, and that said a lot.
During the ‘50’s, my parents and I lived in White Plains, New York, where our Open Plan living room was the first thing you saw after stepping through the vestibule, with a stacked stone fireplace, a shelving divider housing a Hoffman television set, and knick-knacks, all kept at a minimum so as not to interfere with a view of the adjacent dining room area with its brand new credenza. The wall-to-wall carpeting was Rose's pride and joy, along with the strawberry-brown colored Herculon sofa that had cost them a small fortune. Completing the ensemble, was a low Scandinavian coffee table, complimented by two side tables of the same ilk, each topped with Eames table lamps.
When it came to cleaning her model home, Rose was maniacal. During the week, Bimmy did the brunt of it, of course, but when she was back in Harlem on the weekends, my mother would go to town. If my father or I would traipse through the kitchen, she would follow us with a mop in one hand, muttering, “Footprints, footprints!” and if we left a modicum of dirt on the living room carpet, there was always hell to pay.
When I was about four or five, I remember having my friend Debbie over for a play date. We were playing my favorite song Got a Whale of a Tale from 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea , then, because Mom wanted us outside, we pretended to be Bambi and her mother, roaming around the yard on our tippy-toed hooves, arching our backs and looking as deer-like as possible. When we re-entered the house, flushed and happy, we made the colossal mistake of
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