It's Never Enough
Joyce Benedict
©
Copyright 2021 by Joyce Benedict
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A most
unusual
afternoon luncheon in a New York mansion brings a valuable,
life
lesson to a young married woman.
It
was my senior year
at college. I was living in an ancient old, stone home converted into
a dormitory where an equally ancient, upright piano resided
collecting dust in a corner in an antiquated living room. I had been
there for months and no one had ‘tickled the ivories.’
One very cold
mid-afternoon day, while chatting with several girls in my room, I
heard a beautiful rendition of “The Warsaw Concerto”
being played on the old upright. It’s powerful and haunting
strains permeated the entire small dormitory. Drawn by the exquisite
playing I rushed downstairs. In the dorm’s dilapidated living
room, filled with stuffed chairs from a previous century, the old
upright was being brought to life by a young man deeply engrossed in
his playing. When he finished, I applauded vigorously. Piano
concertos being my favorite for years. We became immediately
engrossed in the discussion of classical music. We dated, became
engaged, and married after graduation.
Following
several job changes and moves, Fred, my husband, learned the
Clark’s, a wealthy family of the Clark Sewing Thread Company,
had scholarship funds invested in ample trusts for promoting talented
young people. His mother had been head maid at their summer
home in Cooperstown, New York, where Fred had played at numerous,
formal dinner parties. His desire to teach and go to graduate school
had been formulating for quite a while. He contacted the head
trustee of the Clark estate. “You must see Mrs. Clark first for
me to proceed with the formalities,” replied the tall, stiff,
elderly, pencil-thin gentleman Fred had seen.
An appointment was
made to not only visit Mrs. Clark in her home in New York City, but
an invitation to join her for lunch! On the given day I donned a
simple black and white summer maternity dress, white summer hat and
gloves for the occasion. A gorgeously clear, summer’s day
greeted us on the big day. We felt this to be a good omen.
Filled with great anticipation, we drove from Cooperstown, where we
were living with his parents, to her home in Manhattan in a rusty,
old, 2-door Ford.
We arrived on time. The
home was a large, three-storied brownstone building on a quiet,
tree-lined street. We parked in front. Fred rang the door
bell
and a stately butler welcomed us to enter. An impressive foyer opened
into a living room whose ceiling rose to second-story height.
My trained artist’s eye spotted original paintings of
Rembrandt, Turner, and Picasso, as well as many portraits
that
must have been family ancestors. It was as though I were in a
museum, not someone’s winter home.
Mrs. Clark greeted
us in a relaxed and friendly manner talking to Fred as if he were her
nephew of long standing. Then she ushered us into the dining room.
The butler assisted in adjusting my chair. Fred sat directly
opposite from me and Mrs. Clark sat at the head of the table to my
left. She had gray hair well coifed and lovely pearls
cascaded
down her attractively ruffled blouse. Matching pearls adorned her
ears. A quiet, unassuming, regal bearing surrounded her. I felt very
comfortable at once. She was gracious and pleasant and did not have
the pompous air one sometimes finds in people who are very
wealthy.
Servants discreetly
appeared bringing glasses of water, soups, and breads all
served on exquisite dishes recognizing Lenox China, Waterford
Crystal, with butter and jams served in silver
boats.
Fred and Mrs. Clark began discussing his teaching plans making
references to people and places in Cooperstown I had not known. A
luscious, perfectly poached salmon served on steamed spinach our fare
along with tea, milk or coffee as beverage choices.
Mrs. Clark
graciously inquired of my family, what my father did. Learning he had
had large sailboats and cruisers she spoke lovingly of her days
sailing at Martha’s Vineyard with her family. The meal passed
pleasantly as the ghostlike servants drifted in and out doing their
duties in silent precision.
With the luncheon
dishes cleared, dessert plates were brought in along with individual
silver creamers placed before us. Clean silverware was set beside our
dessert plates. Another servant appeared with a tray and put
a
small plate on our larger one with two of the largest
strawberries I had ever seen in my life. They were the size of a
small apple! I wondered how to eat them. Following Mrs.
Clark’s
movements, which I copied discreetly, she poured cream on the
berries, picked up her sterling fork and knife cutting one strawberry
as you would a steak then directing the piece to her mouth.
“Mrs. Clark,
“ I asked softly, “I have never in my life seen such
large strawberries!”
Bestowing on me a
lovely smile, she said, “Why my dear, we have them flown in
fresh from England every Tuesday morning.” Inwardly, I mused
that the cost of the berries, the flight, the delivery to her home
alone could pay for Fred’s schooling.
Conversation and lunch
concluded with finger bowls and damp cloths. She beckoned for us to
follow her to the elevator. At the third floor we exited to be
greeted by a scene straight from a medieval castle. A huge room
dominated by a large dining table that would easily seat thirty-four
people. Great works of art adorned the walls.
We were directed to
comfortable seats in front of an extremely impressive fireplace. As I
sat down I observed a great wrought iron trimmed double door that led
to a magnificent formal garden. I exclaimed, ‘It is
breathtaking. One would never know this was in the heart of Manhattan
by looking out onto it.”
“Oh my dear,”
she said enthusiastically, “we just love it too. We try to set
the scene so we can imagine we are back in the country in
Cooperstown. We are especially fond of this garden as members of the
Metropolitan Opera come and serenade us Christmas Eve.”
How does one reply
to that while one juggles a sweet cake and tea on one’s
pregnant lap? “Oh,” I replied, “how nice.”
Fred and Mrs.
Clark, returned to their talk of scholarships, papers that had to be
signed, and when the first check would arrive. College fees
were to be paid directly to Oneonta State Teacher’s
College where Fred would study for his master’s degree. We
would also receive an additional stipend each month
to
cover our expenses for a year while he completed the courses. I was
thrilled.
Having concluded
the business portion of the luncheon, they continued conversing about
Cooperstown. We sat quietly to finish our cakes and tea. It provided
an opportunity to inquire as to the magnificent size and
detail
of the wood carvings on the
remarkable fireplace I
was facing. “Oh my dear,” she proudly exclaimed “
the wood is from Lord Nelson’s battleship. We had it carved to
our exact specifications.”
“How
creative!’ I replied. What else to say with that impressive
piece of information?
Memory fades here
as to what led to the last statement I was to hear as I sat in that
magnificent home. I believe she had learned my family had a
summer home on an island located on the St.Lawrence River between the
states and Canada. She mentioned how she had loved that area
and that the Rockefellers had several summer homes there along with
fine homes scattered around the United States.
“ Three homes
are all I can afford keeping,” she remarked. “After
all,” and here she emitted a noticeable sigh, “when
you travel in the circles of the Rockefellers, why,” she
paused, casting eyes upward and about, “this, is like living in
a log cabin in comparison.”
“Yes, “
I replied as we stood up heading towards the elevator, “ I see
your point.”
We were quiet on our
drive back to Cooperstown. Fred lost in his thoughts of the year
ahead of intense study while I contemplated her comment about the
Rockefellers. To me it was an eye opener to realize that this very
wealthy family had compared their lives to those that had
even
more than they.
I felt a little
kick inside me from the baby who was to be my son, Derek. I wondered
who the Rockefellers felt inadequate next to. Probably one of those
oil sheiks in Arab country I mused as we turned into the driveway of
the quaint little farm house where we were temporarily living.
I realized that
compared to the poverty-ridden section of cities I had seen and the
bleak, rural southern towns which could have been background fodder
for Steinbeck’s, The Grapes of Wrath, Fred and I were living
well.
Perhaps, I mused,
Fred would become famous due to one of the books he had started, or
become a second Victor Borge as he combined witty, clever humor with
his fantastic playing. Eventually, we also would have a home
in
Cooperstown on the beautiful ‘glimmer glass’ lake it was
famous for.
Fred completed his
Masters program. Another baby followed. He started a teaching job in
Kingston at $4900 a year. Our monthly rent was $95, and we thought
that high! With much scrimping I got my first washing machine that
year. No more lugging kids, diapers, and myself to the
laundromat.
After the washing
machine, came the desired dryer. No more shivering on windy
days hanging out the kitchen window to hang the clothes on a line.
Next came the long-awaited second car. No more waiting until he came
home to stretch my horizons. A raise followed by a move to a larger
apartment.
Then the marriage
fell apart.
My dreams never
materialized. No trip to Italy to further my Art Studies, No home on
a beautiful lake. Fred wrote three books. They progressed no further
than his desk. The beautiful music, the 16 years of lessons,
the
playing in a bar, dinner parties, museum and gallery openings never
brought fame or fortune.
Through the years,
raising my two sons on my own, I often thought of that three-hour
ride to have lunch with Mrs. Clark. I shall never forget
sitting with her in her magnificent home, eating giant strawberries
the likes of which I have never seen since and viewing great works of
art at every turn.
When did ‘wanting’
end? Was I happier? More content? Life any easier? I had begun to
reflect that no matter how much I get, another need or want surfaces
like bubbles from an underground water pipe. Just as Mrs. Clark had
discovered sitting amongst her Rembrandt, Picasso, Manet, and Monet
paintings, with the Metropolitan choir serenading her each Christmas
Eve while viewing that awesome fireplace everyday hadn’t been
enough. If only she had what the Rockefellers had.
Many moons have passed
since this episode in my life. It's lesson, through
the
years, guided me to live in balance within my modest means as I
raised my sons. I currently live in historic Hyde Park, NY, home of
my favorite president and first lady, Franklin Delano
Roosevelt
whose homes I conducted tours to folks from around the world.
A
love of Nature, admiration for Native Americans and their respect for
Mother Earth, alternative healing methods, and writing about events
that have deeply touched my life hold my interest still in my senior
years.
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