more from downstairs

The big tree with me and my home made big fluffy fabric ornaments.

Seriously, how many people have an accident driving through a car wash? I did. When we were living downstairs in the big house I drove my employer's mercedes through a car wash (that's back when you actually were in a line of cars driving through a car wash) and gently banged into the car in front of me. Talk about an embarrassing moment. I was probably talking to someone else in the car and not paying attention when the guy in front braked. It was a fender bender, and if I remember correctly, only my car had damage.


As this frigid winter weather lingers here and around the country I am reminded of the snowy and cold winters we had those years at the big house. I have a vivid memory of two weeks when the temperatjures lingered at 25 F below.

The Gardener had to keep Mr. H's
old plymouth running.

Each morning I'd check the thermometer outside Mr. H's iced bedroom windows and we'd shiver and wrap him in more blankets. Day after day. The snow never left the ground that winter. I remember the graduate students that lived with us were always having trouble starting their old cars.

 I loved playing Mr. H's grand piano and he would listen from his room right above the living room. As well as the parties and friends over for dinner that we often enjoyed, it was great fun to have lovely, stately guest rooms for our parents and siblings to stay in when they visited. At the back of the house was a rustic sort of bunk room where the boys in the family had slept. The Gardener, also a grad student, used it for his study, and I'd climb the back servants' stairs to that room to get the next installment of the paper I'd be typing for him late at night.

I loved cooking on this stove.

 I shopped at the small grocery shop in his little town. Royal treatment there--food was bagged or boxed up for me and carried to the car, or even delivered to the house. Once I had a sales slip that reached from my head to my toes. Of course we were feeding quite a few with all the staff coming and going. I had to learn to make some exotic food for him. Things like sweetbread (cow brains or pancreas), and tripe (cow stomach), tongue, and something I enjoyed more--veal a la marsala. For this latter meal I was instructed to pound the veal with flour and the curvy edge of a saucer--yes a piece of his old pink Spode china. He would listen upstairs for the "ringing of the plate." I confess I still pound veal (or chicken breasts) the same way.

Hand drawn wallpaper graced the dining room walls.

One of my memorable moments was a birthday party we had for him.  Maybe it was his 85th. His nurses came, as well as his secretary and a nearby daughter. One of the nurses had sewn fabric on a finger towel so that it looked just like a tuxedo rather than the bib that it was. He wore that down to dinner. The guys helped to serve and of course carried him down the winding stairs in his wheelchair. And what did he request for that special dinner? Tongue! I'll never forget it. That huge cow tongue on a platter was a sight to behold. A special night, yes, but meanwhile a little freaky in the kitchen.

Sometimes I think our years there were a dream. We were young, teachable and so grateful for the opportunity to live and work in such a beautiful place. It's a time we often reference or talk about with friends and family, and it's a joy to still exchange letters at Christmas with his son and DIL whose family we visited on the farm. Thanks for sharing the memories with me.

The Gardener on his way to class.