Don’t mistake me, I like dogs. There was always a dog in the house when I was growing up. There was also a cat but when I came along, Mother thought it would not be safe to have the cat around a baby and so she gave the cat to one of my baby nurses. As I grew up, it gradually occurred to me that Mother very often seemed to worry about things that were not as important as she thought they were. And she did not worry about things that were quite important to quite a lot of people. And it always seemed strange to me that she never talked about the cat that was given away. Did she really love Fluffy or could animals or babies just be disposed of without a second thought?
The house in Connecticut was closed up during the WWII when I was about 5 and we went to live in NYC as Dad’s job in the Army in WWII required that he had to report to duty in Newark, NJ on a daily basis. Mother refused to live in NJ. Evidently she had decided that there was no “decent” place to live in Newark, the social life would be zero and the inconveniences of shopping for anything would just be too great to bear. So we moved into a apartment at the Barclay Hotel. It was far different from living in a 6,000 sq ft house on 2 ½ acres of land but I liked the compactness. It meant I could be close, literally, to people without too much effort and that made me feel warmer inside myself.
I decided that I was going to make friends with Sandy, the middle aged cocker spaniel who hadn’t really taken to me at all. I never could understand why Sandy hadn’t been given away too, just like the cat. I once asked Mother that question and she looked at me oddly. “Well, Fluffy had claws that might have really hurt you. Besides, cats like to lick all sorts of things and I didn’t want Fluffy to lick you with a dirty tongue.”
Mom and Dad had gone out to a cocktail party and Catherine, the nurse, was giving my younger adopted brother his dinner. I wanted to turn on the radio, but I couldn’t get to it as it was wedged in between a lot of books in a bookcase and I didn’t see anything that I could drag over to the bookcase so I could climb up and try to turn the knobs so that some music would come on. I loved to move to music.
Having nothing else to do, I approached Sandy in the living room of our apartment. Sandy was brown all over, from head to toe. I thought that it would have been much more interesting for him to have other bits of color on him. It seemed to me that all humans wore different colors at the same time. Sometimes when I was taken for a walk, I saw dogs and cats that were dressed up in various ways with fancy collars and sometimes sweaters and vests. But Sandy never had any special clothes. I thought that was a little unfair because it did seem that my family had enough money to buy at least one outfit for Sandy. And I felt a little sorry for him because Dad said “he’s getting old” with a sad voice. I concluded that “getting old” was not a good thing.
And so I was wandering around the living room, humming to myself and trying to make a little dance to go along with the humming. I was trying to remember just what the song sounded like on the radio before it was turned off as Mom and Dad had gone out to dinner.
Sandy was standing near his dinner bowl which on the floor a foot or so away from him. He looked as if he couldn’t decide whether to eat or not. So I decided that this would be a good time to try make friends with him He never seemed to like it when I tried to pet him and I had gathered from adult talk that he might be jealous of me because I got so much attention when I came into the house, newly adopted, and he was not the biggest attraction anymore. But, it seemed to me that the way to start a relationship was to start asking some him some questions.
The obvious subject at hand to start talking about was about was his dinner. So I bent down, and tried to ask him if he wanted his dinner now or not. I began pushing the bowl toward his nose and then pulling it back trying to get him to tell me if he wanted to eat or not. It never occurred to me that he would not understand that I was trying to be nice to him. And that I wanted to be his friend.
After about five of my “questions”, Sandy gave me his answer. He lunged at me and grabbing my left hand in his mouth, bit down hard making my hand bleed. He had really hurt me and I decided right then that he was never going to be my friend.
I now had another problem as I walked around the living room in silent tears, sucking the blood out of the bite on my left hand. I could not disturb the nurse, Catherine who was definitely not my friend. She had made it clear to me by ignoring me and clucking incessantly over my brother, Ted, that she was not interested in me at all. So at all costs, I had to keep this injury out her sight or I was going to be in trouble with her.
I saw one of my father’s handkerchiefs that had been left on a small table and wrapped it tightly around my hand. Then I walked into my parents’ bedroom and climbed up on the bed trying not to think of the pain in my hand. Being in that bedroom put me as far away from Catherine as possible as she was giving my adopted brother his dinner in our bedroom which was on the other side of the apartment. After a while, I went back into the living room, found one of my books, climbed up on a chair and spread the book out on my knees so that I could put my injured hand under the book which helped to steady the book and then I could turn a page or two with the other hand.
It was a picture book of Goldilocks and the three bears. Somehow the story seemed a little familiar but yet opposite to the drama that was playing out in my living room right now. The bears were being thrown out of their beds by Goldilocks but in my life, the bear (Sandy) was throwing me out of his room. I thought, people were supposed to be in control of things, especially dogs. But I certainly was not in control of Sandy. Everything seemed to be upside down.
But the bigger issue was to stay out of Catherine’s sight and I managed to do that until my parents came home. As it was not too late, Ted, Catherine and I greeted Mom and Dad in the living room. I made an exaggerated point of keeping my left hand behind my back.
Catherine told Mother, “Both of them were good as gold”.
Mother looked at me. “What’s the matter with your hand, Patty?
“Nothing”.
Mother whirled on Catherine, “What happened?”
Catherine stared at Mother. “Well, Mrs. Marvin, I don’t know that anything happened.”
Mother stepped forward and pulled my hand out from my back and saw the bloodied handkerchief.
Her eyes drilled into me, “What happened?”
“Sandy bit me.”
“Catherine, get that wound attended to and then come talk to me. Alone.”
Catherine, silent and white as a sheet, bathed my hand and put antiseptic and a bandage on the place where I was to carry two scars on my left hand from then on. After Catherine bandaged my hand, and went to her conference with Mother, I went into the living room.
My Dad swept me up in his arms. “Now tell me what this was all about.”
I told him, sobbing, that I wanted to make friends with Sandy and that Catherine liked Ted and not me and that I didn’t have anyone to talk to. That I couldn’t even reach up to the radio to hear some music. I told him that I didn’t like being alone and that I felt that if I had Sandy as a friend, I wouldn’t feel so alone so much of the time.
He rocked me in his arms and told me he was sorry that I felt alone. He promised me he would spend more time with me and would make sure that Mother would not get angry with me over what happened. His eyes were misty but his hugs made me feel so much better that I hopped off his lap and asked him if he would put the radio on so I could listen to music. Some Big Band music flooded through the room and I began to dance. Nothing was upside down anymore. And to make things even better, Catherine didn’t work for us very long after that night.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Monday, January 26, 2009
Feeling Good!
Everybody loves compliments and I have been getting one compliment over and over again about my book, "Surviving High Society" that pleases me so much when I hear it!
That's when someone says, "It moves right along and I can't put it down!"
I've sold 100 of my own books by myself and that is the comment I get almost 100% of the time. It really makes me feel good.
That's when someone says, "It moves right along and I can't put it down!"
I've sold 100 of my own books by myself and that is the comment I get almost 100% of the time. It really makes me feel good.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Bank of America
What the hell has happened to the bank where my Dad was the proud head of the Trust Department?
When he served the bank in CT, it was called the Hartford Connecticut Bank& Trust Co. and had a sterling reputation that dated back to the 1700's. After Dad retired in 1950, the bank began to merge and merge and grow like an overripe tomato. At one point, it went on a gargantuan spending spree and got so obese that Fleet Bank had to buy it out. And then came more spending sprees when it became Bank of America which continued the spending spree. BOA bought some of the worst assets ever...Country Wide and Merrill Lynch. Overall lending practices made a sane person cry and dishonest/illiterate/naive people ran to the doors of BOA and its subsidiaries to get more and more loans based on no income, no assets and no job.
BOA has had two government infusions of taxpayer's money and is now, probably, going to ask for more money from the government because it's almost broke again with a truckload of toxic assets to boot! BOA's behavior over an extended period of time is a prime example of the actions that that got us into the present US financial dung hole. Horrifically, the dung hole has widened and has dragged most of the rest of the world down with us into the dirty pit that the we have dug so well. Unfortunately, the rest of the world had enough sleazebags to match the greedy pusses in our country so that this financial disaster touches most of the capital in the rest of the world. As of now, no light can be seen reaching to the bottom of this wretched hole.
For reasons not connected to the sleazebags of the past few years, I managed to get two family trusts that benefit me out of BOA into another bank that did not engage in the above nefarious practices.I had objected to high fees and low performance with income coming to me which is often accepted by other recipients of trust money. After all, for most people, trust money is "found money". But my monthly check is essential money for me. And I'm doubly blessed because I'm lucky I'm not dead so I can enjoy what I have!
I was a true pain in the ass to BOA for years and I'm sure that the Hartford Probate Court judge drew a deep breath whenever he saw my name on the calendar. It took years of persistent work to get those trusts out of BOA and I'm proud of my work.
So here's to the Boys of Aphidland......So long, goodbye,and hello t0 6% a year!
When he served the bank in CT, it was called the Hartford Connecticut Bank& Trust Co. and had a sterling reputation that dated back to the 1700's. After Dad retired in 1950, the bank began to merge and merge and grow like an overripe tomato. At one point, it went on a gargantuan spending spree and got so obese that Fleet Bank had to buy it out. And then came more spending sprees when it became Bank of America which continued the spending spree. BOA bought some of the worst assets ever...Country Wide and Merrill Lynch. Overall lending practices made a sane person cry and dishonest/illiterate/naive people ran to the doors of BOA and its subsidiaries to get more and more loans based on no income, no assets and no job.
BOA has had two government infusions of taxpayer's money and is now, probably, going to ask for more money from the government because it's almost broke again with a truckload of toxic assets to boot! BOA's behavior over an extended period of time is a prime example of the actions that that got us into the present US financial dung hole. Horrifically, the dung hole has widened and has dragged most of the rest of the world down with us into the dirty pit that the we have dug so well. Unfortunately, the rest of the world had enough sleazebags to match the greedy pusses in our country so that this financial disaster touches most of the capital in the rest of the world. As of now, no light can be seen reaching to the bottom of this wretched hole.
For reasons not connected to the sleazebags of the past few years, I managed to get two family trusts that benefit me out of BOA into another bank that did not engage in the above nefarious practices.I had objected to high fees and low performance with income coming to me which is often accepted by other recipients of trust money. After all, for most people, trust money is "found money". But my monthly check is essential money for me. And I'm doubly blessed because I'm lucky I'm not dead so I can enjoy what I have!
I was a true pain in the ass to BOA for years and I'm sure that the Hartford Probate Court judge drew a deep breath whenever he saw my name on the calendar. It took years of persistent work to get those trusts out of BOA and I'm proud of my work.
So here's to the Boys of Aphidland......So long, goodbye,and hello t0 6% a year!
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Responsibility
What a long word! What does it mean? Well, the dictionary talks about "Being morally accountable, and reliable". How long does it take one to truly understand the outlying borders or the nearest globule of such broad directives? My Dad, as I have discussed in "Surviving High Society" was the first one who taught me that usually whatever one does has a consequence and that in many cases, it makes sense to try to think a little about the consequences before you do or say something which could be significant.
In 1962, when I was 21 years old, I made a promise to my dying father that I would do whatever I could to protect my younger adoptive brother. I made the promise because I loved my father dearly and because I knew he needed to hear the promise. But I hoped and prayed I would not have to follow through on that promise.
And for a long time, I didn't have to do anything because Ted and I lived very different lives in different states. I had lived by the premise that if one lived responsibly on one's own (did not lie, or steal or cheat and did not do stupid things like getting stoned or drunk every night), that would be enough. I lived alone then and my responsibilities were just my own....no husband, no children.... just my cat, my car, my job, my mortgage, a few friends, etc.
The phone call came out of the blue from an adjoining state in 1983.
It was Ted and he was definitely in trouble. Drunk, living in a motel, he reported that he ate "One dozen fried eggs and a bottle of scotch for breakfast.....his main meal of the day." We talked for a bit and I got the name of the motel and his phone number. After putting the phone down, I cried for five minutes.
And I remembered the promise I had made to my ashen faced father who would die eight months later. What could I possibly do for this man, this brother, I barely knew? There were so many reasons why I was unable to help. I had no medical degree, no expertise in alcohol abuse, no fortune I just could dip into and just support him. I lived 150 miles away and dreaded the idea of trying to find his motel in Boston. I had many commitments to an organization in the town I lived in. I felt as if I was being asked to be a good Samaritan and I wasn't sure I wanted to do that. How involved was it all going to be?
As I cried, my Dad's face kept coming up in front of me. He had been the most moral and reliable man that I had ever known. And I had made that promise. I kept trying not to remember that I had done that. Robert Frost's verse kept pushing its way into my head. "But I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep." I had gone many miles and had slept many sound nights. Now it was time to keep a promise.
Drying my tears, I picked up the phone again, dialed the Bank and asked for Ted's trust officer. I started a conversation to see what could be done for him. There was much that had to be done over the years. But I never regretted making that call.
In 1962, when I was 21 years old, I made a promise to my dying father that I would do whatever I could to protect my younger adoptive brother. I made the promise because I loved my father dearly and because I knew he needed to hear the promise. But I hoped and prayed I would not have to follow through on that promise.
And for a long time, I didn't have to do anything because Ted and I lived very different lives in different states. I had lived by the premise that if one lived responsibly on one's own (did not lie, or steal or cheat and did not do stupid things like getting stoned or drunk every night), that would be enough. I lived alone then and my responsibilities were just my own....no husband, no children.... just my cat, my car, my job, my mortgage, a few friends, etc.
The phone call came out of the blue from an adjoining state in 1983.
It was Ted and he was definitely in trouble. Drunk, living in a motel, he reported that he ate "One dozen fried eggs and a bottle of scotch for breakfast.....his main meal of the day." We talked for a bit and I got the name of the motel and his phone number. After putting the phone down, I cried for five minutes.
And I remembered the promise I had made to my ashen faced father who would die eight months later. What could I possibly do for this man, this brother, I barely knew? There were so many reasons why I was unable to help. I had no medical degree, no expertise in alcohol abuse, no fortune I just could dip into and just support him. I lived 150 miles away and dreaded the idea of trying to find his motel in Boston. I had many commitments to an organization in the town I lived in. I felt as if I was being asked to be a good Samaritan and I wasn't sure I wanted to do that. How involved was it all going to be?
As I cried, my Dad's face kept coming up in front of me. He had been the most moral and reliable man that I had ever known. And I had made that promise. I kept trying not to remember that I had done that. Robert Frost's verse kept pushing its way into my head. "But I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep." I had gone many miles and had slept many sound nights. Now it was time to keep a promise.
Drying my tears, I picked up the phone again, dialed the Bank and asked for Ted's trust officer. I started a conversation to see what could be done for him. There was much that had to be done over the years. But I never regretted making that call.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
The Gavel Has Been Passed Again
The gavel has been passed again. To a leader who faces wars, financial distress and conflicts outside our borders which threaten to undermine our way of life and life on this planet itself. At home, we face a crisis of confidence that we cannot pull ourselves out of a seeming endlessly deepening hole of miseries.
But I have confidence that this slim, handsome, educated man believes in his core that working with our brains to encircle those who might now oppose us and using our assets to lift up those willing to work is the only way to emerge from the gloom we now see around us. It will not be the work of six months or four years. President Obama has set us on a path that will stretch down many years.
As the President has asked that the nation reflect on service to others, I pledge to put my hand with renewed vigor to the task that I have set myself: to inform others of my life so that they will not make my mistakes nor suffer the results of the harm that others pushed on me.
In that way, I shall bear witness to a cornerstone of this nation which is to speak the truth.
And you and I will be freer because of the witness I have just begun.
But I have confidence that this slim, handsome, educated man believes in his core that working with our brains to encircle those who might now oppose us and using our assets to lift up those willing to work is the only way to emerge from the gloom we now see around us. It will not be the work of six months or four years. President Obama has set us on a path that will stretch down many years.
As the President has asked that the nation reflect on service to others, I pledge to put my hand with renewed vigor to the task that I have set myself: to inform others of my life so that they will not make my mistakes nor suffer the results of the harm that others pushed on me.
In that way, I shall bear witness to a cornerstone of this nation which is to speak the truth.
And you and I will be freer because of the witness I have just begun.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Angels
I just had an angel walk in my open door. I wasn't wishing for it but somehow she knew she needed to help me. I was wrestling with a problem and then, basically out of the blue came some good advice without my even asking for it.
I feel so warm all over. Just the way I felt when I was with my Dad and I knew I was safe. But sometimes, now, my first angel, my Dad can't communicate with me the way he used to do. So I guess he just asked this other gal to step into his place, at least for a little while.
I feel so warm all over. Just the way I felt when I was with my Dad and I knew I was safe. But sometimes, now, my first angel, my Dad can't communicate with me the way he used to do. So I guess he just asked this other gal to step into his place, at least for a little while.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Memorial Services
I just went to a memorial service for someone I did not know very well in a club in which I have membership There were about 125 people in a large hall.
The service was almost two hours long and nine relatives spoke at varying lengths. They aged from about 4-63. Everyone single one of them cried except, one, the four year old who could not pronounce most of the words from the Bible verses that were held for him to read. The seventeen year old read his essay for a college admisssions forms titled "The Person Who Has Influenced Me Most". Of course , he had learned all of his grandmother's teachings perfectly and was very proud of that fact. One adult had to leave the stage because he could not stop crying.
Of the five other people who spoke, three cried and one had forgotten to bring the poem she had intended to read. So she winged it and ended with a sob. The youngest children, by this point, were crying in the audience in various states of frustration.
At my father's funeral, which 1800 people attended, no one cried from the pulpit, and no family members spoke. But two of Dad's good friends spoke and and also related some humerous stories about him. The traditional church service lasted about an hour.
Different strikes for different folks!
The service was almost two hours long and nine relatives spoke at varying lengths. They aged from about 4-63. Everyone single one of them cried except, one, the four year old who could not pronounce most of the words from the Bible verses that were held for him to read. The seventeen year old read his essay for a college admisssions forms titled "The Person Who Has Influenced Me Most". Of course , he had learned all of his grandmother's teachings perfectly and was very proud of that fact. One adult had to leave the stage because he could not stop crying.
Of the five other people who spoke, three cried and one had forgotten to bring the poem she had intended to read. So she winged it and ended with a sob. The youngest children, by this point, were crying in the audience in various states of frustration.
At my father's funeral, which 1800 people attended, no one cried from the pulpit, and no family members spoke. But two of Dad's good friends spoke and and also related some humerous stories about him. The traditional church service lasted about an hour.
Different strikes for different folks!
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Old murders
I see on the Web that a deal has been made over the last nude and semi-nude photos that were taken of Marilyn Monroe. I am not alone when I say that she was murdered. Suffice it to say that she "died" on the Sunday before she planned to give a news conference about a lot of the details of her relationships with John K. and Bobby K. She had announced that briefing publicly the previous Thursday.
All this reminds me of the plot that my mother made with a psych hospital which turned into an attempted murder plot. She was to give them a lot of money and they were to keep me there for life. If I had stayed, the drugs they were giving me, in a deliberate plan, would have killed me. All that effort and they didn't get the money and I have proof of what they did!
I don't think that people who try to murder other people are very nice.
What do you think?
All this reminds me of the plot that my mother made with a psych hospital which turned into an attempted murder plot. She was to give them a lot of money and they were to keep me there for life. If I had stayed, the drugs they were giving me, in a deliberate plan, would have killed me. All that effort and they didn't get the money and I have proof of what they did!
I don't think that people who try to murder other people are very nice.
What do you think?
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Kate Hepburn
My husband says that I am often at my best when I follow the dictum "Damn the torpedoes and full speed ahead!"
That's exactly the way Kate Hepburn conducted her life. And it's not surprising that I do the same thing as Kate although I do try to think of consequences when I charge ahead. Kate and and I were brought up in the same communityas both our families settled in Hartford, Ct and had summer homes in the Borough of Fenwick, which is a section of the town of Old Saybrook, CT.
Kate's niece, Kathy ("Guess Who's Coming to Dinner") and I were childhood playmates and spent lots of time in Kate's house in Fenwick together. In my book, "Surviving High Society" I relate a few unknown stories about Kate.
Kate was absolutely determined to live life exactly as she wanted to and she did. The fact that other people had rights similar to hers was something she didn't think very much about. She was Kate and that was that.
That's exactly the way Kate Hepburn conducted her life. And it's not surprising that I do the same thing as Kate although I do try to think of consequences when I charge ahead. Kate and and I were brought up in the same communityas both our families settled in Hartford, Ct and had summer homes in the Borough of Fenwick, which is a section of the town of Old Saybrook, CT.
Kate's niece, Kathy ("Guess Who's Coming to Dinner") and I were childhood playmates and spent lots of time in Kate's house in Fenwick together. In my book, "Surviving High Society" I relate a few unknown stories about Kate.
Kate was absolutely determined to live life exactly as she wanted to and she did. The fact that other people had rights similar to hers was something she didn't think very much about. She was Kate and that was that.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
What kind of mutt was I?
When I was born, I was an unwanted mutt. But what kind?
Declared "illegitimate" at birth and rushed into an adoption agency less than 24 hours later, I was a "non-person". The nurses, at least gave me a name: Della. But later I got another name: Patricia Elizabeth. And I became a debutante in high society and went to a fancy debutante ball in a beautiful debutante dress.
But who was I?
Sherlock Holmes would have loved this: I found out I am related to my adopted family. So the unwanted mutt turned out be a legitimate part of high society!
Declared "illegitimate" at birth and rushed into an adoption agency less than 24 hours later, I was a "non-person". The nurses, at least gave me a name: Della. But later I got another name: Patricia Elizabeth. And I became a debutante in high society and went to a fancy debutante ball in a beautiful debutante dress.
But who was I?
Sherlock Holmes would have loved this: I found out I am related to my adopted family. So the unwanted mutt turned out be a legitimate part of high society!
Friday, January 9, 2009
So you think it's easy to be rich?
Rest in Peace, Maybe
You would think that the rich, after a long and prosperous life would rest well in death. It ain’t necessarily so.
In 1941, my Mother decided to build a family mausoleum that would contain her parents and our family and a number of our descendants. She approached the appropriate committee of our local cemetery, which was established in 1866 and encompasses about 270 acres. It contains the remains of a number of distinguished individuals. Many of them, including Katharine Hepburn, who is buried not far from our plot, were famous the world over.
Mother picked out a corner lot that backed up to a small pond, which is owned by the Cemetery. It had remained vacant for a long time. The Cemetery Association had put a very high price on it due to the location and its vicinity to the small pond, which was an extraordinary backdrop for any structure.The Association sold the lot to Mother on the condition that they would have a final say over whether or not the proposed structure would properly enhance the beautiful setting. If, in their opinion it did not enhance the property, they would not allow it to be built. Mother agreed to all of the Cemetery Association’s conditions.
The Association’s members were delighted with the plans presented for our family mausoleum and work began on it. In later years, the design won a national award for such structures. Mother arranged to have the caskets of her mother and father brought from Cleveland and they rested in the Cemetery’s chapel while the new mausoleum was being built. Upon completion of the mausoleum the two caskets were re-interred in the wall of the left side of the mausoleum.
When completed, there was room for four caskets on each side of two opposing walls of marble with room for three more in the floor. Several more plots are available in the lawn in front of the front steps. A marble shelf rests below the window that looks out onto the Cemetery pond. The structure is encased in Vermont granite with two steps leading up to elaborately carved solid bronze doors that were made to order in Italy. Two Doric granite columns guard the doors.
Sometime in the seventies, the spokesman for the cemetery called Mother to tell her that some serious damage had been done to the bronze doors. An employee who had been fired by the Cemetery and who knew where all the “special care” monuments were placed decided to take revenge on his former employer. He took a loaded shotgun and fired at every single monument which had had special monies donated by their families for perpetual care. Both doors of our mausoleum took the full brunt of a frontal attack from that shotgun. It was thought at first that one side could not be repaired. Both of the doors were taken down. The mausoleum was boarded up and the doors were sent back to Italy to be repaired. In six months they came back and were re-installed. On the more badly damaged door, the bronze decoration was taken off, turned around, repaired and replaced so the more heavily damaged side was now facing to the inside of the mausoleum so that the damage would not be so easily noticed.
When my husband and I returned in November 2007 to inter my brother’s ashes, the superintendent engaged us in a conversation on the lawn as the some workers tried to remove the slab so Ted’s ashes could be interred. Unfortunately, the necessary skilled workers were not available so we had to leave my brother’s ashes on the shelf until the superintendant found the proper help to remove the slab after we left for our home 1200 miles away the next day.
After the discussion of the shotgun attack had been reviewed, the superintendant said, “Oh, you heard about the other door incident, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“The one that happened about four years ago?”
“No, no one notified me about that. Please tell me about it.”
“Well, one morning our workmen were just making their usual rounds first thing in the morning and they saw large tire tracks gouged into this lawn up to the steps of you mausoleum.”
“What kind of tracks?”
“Well, it looked as if it might have been a pretty heavy pick-up truck. We found a piece of the rope they had used.”
“Rope?”
“Yeah, we figure they came up here, put heavy ropes around the handles of the doors, attached the rope to the pick-up truck and then they tried to pull the bronze door off your mausoleum. Bronze doors like that can bring pretty good money as decoration. Or, at the very least, they could have sold the bronze as scrap metal.”
I was speechless.
Jim said, “Well you have to be pretty desperate to try something like that!”
“Yeah,” laughed the supervisor. “Equal parts drunk and/or stupid too!”
He continued, “You’ll notice, Mrs. Mulholland, that we took the handles off the door so someone can’t try that again.” As the doors had been swung open so the workmen could enter before we had arrived, I had not noticed that the handles were gone. When I looked back and looked at the doors, it did, indeed, look a little strange. One’s eye notices that something about the symmetry of the doors is amiss.
“What did you do with the handles?
“Oh, I think we just threw them away.”
I didn’t know what to say.
The supervisor added another little bit as we turned toward the car. “We also decided to put bullet proof Plexiglas over the window facing the pond because the kids come out here and use mausoleum windows as BB gun targets.”
You would think that the rich, after a long and prosperous life would rest well in death. It ain’t necessarily so.
In 1941, my Mother decided to build a family mausoleum that would contain her parents and our family and a number of our descendants. She approached the appropriate committee of our local cemetery, which was established in 1866 and encompasses about 270 acres. It contains the remains of a number of distinguished individuals. Many of them, including Katharine Hepburn, who is buried not far from our plot, were famous the world over.
Mother picked out a corner lot that backed up to a small pond, which is owned by the Cemetery. It had remained vacant for a long time. The Cemetery Association had put a very high price on it due to the location and its vicinity to the small pond, which was an extraordinary backdrop for any structure.The Association sold the lot to Mother on the condition that they would have a final say over whether or not the proposed structure would properly enhance the beautiful setting. If, in their opinion it did not enhance the property, they would not allow it to be built. Mother agreed to all of the Cemetery Association’s conditions.
The Association’s members were delighted with the plans presented for our family mausoleum and work began on it. In later years, the design won a national award for such structures. Mother arranged to have the caskets of her mother and father brought from Cleveland and they rested in the Cemetery’s chapel while the new mausoleum was being built. Upon completion of the mausoleum the two caskets were re-interred in the wall of the left side of the mausoleum.
When completed, there was room for four caskets on each side of two opposing walls of marble with room for three more in the floor. Several more plots are available in the lawn in front of the front steps. A marble shelf rests below the window that looks out onto the Cemetery pond. The structure is encased in Vermont granite with two steps leading up to elaborately carved solid bronze doors that were made to order in Italy. Two Doric granite columns guard the doors.
Sometime in the seventies, the spokesman for the cemetery called Mother to tell her that some serious damage had been done to the bronze doors. An employee who had been fired by the Cemetery and who knew where all the “special care” monuments were placed decided to take revenge on his former employer. He took a loaded shotgun and fired at every single monument which had had special monies donated by their families for perpetual care. Both doors of our mausoleum took the full brunt of a frontal attack from that shotgun. It was thought at first that one side could not be repaired. Both of the doors were taken down. The mausoleum was boarded up and the doors were sent back to Italy to be repaired. In six months they came back and were re-installed. On the more badly damaged door, the bronze decoration was taken off, turned around, repaired and replaced so the more heavily damaged side was now facing to the inside of the mausoleum so that the damage would not be so easily noticed.
When my husband and I returned in November 2007 to inter my brother’s ashes, the superintendent engaged us in a conversation on the lawn as the some workers tried to remove the slab so Ted’s ashes could be interred. Unfortunately, the necessary skilled workers were not available so we had to leave my brother’s ashes on the shelf until the superintendant found the proper help to remove the slab after we left for our home 1200 miles away the next day.
After the discussion of the shotgun attack had been reviewed, the superintendant said, “Oh, you heard about the other door incident, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“The one that happened about four years ago?”
“No, no one notified me about that. Please tell me about it.”
“Well, one morning our workmen were just making their usual rounds first thing in the morning and they saw large tire tracks gouged into this lawn up to the steps of you mausoleum.”
“What kind of tracks?”
“Well, it looked as if it might have been a pretty heavy pick-up truck. We found a piece of the rope they had used.”
“Rope?”
“Yeah, we figure they came up here, put heavy ropes around the handles of the doors, attached the rope to the pick-up truck and then they tried to pull the bronze door off your mausoleum. Bronze doors like that can bring pretty good money as decoration. Or, at the very least, they could have sold the bronze as scrap metal.”
I was speechless.
Jim said, “Well you have to be pretty desperate to try something like that!”
“Yeah,” laughed the supervisor. “Equal parts drunk and/or stupid too!”
He continued, “You’ll notice, Mrs. Mulholland, that we took the handles off the door so someone can’t try that again.” As the doors had been swung open so the workmen could enter before we had arrived, I had not noticed that the handles were gone. When I looked back and looked at the doors, it did, indeed, look a little strange. One’s eye notices that something about the symmetry of the doors is amiss.
“What did you do with the handles?
“Oh, I think we just threw them away.”
I didn’t know what to say.
The supervisor added another little bit as we turned toward the car. “We also decided to put bullet proof Plexiglas over the window facing the pond because the kids come out here and use mausoleum windows as BB gun targets.”
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