On Knowing One's Place

Twigs is the name given to the women’s auxiliary of Winthrope hospital. I have never known, or thought to ask why they call themselves Twigs—but it is irrelevant to the story. The important thing is they do good work and it is an organization charged with fundraising. One of their most popular fundraising events is the Golden Goose Gala—a 2 day event which includes a Christmas boutique and house tour. If you live in Garden City, the house tour is a big deal.

The house tour is simply this: several very well appointed, well designed, House Beautiful-Architectural Digest-like homes from several  sections of town are opened up to the public to tour. Each home typically represents the best of its geographic location—size of the home does not matter.  And it is a great philanthropic event for several reasons: first because the ticket price is nearly 100% profit—there is very little overhead because people donate the use of their homes-- and secondly, people by nature like to be nosy and welcome the opportunity to snoop for a good cause. Garden City people eat it up.

To pull the event off properly, women volunteer to be guides or better put, traffic cops—because since it is such a popular event, often there are long lines to get through the home, and the volunteers aid in keeping the flow as fluid as possible.

I have been a house volunteer twice. But the most memorable time was when I was a volunteer at Nancy McDonald’s house--- a magnificent salt box colonial in the southeast section of town. Nancy’s house was and is insanely well done. Even the boxwoods know only to grow with her permission. It is not a large home by Garden City standards, but it is an elegant fusion of form, function and aesthetics—it was and is, house tour worthy.

My station was at the top of the second floor landing—I was the gatekeeper if you will-- my job was to make sure that people coming to the second floor did not exceed a reasonable number. And because word about the beauty of Nancy’s home spread throughout town, the crowd was large and the line was long. And as my station was as gatekeeper, to quell tempers, I engaged in light conversation with those who waited in line.

But there was one conversation in particular that I had that has stayed with me for about 20 years now. During the peak of crowd activity, a very well dressed older woman, probably in her late 60’s early seventies, was stopped right in front of me. I would describe her this way—puckered at both ends. She was a born and bred Garden City-an. She had lineage. She had old money—she used the must and mildew of her money as face powder. She was self-important.

This woman, stood at the top of the stairwell and remarked to me Well well this is simply a lovely home—especially for this part of town (you know because the southeast is such a ghetto with its million dollar colonials and tudors---but I didn’t say that—I knew my place). And then she said Who owns this home? And I said Nancy Mc Donald. And she said Oh I don’t know that I have never heard of her—is she from the blah blah blah line of Mc Donalds? And I said Oh I really wouldn’t know. And she was a little bit peeved with my lack of knowledge to which she then asked—and this was the killer question—this was the one that will stick with me forever—this well dressed, purely bred woman who spoke with jaws so tightly clenched that even a toothpick would not fit—turned to me and said Should I know Mrs. McDonald? And I said nothing but I clearly looked puzzled and so she asked again Dear…should I know Mrs. Mc Donald—is it important that I know her? And I was so taken back with the outrageousness of the question that I stuttered a lot of uhh hum uh I don’t know maybe?

 And then it was over. Another volunteer gave me the signal to let some more people up the stairwell and this woman and her posse of well-dressed woman of lineage and old money passed me by. And I mean they really passed me by. I stood in her must and mildew-y born and bred dust. They lived in a world far far away from mine. It was the first time I felt like a pauper. That woman made me feel like an insignificant gnat. I thought by the nature of the fact that I could afford to live in this town I was equal with all its residents but apparently I was not. And it was humbling. And I gave the newsflash all my friends who like Nancy McDonald and I lived in the south east corner of Garden City—an area this woman probably locked her car door when she drove through (that is if she ever drove over this way because it was so beneath her) that we lived in the ghetto of Garden City and were not terribly important. And until I had I told them this, my friends had had no idea of their lack of worth.