After reading the first paragraph, did you say to yourself, quietly or out loud, “Gee, wish I’d been there”?
If you were offered a large amount of money, would you refuse to endorse sportswear made in Italy?
If you were offered a large amount of money, would you refuse to endorse anything?
—January 12, 1981
Car Questions
I’m a career girl in a man’s world.
I’m a career girl and I can make my own way.
Go ahead baby, do your thing
Go ahead baby, do your thing.
—“Career Girl,” by Carrie Lucas
The Ford automobile heiresses Anne and Charlotte Ford have written a book about motorcars (though only Ford cars are featured in the drawings and photographs in the book), called How to Love the Car in Your Life. The book, which they wrote with the assistance of two professional writers, has fifty-nine pages and is unquestionably useful. It tells the reader what to do about backseat drivers, seating arrangements, conversation in the car, neatness, smoking, eating in the car, cats and dogs in the car, buying gasoline, opening the door for a woman, getting directions, travelling with children, entering the freeway, pulling off the road. But perhaps the most useful thing about it is that it is a guide to what to say to Anne or Charlotte Ford at a party.
Guest to Anne or Charlotte Ford: “What is an automatic transaxle?”
Anne or Charlotte Ford to guest: “An automatic transaxle makes automatic shifting available in small front-wheel-drive cars equipped with transaxles.”
Guest to Anne or Charlotte Ford: “What is a dipstick?”
Anne or Charlotte Ford to guest: “A thin metal rod used to check an engine’s oil level.”
Guest to Anne or Charlotte Ford: “What is a jack?”
Anne or Charlotte Ford to guest: “If you don’t want to be your own demolition derby, it’s important to know that proper positioning of the jack varies from car to car.”
The other day, the people at the Ford Motor Company threw a cocktail party for Anne and Charlotte Ford at the new Palace Hotel. Almost all the guests there looked as though they never drove themselves anywhere, or, if they did, they didn’t actually have to. Anne, who studies political science at the New School, wore a short, snazzy-looking black dress. Charlotte, an acclaimed designer of women’s clothing and the author of a book on etiquette, also wore a short, snazzy-looking black dress. Governor Carey was there, and as he stood between Anne and Charlotte Ford and posed for photographers he looked less like a governor, though not like a mayor. Former Mayor Wagner was there, and he looked like a mayor and a governor and a President all rolled into one. Anne and Charlotte Ford’s children were there, and they were very friendly. Anne Ford’s piano teacher was there, and he was very nice and said a lot of nice things about her. About Charlotte Ford we heard a woman who is in the public-relations department of the Ford Motor Company say to the Ford account executive at the Wells, Rich, Greene ad agency, “Only you would appreciate this story of one-upmanship. The other day, I was up at Charlotte’s apartment and we were going over the guest list. She came to Mary Wells’ name and she said, ‘My God! I’ve never met Mary Wells Lawrence.’ And so I said, ‘Well, I have, ha, ha, ha.’ Of course, you know Charlotte is very interested in women who make it on their own, and for that Mary Wells is the ultimate role model.”
—January 19, 1981
Tableware
Just before she left the house the other morning, said Letitia Baldridge, who has revised and expanded The Amy Vanderbilt Complete Book of Etiquette, to a roomful of tableware manufacturers and merchandisers, her husband said to her, “My God! Who would want to hear you at this hour?” Miss Baldridge, a large, pink-faced woman, said this with such comic skill that the whole roomful of tableware manufacturers and merchandisers laughed extremely hard. Miss Baldridge told them that she went to Vassar, and received a B.A., but the funny thing about going to college was that when she graduated she couldn’t type, she couldn’t take shorthand, and she couldn’t file. The roomful of tableware manufacturers and merchandisers let that pass. Then, said Miss Baldridge, she went to work for Ambassador David Bruce and his wife, Evangeline, at the United States Embassy in Paris. Evangeline Bruce, she said, was an incredible woman, who could speak seven languages by the time she was seventeen, cared very much about how a table looked, and would always take care of the table setting herself. But then once, for some reason or other, Miss Baldridge had to take care of the table setting all by herself. At this particular dinner, there were more men than women, so some of the men had to be seated next to each other. Well, when they all sat down, it turned out that Miss Baldridge had seated one of the top ambassadors next to his wife’s lover, and, because the ambassador and his wife and his wife’s lover were an open secret, everybody at the dinner almost passed out. And so did the roomful of tableware manufacturers and merchandisers; again they laughed extremely hard. When something like this happens, she said, you don’t cry about it, because then it only gets worse. After that, she told about working for Ambassadress Clare Boothe Luce, in Italy. This was soon after the Second World War, and what an experience that was! The Italians were so baroque, the dollar was tops, and the Luces were wonderful. Miss Baldridge, on the other hand, had her problems. There was the time she introduced the Pakistani Ambassador to a party of Italians as the Indian Ambassador. That didn’t go down too well with the Pakistani Ambassador, naturally, but it got a big laugh from the roomful of tableware manufacturers and merchandisers. And the time when, for the first dinner she organized, everything was white—everything: the dishes, the soup, the wine. It wasn’t funny then, but it got a big laugh now. And the time she served some Mormons a dinner they couldn’t eat: the soup had sherry in it, and the fish had been cooked in white wine, the meat in red wine, the dessert in cognac. It wasn’t funny then, but it was sidesplitting now. Winding up, Miss Baldridge told about working for Tiffany’s, and how once, for a display, she ordered some exotic birds, and how they escaped from their cage, causing near-havoc on the third floor, which was filled with fine crystal and china. For that, the roomful of tableware manufacturers and merchandisers had lots of sharp intakes of breath. Miss Baldridge told about working in the White House for Mrs. Jacqueline Kennedy, and what a great decorator and restorer Mrs. Kennedy was, and how conscious of the tableware she was. The roomful of tableware manufacturers and merchandisers emitted some “Ah!”s. Then Miss Baldridge said that it was a wonderful world and an affirmative world, and the roomful of tableware manufacturers and merchandisers applauded wildly, as if they were surprised and grateful that someone could feel that way after a life filled with table settings.
—January 26, 1981
Prince
Late one afternoon, the Crown Prince of Benin, his uncle, an anthropology professor named Flora S. Kaplan, some men who are associated in one way or another with the Royal Court of Benin, some American men who are associated in one way or another with foundation endowments and grants, a still photographer, and a motion-picture photographer went to the Grey Art Gallery at New York University to see an exhibit of art objects from the Royal Court of Benin. The art objects, which are extremely beautiful, are now owned by people none of whom are African.
(Information, taken mostly from the press release that came in the mail: Benin today is the capital of Bendel State, in the Federal Republic of Nigeria; it is a city reposing in a high tropical rain forest eighty miles west of the Niger River. In precolonial times, Benin was the political and cultural center of a vast kingdom known as Benin, which flourished from the thirteenth century until the British Punitive Expedition of 1897; the present Benin is to be distinguished from the People’s Republic of Benin, which used to be called Dahomey, and which borders Nigeria on the west. The Benin monarchy has continued in an unbroken line of descent for over five hundred and fifty years, and a new Oba, or Divine King, was installed in 1979. Many of Benin’s historical rituals are still observed.)
T
he visit went something like this: Dr. Kaplan, who was responsible for the exhibit in the first place and so was officiating more as a hostess than as an anthropology professor, gathered around her the Crown Prince, his uncle, the men of the Benin court, and the men of the endowments and grants, so that they could all have their picture taken. Dr. Kaplan, who seemed notably energetic and notably eager, said to the Crown Prince, “There has never been a museum exhibition of this kind in New York, but I wanted to make people in this country aware of the culture and history of Benin. Many people in this country don’t have a sense of geography or history. To us, history is two years old. Since Nigeria is so important to us, since Africa is so important to us, I really felt we should make this contribution.”
The Crown Prince, who had said that he was a graduate of the University of Wales, and that he was in the United States to acquire knowledge and to broaden his horizon, nodded vigorously at Dr. Kaplan.
The Crown Prince then walked around the room. He said that as a boy he was always being reminded of who he was, that he was never allowed to go about alone, that he was never allowed to eat food outside his home or food that his family had not prepared for him, and that he was always being told whom to see and whom not to see. Everyone listened to him as he talked.
Then one of the endowments-and-grants men asked, “What is the distance from Benin to Lagos?”
“Seven hours’ drive,” the Crown Prince answered.
“What direction?” the same man asked.
“West,” the Crown Prince answered.
“I am trying to place in my own mind the Kingdom of Benin in Nigerian life,” said the man.
“Benin existed before Nigeria,” said the Crown Prince.
“It’s a hairline, isn’t it—a delicate balance between the old and the new?” said the man.
“Yes,” said the Crown Prince.
Dr. Kaplan, who had left the Crown Prince and the other men for a moment, now rejoined them. She looked around her, then turned to the Crown Prince, smiled, and said, “It must be an interesting feeling to come in here and see so much of home.”
“Ha, ha, ha, yes,” laughed and said the Crown Prince.
—April 20, 1981
Notes and Comment
Early this year, a Frenchman commandeered a helicopter and ordered it flown to a prison outside Paris, where he helped two friends, who were inmates at the time, escape. A few days later, one of the inmates was captured. Recently, the two other men were caught, hiding out in Spain. We saw a report of this on television with a friend. Our friend said, “Wow, that was so daring I am all for it.” We could see what he meant. We could see it so clearly that we have made a list of our own of things that are so daring—well …
Instead of adding books to school libraries, removing books from school libraries: so daring I’m all for it.
A Secretary of the Interior who actually hates the interior: so daring I’m all for it.
Someone who is against a human-rights policy chosen to be in charge of our human-rights policy: so daring I’m all for it.
Phil Donahue: so daring I’m all for it.
Mayor Koch: so daring I’m all for it.
Reviving the HUAC: so daring I’m all for it.
Abandoning the Voting Rights Act: so daring I’m all for it.
Revoking the Clean Air Act: so daring I’m all for it.
Suing your parents: so daring I’m all for it.
Writing a book in which you reveal sensational and shameful details of your personal life: so daring I’m all for it.
Tearing down a beautiful old building and putting in its place an ugly new building: so daring I’m all for it.
The arms race: so daring I’m all for it.
World War III: so daring I’m all for it.
—July 27, 1981
The Apprentice
A woman we know who takes a deep interest in clothes and the fabrics that they are made up in, and who, it seems, occasionally makes herself a dress or a pair of trousers or a blouse, invited us to go “look at some cloth,” as she put it. On our way, she said, “On the day I turned seven, my mother gave me a copy of the Concise Oxford Dictionary, and in it she wrote, ‘To my darling daughter, with love, Mamie.’ And also she said, ‘Miss Doreen can take you now.’ Miss Doreen was a seamstress. She wasn’t my seamstress and she wasn’t my mother’s seamstress, though sometimes she was asked to make my everyday school uniform. What my mother meant by her taking me now was that I could begin to be her new apprentice. We lived on a small island in the Caribbean, and everyone I knew then was apprenticing to someone—the girls to cooks or seamstresses or housekeepers, the boys to carpenters or mechanics or men busy at some other thing that men do. My father was a carpenter, and some boy’s mother was always at our house asking if the boy could become my father’s apprentice. My father’s apprentice had to carry my father’s toolbox and walk behind my father, and he couldn’t stop and talk to people while he was with my father. At the time I began with Miss Doreen, I already knew how to sew on a button, and how to sew two things together, using a simple in-and-out stitch. But that made no difference to her. This is what she had me do: for the first few months, at the end of every sewing day it was my job to sweep up the floors, which were always covered with threads and scraps of cloth; I dusted her sewing machine; and at the end of every week I polished its mahogany cabinet. It was almost a year before I could tie off the ends of threads on the wrong side of a dress, and then only if it was a child’s everyday dress. It was years before I was allowed to go to the store with a sample of cloth and buy the matching-color thread for it. I was fourteen years old before I was asked to hem a woman’s Sunday dress. In between all these things, though, she showed me how to make buttonholes, how to cut on the bias, how to make a gathered skirt, how to make pleats. When she worked, she would purse her lips; and she was very bony—her collarbones really stuck out. I would go to see her on Tuesdays and Thursdays from four to six when I had school, and from one o’clock to three o’lock three days a week during school holidays. I never saw her on weekends. She was a Seventh Day Adventist. She charged five shillings to make a woman’s dress and two shillings and sixpence to make a child’s dress. I haven’t seen her in years. I don’t know what it is she does now. I don’t know if she is dead or alive.”
At the fabric store, a large, barnlike room filled with rows and rows of bolts of cloth stacked on top of each other in a disorderly way, our friend said, “It’s all been changed since I was here last. They used to keep linen here.” She pointed to a place where there were bolts of silky-looking material. “I haven’t been here in years, so everything must have changed. There used to be a man who worked here—I liked him. He was always so nice to me. He would always go in the back and bring me some piece of fabric that he thought I would like. Once, he showed me the most beautiful piece of French silk crêpe. It was pink with large blue flowers. I used to like to stand and watch him cut the cloth. He had little tufts of hair growing in his ears. Of course, the thing about this place is that you can find wonderful fabric, and none of it is too dear. Now I shall just walk by and look.”
Our friend walked along the aisles. She tugged at and shuffled between her fingers taffeta, silk, organza, wool, cotton, crepe de Chine, gabardine, wool challis. She held some of these fabrics up against her body, and she seemed on the verge of buying yards of red and pink plain cotton. She said, “None of this is really right. It’s none of it exactly what I want. I know just what I want. Or I will know it when I see it. What I guess I really want is some handkerchief linen. But they don’t have any handkerchief linen here. Usually, it costs fifteen dollars a yard. They have some nice gingham. I like gingham a lot, though only in a certain way. When I was little, I had many dresses made up in gingham. Some of them were decorated with braid and some of them with smocking. At my school, the girls were allowed to wear dresses on Fridays. Also on Fridays, the person who was the best student for the week would receive from the teacher a smal
l prize. It might be a two-tone rubber eraser or a special notebook, made in France. For a long time, almost every week I was the best student. If I wasn’t the best student, I was the second-best student, but usually I was the best. This made some other girls annoyed at me, and on one Friday afternoon, when I went into the bathroom, they came with me. Then they picked me up and tried to flush me away. Feet first, thank God. On that day, I was wearing one of my gingham dresses.”
—August 17, 1981
Meeting
One evening recently:
In the ballroom (an ordinary-looking ballroom, with large star-bursting-up-shaped lamps hanging from the ceiling) of the new Vista International New York Hotel (situated at the World Trade Center, and the newest United States hotel in the chain of Hilton International Hotels), there were two hundred and eighty people, most of them the managers of Hilton hotels and their wives, and then there was Catherine Tritsch, the managing editor of Successful Meetings, which is a magazine for corporation and association people who plan meetings. The Hilton managers and their wives had spent the last few days meeting each other in a business-conference way and meeting each other over meals. Now, in the ballroom, they were meeting to eat a dinner of clam chowder, steamed clams, boiled lobster, boiled ears of corn, and watermelon.
Catherine Tritsch, the managing editor of Successful Meetings, said to us, “People think that the people who go to conventions don’t eat well. The theory is that they are rubes, they don’t know good food. But it’s not true. People who go to conventions are high-income people, and they are very professional.”
Talk Stories Page 15