4. Who put the skis here? They belong in the ski rack, too.
6. Every time the keys fall off, Mrs. Gibbs picks them up. Not because she’s a stickler for neatness but because she’s afraid Henry will eat them.
2. Daddy’s boots. And an extra pair; no one seems to know where they came from.
5. Connie? Where are your ski boots? Did you leave them in the car again?
3. Ski poles should be in the ski rack.
10. Henry in his “Sphinx” pose.
11. His water bowl and toy positioned to trip us.
13. Umbrella stand from our old apartment on 74th between Park and Lexington. Doesn’t really belong here, but where else do we put our golf umbrella and butterfly net?
7. We bought this Union Jack banner when we were in India after grad school.
9. This paddle doesn’t belong here at all. Tyler should put it back in the boathouse.
12. Ernesto, the gardener, likes to sit on a swing and smoke a cigarette now and then. Not that we’ve noticed, but he’s the only one around who uses it.
14. The girls were so proud of winning their ribbons. Now they’ve forgotten what horses are.
8. Ditto the Berber rug we haggled over in the souk in Marrakesh. Always reminds me of our first walk-up.
20. Bean duck boots and Prudence’s Uggs.
22. Boat tote from L.L.Bean. One of seven in this family.
15. Extra-large Goldfish box. Someone’s been to Costco!
17. Old radio. Should bin it, but it works so well. Does anyone listen to it?
18. Drawing, untitled, circa 1994.
19. North Face, Pendleton, foul weather slicker by Carhartt, L.L.Bean barn jacket, Barbour quilted vest.
21. Assorted important hats.
English houses have long had mud rooms. Where else would you keep your Wellies after a tramp in the mud, or your Barbour jackets, walking sticks, racquets? Mudrooms can be wood-paneled and quite grand, depending. For us, where else would we find the keys to the twelve-year-old Land Rover? And where would Henry go for his REM sleep? Preppies are now focusing their domestic attentions on a room that was previously humble and misunderstood. This one is rather simple. But it will do fine for us.
Here’s the problem with decorating your first apartment: You don’t really know your style yet. So as soon as you’re done, Crate & Barrel or Pottery Barn will come out with a couch and an area rug you way prefer to what you got. Or Design Within Reach will put everything on sale. Or you changed your mind entirely about yellow walls in the living room, as every other living room you’ve been in is yellow. Or your Aunt Lucy’s couch looks very dingy next to your lithograph.
Just know that you will not be graded on your first attempt to feather your nest. It will always be a combination of hand-me-downs and floor samples from reasonably priced manufacturers. And let’s be perfectly clear. Your style has been influenced by the reruns you’ve just seen of Friends, the displays at Anthropologie, the final issue of Domino, and the headmaster’s office at the Millbrook School. It’s a working marriage between the whimsical and the institutional.
The problem with wallpaper is you get sick of it. Or you find your friends the Taylors put your living-room paper in their powder room and that spoils it for you. What to do about all the walls? Even if you have a decidedly unliterary bent, you might want to consider designing a library. How to fill the empty shelves? Aunt Lizzie’s frog collection? When this problem surfaces, increasingly people call Nancy Bass Wyden, the co-owner of the Strand Bookstore with its “18 miles of books” in New York City, who has three people just to put together various “books-by-the-foot” schemes. “People with money are increasingly decorating with books, which pleases me, since often the TV is now the library’s centerpiece,” says the bookseller. Strand also kits out private libraries and movie sets. Both Ralph Lauren (Triple RL stores) and J.Crew now stock vintage books from the Strand in some of their stores. Many hotels and lodges also order books from the Strand, as both decorative and recreational elements for their guests.
“Typically, we do a lot of houses in the Hamptons. And we’ll ask the people or their decorator a lot of questions. What are the people like? Do they have kids? What do they like to read? What are their hobbies? And we start to pull books for them.”
“Glamorous, preppy, aspirational”—these are some of the adjectives Nancy uses to describe the books that often get recruited for the Hamptons. Biographies of rich, successful people—she mentioned the Vanderbilts and the Astors, the Slim Aarons books of photographs of WASPs at leisure (see Master Reading List), lots of oversized volumes for the coffee tables. “Some classics; books about sports cars, hunting, old money, horses, architecture and art books.”
Hardcovers cost $75 to $100 per foot, “but they’re great books,” says this booster of the old print medium. Leather-bound books cost between $300 and $400 per foot. Bass Wyden is grateful that people want books for their homes, even if they themselves are not readers. “Maybe they’re not for [the home owners] but for their kids and their guests.” When decorators make the call, they will often look for spine colors that coordinate with the room or with one another. “Both the content and the look have to be right.”
We inherited loads of books from both sides of the family. And Winslow can’t physically pass a bookstore without going in and adding to the collection. He can’t! It’s not so adorable now that we are running out of room. Both fiction and nonfiction books serve equally well as coasters, leaving room for one’s thingies. Family pictures can be propped up against books on the shelves. Our little chair was painted by Mrs. Templeton (mother-in-law) when she studied finishes at Isabel O’Neill’s studio. All her friends painted little red chairs, too. The coral pillow reminds us we’d rather be snorkeling.
1. After Pookie’s christening, 1999.
2. Thanksgiving, 2002.
3. At the beach, Outer Banks, 2006.
4. Palmer and Maisie, 1988.
5. Christmas, 2003.
6. Portugal, September 2000.
8. Christmas, 2000.
7. Betsy, student-athlete dinner, 2001.
9. Christmas, Vermont, 1988.
10. Grace and Topper, Aitken, South Carolina, 2004.
11. Christmas, 2004.
12. Christmas, 1999.
13. July 4, Annapolis, 2002 or 2003.
14. Aunt Peggy and Grandmother Harkness at Wimbledon, 1975.
15. Grandfather Harkness with Augusta in Central Park, 1982.
16. Labor Day, 2005.
17. At Lake Placid, winter 1997.
18. Aunt Peggy and Uncle Ford in Copenhagen, 1957.
19. Labor Day, Chappaquiddick, 2005.
20. Christmas, 2006.
21. Palmer and Maisie on the beach in Antigua, 2008.
When you visit your friends who are further ahead in child begetting, you start to notice that there are framed photographs sprouting up on all their horizontal surfaces: There’s Poppy with Jack (the Irish wolfhound); Poppy, Lemon, and Jack; Jack and Lemon; Lemon and Poppy in the car; Poppy and Jack on the dock at Dark Harbor; Poppy and Jack and Lemon in the pool with Whit in Southampton; Whit and Jack on the beach in Mustique with Mrs. Wood; and George on a hunter in Middleburg. On the next table, you have the same idea. Before your house is taken over by the endless picture frames, and there’s no place on an end table on which to put your telephone, your book, your thingy, and your coaster, consider buying a grand or baby-grand piano. You won’t regret it.
You can consolidate the family gallery on one large surface. A piano solves the problem of how to arrange the furniture in the living room. It makes for a cozier sitting arrangement. And it is likely you can encourage your children to take piano lessons—maybe all the way through Middle School. If not, you might think of hiring a pianist for cocktail parties, and after your kids graduate and move away, you can think (and think and think) about finally learning the piano. You’ve always meant to, and now you can. (You might have to remove some of
the photographs, though, when you start banging around.)
I was minding my own business in the hills of Toledo—a kind of hang for boars like me. A few of the other guys were there: Nosy, Speed, and Tiger—inside joke; would take way too long to explain now. The sun was bright and the air was cool. It was a good hair day, and a good snout day, that’s all I really remember. Because once I saw her, everything was a blur.
She was beautiful. She was graceful. She had that long white-gold hair we rarely get to see (I’d say it was natural, but Raúl says I’m too naïve). She was not running; she just suddenly appeared in front of me. I had to blink a few times, her presence was so blinding. Tiger and Speed said I should move out of her way, but I couldn’t take my eyes off her. We just had one of those instantaneous connections, you know? It was like I was glued to my spot.
It hurt my feelings that she shot me; I can’t deny that. But my hope is that Hadley (isn’t that a perfect name for her? I read it on her luggage tag) just wanted to make sure we would always be together. So in a few months, I’ll be moving to a wall in Locust Valley. It sounds awful—those are angry bugs. I’d only do it for her.
—As dictated by Hugo the boar
Margot collects turtles. Sloan collects hedgehogs. Sasha collects Scotties. Carol collects borzois. This is a prep pastime that allows us to feel whimsical whenever we shop, and to shop and scour the Internet whenever we want. And it’s quite considerate of you to have a known collection, because it makes life easier for your friends at birthday and holiday time. Martha does ducks? Easy. We buy her some duck magnets and mugs for her birthday. Maybe we’ll throw in a decoy. Lakey collects whales? That’s a home run for us. Even if some of your collection is a bit commercial or junky, the mass of it placed together in an area of your kitchen cupboard or on the shelves in your library will look substantial and neat.
It’s not too late to become a collector yourself. Stamps and coins are not prep. Why? Because. Neither are teaspoons or thimbles: too olde gifte shoppe. Cats are less prep than dogs, ducks, frogs, turtles, whales, and swans. Again, it’s because.
Here are some fresh new ideas for collections: flamingos (a little showy, and almost too pink), fish, kangaroos, koala bears, otters, ostriches, piglets. Armadillos for Texans. Little architectural models, those staircases, and Eiffel Towers in all sizes. If you start now, by August you will be obsessed.
Who would have thought that the monogram could make such a huge comeback? One reason is the abundance of commercial logos that make us interested in our own brand. Suddenly, a sweater, a tote bag, or playing cards with your own initials look fresh and, yes, kind of original. But you knew that already. You used to have sweaters with your monogram, and you always had stationery, of course. Your golf clubs can have socks with your initials. Your luggage should be imprinted with your initials. Your books can have bookplates.
What about your house?
You will have your monogram (or yours and your spouse’s) engraved on your silverware. You can monogram your napkins, tablecloths, bed linens, and towels. (White on white works with any decorating scheme.) Needlepoint pillows or throws with embroidered monograms on your chaise or couch will dress up the furniture. (Even prep living rooms like to be well accessorized.)
Glass wine carafes are nice places to put your monogram. Water carafes in the guest room are perfect, too. Candy dishes, formerly known as ashtrays, can bear a monogram, although when they’re filled it won’t show. (If smoking is not allowed in your house, hide any ashtrays that have depressions for cigarettes, or give them away.) Avoid planting your monogram or insignia on your walls, your headboards, or your car windows: it’s supposed to look effortless and casual, like you.
Now that Minnie is engaged to be married, Mummy and Alfred expect her and Trey to spend time with them at the family house. And here is Minnie’s lovely old bedroom! Mummy and Alfred pretended to be offended when Minnie suggested that at twenty-seven she and her boyfriend (that would be Trey) shared a room everywhere else. We are all pretty excited; it’s a good way for Trey to become assimilated into the family. Soon there will be command performances: Thanksgiving—“Trey, you carve”; Easter—put out the eggs for the cousins; occasional weekends, and even weeks, when no one else is using the house, so Minnie and Trey can have some grown-up fun without the grown-ups.
It’s not really a problem, as in a problem, but there is the matter of Minnie’s bedroom. It’s kind of Miss Havishamesque—nothing has been changed since Minnie was in the seventh grade. The ceiling is cracked, and there are two single beds separated by a very old white dresser from the Greenwich Hospital Thrift Shop. It probably should have been repainted after Minnie and her friend Boots were caught smoking True Blues and left those big burn marks. The stained Kent School felt banner (yuck) still shares a wall with the Duran Duran poster, curling at the edges. Three huge piles of cassette tapes (two copies of a Destiny’s Child album; was Minnie such a fan?) share an étagère with all different kinds of horses: glass (the adorable ones with the broken legs), ceramic, a wool one, stuffed animal ones (Aunt Kitty’s from the ’40s). Has anyone even been in this room since Minnie moved to that apartment off Beacon Hill? Has it become some kind of shrine? “Here lived a typical twelve-year-old girl. Her favorite color was dusty pink, as in pink with real dust on it.” Is that Minnie’s diary? Better move it before Trey finds out she had a huge crush on Topher Grace. The only non-girly thing is the signed football her Daddy brought back from the Super Bowl that time.
The plan is to transform Minnie’s bedroom from an adolescent time capsule into an adult room for her and Trey. They will be living in or visiting this house for many years to come. They will need to push those little twin beds together, and get a king-size feather mattress, mattress pad, and good 400-thread-count cotton sheets.
The white dresser is not ideal either, but if it were stripped and stained, it might work. Maybe wooden floors are lurking under the (put politely) “vintage” wall-to-wall. Trey can work on it, but it’s more likely he’ll ask someone else. He might be allergic to physical labor. We’ll buy Minnie a new blanket from an outlet store as a room-warming gift. (Also remind us to buy some new irregular towels when we go. They’re just as good as anything at Neiman’s.)
• Give Trey a spot all his own: the back of a chair and maybe a drawer or two.
• Clean white walls—good-bye, Simon Le Bon.
• Good-bye, horses.
It was the old New York . . . the way of people who dreaded scandal more than disease, who placed decency above courage, and who considered that nothing was more ill-bred than ‘scenes,’ except the behaviour of those who gave rise to them.
—Edith Wharton, The Age of Innocence
As in every other facet of a preppy’s life, when it comes to scandal, we are appropriately dressed. Think of Dede Brooks, the former CEO of Sotheby’s, under house arrest in a sedate knee-length skirt, pearls, and low-heeled pumps-and anklet.
Think of Anthony Marshall strolling to court in a fine suit, his wife wearing her Belgian shoes and Barbour jacket—as if antiquing for the afternoon.
Remember, best of all, Mrs. Jean Harris, who had the decency to wear her headband even while incarcerated.
We have always had our fair share of scandals. Somehow, the world is surprised and intrigued by the details of ours because we all look so cool, calm, and proper. The contested will of Lois DeSoto, the widow of Frank, a humble and talented plumber, is not of the same interest as the contested will of Brooke Astor (to pick a name out of a chapeau) because there might perhaps not be (delicately phrased) as many assets, as many socialites, as many Impressionist paintings, or as many beneficiaries of the DeSoto fortune as there are of the Astor fortune. Just saying.
We are equally ashamed, ashen, and astonished when news of our unseemly doings becomes public knowledge and yet from the beginning of time, unseemly doings have been the stuff of newspapers, books, movies, plays, and hushed meetings at the Carlyle hotel.
We d
on’t mean to be bad. Just like other people, we intend to be good. Sometimes, though . . . temptations rear their irresistible head. Mostly, like Homo sapiens of every other stripe, we do not want to be caught.
This begins in childhood. Early. As when Mummy asks you if you know where the five-dollar bill that was lying on the kitchen counter went. She left it there for the laundress’ carfare. Did you take it, Gordo? Did you? What about the box of Ritz crackers that is now on the floor of the den, being eaten by Wesley, your four-year-old Wheaten terrier? Who left the box in the den? Lindy? Was that you? These are the stuff of early wrongdoings. To suggest that these lies lead to a life of Ponzi schemes or insider trading would be overdoing it, but they remain good “teachable moments” for parents, in any case.
These are the lubrication of polite society, without which we would all hurt one another needlessly. Obviously Charlotte doesn’t look like she is a pregnant fourteen-year-old. Of course you will tell the Clarks that their Oktoberfest beer thingy was fun, even though you and Duck decided on the way home you will never again attend a party where beef jerky is the main food group and your thirty-eight-year-old host is wearing lederhosen. Faults in tennis and mulligans in golf are part of this purview as well. The well-bred prep (a redundancy) knows when to look the other way, when to laugh off a teeny infraction, and when to get red in the face. Some of it is DNA. Some of it is learning by example.
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