Author’s Note: Today is my son Nick’s birthday. Happy birthday, Sweetie. This two-pack is for you. Love, Mom
In 1988 my beloved housekeeper, Mary, told me she was taking a leave of absence to be with her ill husband. She’d be back when she could. This was bad news on every level, and since I had no intention- or ability- of taking care of the physical plant myself, I called Barbara Traycee STAT.
Sidebar: Barbara Traycee. She ran a domestic employment agency on the North Shore and she hooked up desperate housewives like me with women who could cook, clean, and diaper with varying degrees of skill. Sometimes I got lucky. Sometimes I’d wipe out. It was always a crap shoot. But this time she told me to come in right away. She had a great candidate.
I was skeptical, but the next day I showed up at her agency. I can remember exactly what I was wearing. Bleached blue jeans cut-offs, a yellow WTTW t-shirt and beige suede flats. (Not exactly your Jackie O. look.)
Barbara hadn’t arrived yet- no surprise because I am always early. (I believe that promptness is the courtesy of kings. If I’m ever late, you’d better call the morgue because I’m dead.) Her second-in-command motioned me over to a bench to wait for the boss.
I sat there for a few minutes and then Barbara breezed in. She took one look and freaked out.
“Why is MRS. ROSS sitting with the housekeepers?” she demanded of her hapless aide-de-camp. “She is a CLIENT! She should have been shown into my office the moment she arrived!”
I felt bad about this mistaken-identity crisis. It was all my fault because I didn’t know that I should have worn a Chanel suit to the meet-and-greet. But then two Polish women walked in. One did all the talking and I naturally assumed that she was the candidate. I was wrong. The silent one was the candidate.
The expediter explained that her friend’s English was good but that she was self-conscious. I explained that I wanted was a “test day” to see if the candidate’s skills were up to Mary’s high standards. Did she drive? Yes. Did she like kids? Check. Dogs? No problem. Could she cook? You betcha.
Okay. I told both of them to have her at my house on Sunday. I would see how she did on-site, and if I liked her and she liked the job, we’d have a deal. If not, I’d pay her and never see her again. No harm no foul. Oh and her name? Klara.
That summer Sunday morning I had the house to myself. Bill and the kids had gone to the club and I was miffed because I was going to have to judge a cleaning talent contest. What an awful way to spend a beautiful Sunday.
Klara arrived at the appointed time and I showed her into Natasha’s room. Bed unmade, room slightly disordered. (Natasha hated mess and Mary hadn’t been gone long enough for her housework to have disintegrated.) I waved my hand around the room in some general way and left her to it. The door was half ajar so I could keep an eye on her- and her cleaning progress.
I waited for Klara to re-emerge into the hallway so I could show her the next room assignment. I waited- but she didn’t come out. An hour went by. I peeked in. The bed had not yet been made. This was not a good sign. How slow could this woman be?
Then another hour went by and I peeked in again. Still the bed was disheveled. Surely if someone could not make a bed in two hours she was going to be way too slow to ever please me.
I girded my loins and got ready to give Klara her walking papers. As I strode purposefully into Natasha’s room, I was greeted by an equally-purposeful Klara. Before I could open my mouth she had something to tell me.
“I like organizatia,” she declared firmly. “This starts from the inside. A room can not be straight if the drawers and closets are not in order.”
She stood aside and I got to see what she had been doing. Every item of clothing from Natasha’s drawers and closet had been removed, re-folded, and placed back in an order only seen in Polo stores. Her closet now looked like a centerfold for Architectural Digest.
I was staggered. This was only a test day after all. But Klara had already taken charge and demanded perfection in the home if she was going to call it her own.
I hired her on the spot. Or to be more accurate, she graciously accepted my job offer- with one caveat. She told me she had to have Saturday nights off.
Uh oh. That was a deal-breaker. Bill and I went out every Saturday night and somebody had to hold down the fort. (Even after the kids were grown, I never liked leaving the house empty. I had had floods, fires, leaks, freezes, and other natural disasters and I always wanted a house-sitter on site.)
I was crushed. I told her that we needed Saturday nights to conduct our very North Shore social life. Klara thought about it for a moment.
“Okay. I’ll stay until you come back home on Saturdays. Then I leave. And if it’s ever important I will ask for a special night off.”
Done. And I may add that this arrangement worked perfectly because our social life was a lot less hectic than Klara’s. We were always home early enough for her to gussy up and take off. She liked to go dancing with some of her fellow countrymen and their favorite ballroom didn’t even heat up until after eleven.
Two women living in the same house can be a real power struggle. But in our case I had already been well-trained by Mary- who immediately came over to check out the new arrival. (Klara and Mary became fast friends and allies in running the Ross family business.) Klara was in charge. No contest. She knew more about managing a household than I ever would.
She was an inspired cook and, as a major bonus, she had been an intensive care nurse in Poland. (Her credentials and language skills hadn’t transfered and her first job in the United States had been mopping nursing home floors.) What a waste. But what a stroke of good luck for me.
And, after she correctly diagnosed Natasha’s pneumonia, (when all the doctors insisted that it was bronchitis) and took charge of my rehab after a serious ski accident, my family’s health care was always in the capable hands of Dr. Klara.
We all loved her. But she had two special boyfriends. One was my dog, Egon. Egon was a black standard poodle and he adored Klara. Klara spoiled him tirelessly and on Sundays and Mondays he’d sulk- champing at the bit for her to return.
They hung out so much that he became bi-lingual. He knew the word for leash- “smycz” in English and Polish, and he understood the rest of her native tongue much better than I did. And another reason for their big romance? Klara smoked.
Try as hard as she could- the patch, hypnosis, cold turkey, you name it- she couldn’t kick it. I worried and nagged her but at least she never smoked in the house. Summer or winter, she would just head outside when the nicotine spirit moved her.
And Egon would go with her. In fact, when he thought it was time to mosey outdoors, he would grab the pack of her smokes and gesture “Hey, Babe, do you want to step outside?” with his curly, handsome head.
It was a real love affair. But Egon had a rival for Klara’s affections.
Tune in Thursday to see who it was.
And see you later, Nick. 6:30 and be hungry.
April 21,1980. Poor Suzy B., a college roommate, had planned to spend the day with me. Then I got the call. Ditched her and drove you to the hospital where Nick would soon make his debut. And yes we all remember Kenny had a new car and made sure we covered the seats. Never did see her again. Happy 33 Nick!
Yes, you were a key player here, Aunt Mary Lu. And yes, Kenny was way more worried for his upholstery than his sister’s well-being. (As you point out, it was a brand-new car.)
But all’s well that ends well and you got me to the hospital just in time. Thanks for that. And everything.
And happy birthday to your other nephew- Nick Rubnitz. How many people can say that they have two nephews named Nick R. born one day apart? Plus a few years.
I actually get such a kick out of that. Two nephews. Same name. Born a few hours (and years) apart. Both nice young men:-)
Wait. Your son turns 33, and we have to hold till Thursday before he shows up. Isn’t that what you journalists call “burying the lead”?
Just kidding. Your blog arriving is the hit of my early morning routine of awaking and reaching for the iPhone or iPad those mornings. (I reach for the intrepid mobile device every day.) Now, that I have caught up and read them all, they’re like little chapters in the serial of your life (and I don’t even know you).
You are 100% correct about, well, everything, sir. But I wanted to write something, first of all, that my son would actually read. He is bored and indifferent to anything about himself- having been limned since birth. So I had to make this one about someone or something he loves. And I do require a little patience and understanding from my very discerning readers. Good things come…
Thank you. Your comment was MY birthday present.
As you know – we too are very familiar with Barbara Traycee. She did, indeed, serve “desperate housewives” as you put it and as my wife also identifies with. Having been a grandfather for 9 weeks now and watching my daughter take care of her newborn with love, calmness, enthusiasm, and without full time help I reflect back on our so-called “desperation” and how many became SO dependent on Barbara Traycee’s prodigies. I too succumbed to that desperate feeling since an unhappy wife makes for an unhappy life.
Right on, Doc. I was wondering if anyone else had the courage to admit that we ALL used Barbara Traycee back in the day. (And I will never forget how shocked you were when you asked me how much we paid our live-in help and I told you. Sounds like a bargain, now, doesn’t it?)
Yes, that was a different era. Our daughters handle this child-rearing stuff with a completely different attitude and set of expectations, I think. They WANT to do it themselves. My worst nightmare, btw. Babies completely throw me for a loop. Now if you have a puppy, that’s a whole different story…
Thanks for chiming in, here. I missed you on Thurday and that pie post went viral!
Love to Betsy and Dr. Parker.
Lest anyone think I cannot even spell my family name (or I am trying to hide from Ellen’s many readers), I am correcting any misapprehension that the prior comment might have been made by someone other than me, and I vow not to comment via tiny little iPhone keys again.
Thanks for claryfing this. And while you’re about it, please don’t read me on your iPhone if you can help it. You have no idea of how I kill myself to make the actual print line up. It’s so hard to get the full genius of my prose on a phone.
We had Maria for about 4 years, an Irish lass who taught my youngest to read at 2. She was the daughter of a hotel housekeeper from Dublin, and on of 7 or 8 kids so she also kept the place and offspring in order. Then she married a sailor from Great Lakes (I’d drop her at a bar in No. Chicago on Thursday nights for her social life) as he was being shipped off to the Gulf War. While gone she remained with us and grew and delivered her own son while, all the time carrying my youngest most of the time and chasing my oldest and keeping him out of trouble. Needless to say neither my ex nor I could have done half as much.
She delivered at the VA Hospital one weekend she was off. She returned to our home on Monday with her baby. For a few months she stayed and cared for all three boys and finally left to join her navy hubby in San Diego when he came back from war. She still keeps up on Facebook from time to time.
Ellen, your stories continue to not only be interesting and alive with feeling, they always bring me back to something in my life. Keep it up!
Gary, thank you so much for this. I was so hoping that someone else would pay tribute to these wonderful women who kept our homes running with their talents-and love.
So many of us were blessed by their presence. They made our households work better, and they were invaluable additions to our children’s lives. Your comment said it far more eloquently. Thank you.
Thank you but hardly better Ellen, however your response reminds me that I am as much the reared product of my 2nd mom Tempie, who also raised my own mother. She lived with us from practically my birth on the Southside until I went off to college from Glencoe.
I absolutely adored her and cried out loud at her funeral when I was 25. She, of course, was black and representative of an earlier time and way of child rearing for those who were fortunate. I was the only white person (with my folks) at her funeral and only knew her sister, but her whole family told me they all knew “her boy” …eyes filling as I write this. Great blog.
You just made me think about Mattie and Leatha, two wonderful and kind women who helped raise Kenny and me. My god, what different times indeed. They schlepped out to the suburbs on trains and buses and for for what? A few dollars and carfare? And they took such good care of us. And we loved them.
Their influence was major. I know Leatha taught Kenny to cook! Thanks, Gar. They deserve to be remembered.