THE FABRIC OF LIFE
My friend Jane’s mother was very chic, and she loved gold. Gold everything. Gold everywhere.
One Christmas, she redecorated their bathroom. Gold soap dish, cup and toothbrush holder; gold tone faucets for the sink and shower; gold tone outlet plates and a gold lame shower curtain.
I used the bathroom. I came out. Jane rolled her eyes. “We’re having the whole family for Christmas, and my mother is redoing everything.”
“Ooooh,” I bubbled. “I love big Italian Christmases.”
Jane shook her head. “We’re not Italian. We’re German.”
Wow. I had not yet experienced the giddy gaudiness of castles in Germany. Gold tone bathroom hardware and accessories, in my experience, were the home décor of choice for Italians, usually Neapolitans who’d landed in Brooklyn.
My family was not a gold in the bathroom family. But in the living room, we were all in, even my Dutch-German father whose parents’ home decor could only be described as American Gothic without the sense of humor.
Roma Furniture, with branches in Brooklyn, Queens, Staten Island and Long Island, was my extended family’s mecca for mid-century, Italian Provincial furnishings. We could choose from an array of the understatedly elegant to over-the-top (think Liberace on steroids) furniture, lighting, art and knick-knacks.
My mother and father opted for what they labeled understated elegance with a touch of gold here and there. They bought, for twenty-four easy monthly payments—there were no credit cards back then—a white and gold brocade sectional sofa with Florentine wooden legs and trim, a Queen Anne aqua and gold chair, walnut side and coffee tables, white porcelain lamps with gold speckles, brocade drapes, three paintings, a dining room table, six chairs and a china closet. All of this furniture was to sit on top of a medium olive green cut loop carpet of swirls and vines.
We waited twelve weeks for the furniture delivery. My mother had tossed the old stuff the minute she’d signed the installment agreement. We did, luckily, have the new carpet installed right away, so we could sit on pillows on the floor.
When the furniture finally arrived, my parents were so happy and proud. They’d never had anything this nice before. I loved the new living room and dining room too.
Then the plastic slipcovers arrived.
Custom-made, installed in our home. Protection from us kids and my father. We sweated and stuck to the plastic when we sat on the sofa and chair. In the summer, it ripped from our thighs like giant farts when we stood up.
Once my parents thought we were old enough to appreciate nice things—I think I was thirty by then—and they had decided to move to Florida, the plastic that had protected those cushions for about sixteen years came off. The white and gold brocade fabric on the sectional along with the stuffing crumbled to dust, destroyed by the humidity from being encased in plastic.
My mother cried. She loved that sectional. It was the one piece of furniture she wanted to take with them when they moved. I felt so sorry for her. She decided to take the dining room set, the lamps, end tables, paintings and knick-knacks instead. She reupholstered the chair cushions. This time in a pretty floral pattern. No gold brocade anywhere. It’s time had come and gone, and she was ready to move on.
Barbara Worton is the author of Bedtime Stories: The Short, Long and Tall Tales of a Sleepwriter, Too Tall Alice, and “London Calling.” She co-authored If I’m Talking, Why Aren’t You Listening? and The Adventures of The Baker’s Daughter. Her third book Chatterbox is in progress.
OVUNQUE SIAMO 