From the Holiday Archive:

Like Johnson & Johnson’s Baby Shampoo, Lipton’s Onion Soup Mix produced no tears.

That dehydrated marvel of mid-century cookery was a staple in my Mothers repertoire. Mom joined the legion of happy homemakers who were overjoyed at the development of dehydrated soup cooking.

Besides being the backbone of the classic California Onion Dip, that pride and joy of every self respectable suburban hostess, my mother prepared her Passover Brisket using that Onion Soup Mix from a recipe supplied by Lipton’s published in Ladies Home Journal and endorsed by the Nassau Community Temple Sisterhood Cookbook.

Why spend hours peeling, chopping, slicing and dicing and sauteing reducing the onions down to a turn, when Liptons had come to m’lady’s rescue. Add water and voila…. onion stock!

So it was with modern pride that my Mother prepared her holiday brisket in that E-Z fashion.

I on the other hand, being just as contemporary, sniff at the notion of using a packet of dried onions, insisting on peeling, chopping, slicing and dicing the real McCoy sauteing them down til they are reduced to a golden hue.

But the copious onions required for the meal, along with the copious tears it produces, now co-mingle with great tears of sadness at the loss of my Mother.

As I prepare the Seder for which she will never again attend, it is lit by the glow of a yartzeit candle, a shining light of tribute and memory to her passing on this day.

So it is a day of tears, that even Lipton’s Onion Soup could not help.

© Sally Edelstein and Envisioning The American Dream, 2017. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Sally Edelstein and Envisioning The American Dream with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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The Greatest Generation loses one more….

Memorial day this year takes on a different significance than other years for me.

This year as the number of WWII veterans continue to dwindle, another former G.I. of the Greatest Generation has recently died.

My dad.

Through the years I have shared with you countless stories of my mid-century suburban family many of them featuring my father. Though often tongue in cheek,  they were always from the heart.

Now I am heartbroken.

For many Memorial Day posts I fondly recalled my suburban childhood backyard barbecues when my dad would break out the Weber charcoal grill for the first Bar-B-Q of the season. A king size cigarette dangling from his lips, barbecue apron round his regulation Bermuda shorts, Dad’s grease-stained apron with its “Big Daddy” type splashed in lurid colors,  distinguished this ex GI as a commander-in-chief of the barbecue brigade.

Strategically wielding the Big Boy barbecue tongs my dad was ready for any barbecue maneuver.

This year the bag of Kingdford Briquettes remain unopened, the dented, metal, grill untouched.

As I did with my mother, I helped  my 96-year-old father on his final journey. For the past 6 weeks work ceased, emails remained unanswered, and my garden lay fallow, as I tended to something more important and fundamental.

I understood the symmetry that my parents gave me life and entrusted me with helping in transition towards ending their own, but emotionally the weight bore down on me.

Barely two weeks ago, that journey ended.

Befitting a once-upon-a-time-soldier, Dad received a military burial.

After  the countless stories I have shared with you, it seems only fitting that I share this final tribute that I wrote to my father, Marvin Edelstein.

My Tribute to My Father – May 15, 2017

An early Marathon runner, my father ran in the NYC Marathon several times. 1979

My father was a long distance runner and so it is fitting that his life ran as long as it did.

This lifelong marathon man chose to make his final journey in the same manner. The past two weeks had been a marathon for all of us, my brother Andy and I included, as we accompanied him on this last treacherous course, one filled with twists and turns, that we maneuvered with him, breathlessly   running up our own Heartbreak Hill more than a couple of times. But each step of the way when we thought we had no more stamina, my father persevered as he did in life valiantly, pushing through, often against all odds and with amazing tenacity.

And it was he who chose when to cross the finish line.

Like many of us, my father was a complex man, often filled with apparent contradictions.

A man who was decades ahead of his time in matters of gender equality, he turned our 1960’s Maxwell House Haggadah into a gender neutral reading for our Seders. He was a man who just this past January beamed with enormous pride at my participation in the Women’s March in Washington. Yet this was the same man who good-naturedly could still refer to women as dames and broads with not a PC care in the world and wasn’t shy about exclaiming that his granddaughter Jessie was “some good looking tomato.”

My father was a secular Jew who was somewhat suspect of the dogma of religion yet rose to be the president of our synagogue Nassau Community Temple where he regularly participated in Torah study classes, and whose favorite shower song was “Ein K’ Eloheinu,” his boisterous off-key voice bellowing out this Friday night closing hymn at the top of his lungs reverberating throughout the house.

This lifelong Republican, a county committeeman, who not only founded a local Republican club becoming their  president, working tirelessly for them, yet he  was in fact the first phone call I got the morning after this recent presidential election,  bemoaning Trump’s victory, his first words to me were: “I’m sitting Shiva.”

The son of a Damon Runyon-esque character if ever there was one, who dropped out of school in the 6th grade and whose reading was limited to the Daily Mirror, my father went on to law school and would often mentioned reading Proust in the sweltering jungles of New Guinea during the war…that is when he wasn’t chasing island girls!

A Twentieth Century Man

(L) A baby of the roaring twenties, (R) my father Marvin and his brother Sandy grew up in Astoria Queens, 1930’s

The year he was born 1921, the hit song was “Aint We Got Fun” and in retrospect that would be an apt description of my eternally upbeat, optimistic, fun-loving father.

His life spanned nearly a century.

Remarkable, considering that when my father was born in 1921 the population over 65 was only 4%. That he lived to 96 is amazing. That 95 ½ of those years were physically active, mentally engaged is downright astounding.

He loved history which he passed on to me because, well, he lived through so darn much of it.

This was a man who saw Charles Lindbergh welcomed home as a hero at the greatest ticker tape parade NYC had ever seen after Lucky Lindy’s historic flight to Paris. This little 6-year-old boy would himself grow to crisscross the Atlantic dozens of times with the casual ease allowed by jet planes in the many travels he enjoyed with my mother.

Born at the inception of radio and before talkies in the movies, he lived to see the computer age though despite our nudging, he sadly never took a ride on the internet highway though he  marveled indeed  at having face time with his granddaughter.

My father (R) at the University of Virginia 1941

FDR gave the commencement speech when my father graduated the University of Virginia and though not a New Dealer himself, my father was  very proud of the fact that the President of the United States,  that most magnificent orator, spoke so eloquently at his graduation.  Oh, how times have changed.

Greatest Generation

Corporal Marvin Edelstein 1943

Like most men of his generation he served in WWII, stationed  in New Guinea where as part of the Army Air Corps trained as a weatherman.

I recently came across a letter he wrote while in the service exactly 74 years ago in April 1943 that was published in his home town synagogue paper The Astoria Center of Israel Bulletin:

“Here is a letter from one of our boys,” it begins, “which we are happy to bring to your attention:

For the past few weeks,” my father’s letter  begins,”I have been receiving the Bulletin. Needless to say, it came at first as a great surprise – however, an extremely pleasant surprise. Now I find myself looking forward eagerly to the next issue. You have no conception how much this means to us who are so far from home. It is only now that I have begun to appreciate the phrase concerning ‘the ties that bind.’

While I was writing this, they delivered a package to me from the Ladies Guild. I can scarcely say much more than “Thank You, ladies.’ It is not merely the material contents of the box that is impressive- rather the hopes and prayers that one feels fills the package.

Being in the Army has given me a chance to fully consider and appreciate the life we all once knew and to which we will, we pray, shortly return. Your work of trying to fill in that gap certainly means a lot to us wherever we may be. We want things to be as we left them until we come back and you are helping to serve notice that they will be.

Let me thank you again and hasten to assure you that by Purim 1944 our contemporary Haman will have met the same fate as his predecessor.”

My father of course did return and began living out those post war possibilities that were promised to the returning vets.

Post War Promises

My family 1957

I would grow up living my parents post war dreams.

And nothing personified that dream more than his suburban home which he lived in for 62 years. That suburban dream that sprung up in a field of potatoes was their Promised Land that beckoned millions of post war pioneers including my parents.

Siblings, Sally (L) and her brother Andy at their new house 1955.

Last week Andy and I had the sad task of going to his house on Western Park Drive to pick out a suit for his burial.

As I stood forlornly in his bedroom closet, one I had been in countless times, I felt the enormous trajectory of his adult life, of life lived in this house. Standing in that place that late afternoon, entrusted with this somber duty,  I felt myself  transported back to 1955 when  a 30 something ex GI and his wife pregnant with me, a 2-year-old little boy  in tow,  first looked at this brand new house that would be their home for the rest of their lives.

(L) Deposit for their new house a whopping $10 down!

Like thousands of other young married apartment dwellers, they began house hunting as their family expanded. Every weekend they’d trudge out to LI. Just as all the houses from the development seemed to look the same so the other house hunting couple all seemed to mirror their experience.

Now as I stood inside that large walk in closet he had viewed decades earlier, I imagined the thrill  this young man who had shared a small Astoria apartment bedroom with his younger brother Sandy must have experienced with the prospect of a large master bedroom and the luxury of a genuine walk in closet.

Settling into their new suburban house, my father, baby sally and brother Andy 1955

Walking from room to room, I could imagine my mother  mentally installing furniture and decorating its rooms. This  new house on Western Park Drive that would the beginning of the fulfillment of those post war dreams allowing them to envision the life they would lead with their family they were just beginning.

Now this same closet that spanned 62 years that held my Dads worsted wool suits and polyester leisure suits, EZ care wash and wear and velour running suits, was looked through for the last time as  his grown children were tasked with picking out one last, final suit.

It’s So Nice To Have A Man Around the House

The classic Handymans Book 1957

My father took to suburban living with a zeal.

It was a time of the do-it-yourselfer craze and he dug right in. My father willed himself to be handy around the house. This former apartment dwelling fellow taught himself to a home owner.

The pinnacle of that was the suburban finished basement that mid-century homage to family fun and good modern living. So in the mid-1960’s my devoted dad took on the challenge.

Every night after dinner and on weekends he’d descend to the unfinished basement busying himself in this project building a frame where he would attach the faux knotty pine paneling, the waft of the toxic glue he used to install the tiles rising to the rest of the house. It was a testament to his stick to-it-tiveness and tenacity to accomplish something he had never done before. This willingness to try new things out of his comfort zone extended to many areas in his life.

This same house that Andy and I were raised in took on another chapter with the addition of my niece and nephew Jessie and Sam filling it with laughter and light. Thus began our nearly 2 decades long Sunday ritual of visiting our parents just as we had done with our own grandparents for decades. The light that Jessie and Sam brought into my father’s life was reflected in the sheer glow he emanated at the sight of them.

It was hard to miss. And now, sadly, I will….

Last Chapter

Marvin Edelstein 2012

And then there was this last chapter that began for my father in his late 80’s.

This man, who had never lived alone, had to carve out a life for himself when my dear mother passed away. Always the anchor of the family, without my mother he felt adrift, but his tenacity and positive outlook continued to pay off. He immediately signed up for college courses and joined a gym.

I was always amused that my father,  a man of his times who’s previous culinary skills involved scrambling eggs and salami and perhaps tossing a manly Caesar salad, whose only forays into food shopping might have been to drive through a Dairy Barn for a quart of milk, now found himself fascinated with supermarkets and delighting in his weekly strolls through farmers markets. Until 4 months ago my father still cooked for himself.

The Age of Mad Man

vintage illustration Fun With Dick and Jane 1951

My father could be imperfect. Like all of us he had his flaws.

A deeply sentimental man he was the product of a time and a generation that taught men to withhold their feelings and keep a stiff upper lip, to keep your own counsel. A master toastmaster with others he could in fact be short on words at home. But his devoted love of family, commitment and loyalty were values instilled in us without words being necessary gleaned  by example, and it was burnished deeply in my own soul.

In the last few months and weeks of his life as he became physically frail, he felt deeply betrayed by his body, but never once would he worry he would be left alone. As his once sharp and quick-witted mind began to deteriorate till that mind had all but disappeared what was left was his pure essence… of sweetness and gentleness. And it allowed he and I to connect in a way that in other times had sometimes eluded us.

Wherever his mind went I followed happily, without reserve or judgement.

A once clever, intelligent man’s mind was ravaged but what was left was his inner goodness, his true self distilled to its purest form of unadulterated sweetness and love. His adoring, loving gazes and endearing smiles are forever etched in my heart, knowing I was connecting with the best of him.

As he got the best of me.

When I was in second grade we were asked to write a piece about our fathers. The title of my paper  was “My Daddy Fixes Everything.” Not unlike today, spelling was not my forte so I naturally spelled it Fises with an S instead of an X and that phrase clearly tickled him as he would recite that line My Daddy Fises Everything,  for decades, always with a smile

In a child’s mind my daddy could fix anything. Wielding a tube of Duco cement he could miraculously repair a broken doll, a busted toy truck, a cracked, beloved serving dish.

But alas he is not here now, but I fear even if he were, he could not fis my broken heart.

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 © Sally Edelstein and Envisioning The American Dream, 2017. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Sally Edelstein and Envisioning The American Dream with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

In honor of LGBT Pride Month, I’ve rounded up some of my favorite stories from the Vault:

Next to the waiter passing the champagne, my confirmed bachelor Great Uncle Harry was the most sought after man at a mid-century wedding.

Vivacious and gay with wavy hair the color of honey, lush black eyelashes shading come hither eyes, those of the female persuasion were drawn to him like bees to honey.

With his manly physique achieved through vigorous exercise taken at N.Y.C.’s Westside YMCA, he cut a fine figure of a man.

From the 1920s through the late 1960s, it seemed as if Harry was more prized than the tossed bridal bouquet, as bachelor girls elbowed their way through the guests to feed Harry a piece of the wedding cake,

The single gals wistfully eyed the tiny plaster figurines of the bride and groom atop the cake with envy and hope imagining the day when their own likeness would adorn the top of their own butter cream cake.

After all a wedding cake was as American as apple pie; marriage the first step in achieving the American dream.

Oh, Johnny, Oh!

The thing of it was, Harry’s come hither eyes were not directed at the bevy of beauties beating each other off for his attention….his baby blues batted more often than not at the best man, not the comely bridesmaids.

After a brief, disastrous attempt at marriage in the early 1930s to an older widow who kept him in style and all the Beatrice Lilly Theater tickets he could ever want, he hung up his top hat and vowed never to walk down that aisle again.

Ironically weddings and brides were to occupy a great deal of his time and energy.

He eventually lost track of how many carnations he would wear as an usher, or how many times he stood as best man, as one by one his pals wed, leaving him solo at the altar.

Friends thought him picky at best, an odd man out in a world geared to the married set.

It was chalked up to his artistic temperament.

Vintage Camay Soap Ads (L) 1947 (R) 1949

Always a Bridesmaid, Never A Bride

An accomplished artist, he worked at a large Madison Avenue Ad agency as an illustrator, specializing in painting fresh-faced brides, the kind that graced countless soap and shampoo ads in the 1940s and 1950s.

Financially comfortable, he nonetheless shared his small Central Park West apartment with a roommate for over 40 years, a gentleman he referred to as his “dear friend” to whom he was unusually devoted.

The family rarely saw the roommate, even at family weddings, kept in the shadows of our lives.

We didn’t know enough to ask; Harry knew enough not to tell.

Confused, our family thought the whole arrangement rather queer.

Last Dance

The last time I saw my Uncle Harry was when I danced with him at my own wedding over 20 years ago.

By then his bedroom eyes had gone more droopy, his well-honed physique, shrunken. He barely remembered the over half a century of weddings he had charmed his way through, nor  the hundreds of dances with girls whose hopes he  had dashed.

By now there was a sadness to him, his gay spirit spent, at peace in the dark shadows.

Harry was born too early to witness a wedding cake topped by two grooms or a time when his come hither eyes would be able to gaze more openly to the possibilities that were denied him.

Postscript:

When this post first ran four years ago in June 2013 the Supreme Court had just made its landmark ruling in the United States v Windsor in which the Supreme Court declared the Defense of Marriage Act, in which marriage and spouse apply only to opposite sex unions, unconstitutional.

It would still be 2 more years until the Supreme Court declared same sex marriage legal in all states.

In this last week in June, the chance to be a June Bride may be closing but the window to become a bride or groom just got a whole lot wider. Bringing a breeze of fresh air into the traditional notion of marriage the US Supreme Court finally removed some of the barriers to Gay and Lesbians full participation in the American Dream.

Copyright (©) 20017 Sally Edelstein All Rights Reserved

It was a post war Passover plot worthy of the Russians; a cold war caper to rival anything Julius and Ethel Rosenberg cooked up.

A top-secret stolen – during the Jewish holiday of  Passover nonetheless – riveted my suburban neighborhood in the spring of 1958

Known as  Operation: Matzoh Ball  it was filled with more than matzo meal – it was loaded with espionage, scandal and treachery. The stuff of legends, this Passover plot was hotly debated over kaffeee klatches for years.  Some claimed foul ball others dismissed it as pure paranoid fantasy.

The dispute continues to this day.

Long before we worried about the infiltration of Russian bots, cold war Americans panicked about Russian spies

By the late 1950’s the cold war had congealed as quickly as a cold bowl of chicken soup.

Americans were still simmering in a brew of paranoia, fear  and suspicion when it  came to the Ruskies.   Communists were sneaky plotters – Russian  spies  could be lurking undetected right in your own backyard. Still haunted by the specter of the Rosenbergs, tried and executed for their treasonous act only a few years earlier,  remnants of the red scare still dictated the mindset of the public.

It was against this backdrop that this mid-century  matzoh ball mystery occurred.

Passover Plot

In late March of 1958 with Passover only weeks away, my mother was felled by a surprise attack of a migraine.

Since she was a teen, poor Mom suffered from migraine headaches which along with the excruciating pain made her sensitive to both light and noise. Sometimes her headaches burst upon her with a terrifying suddenness, others, like that day a bright flash of light would give her a  20 minute warning signal. No matter how much Anacin she stockpiled in her arsenal of pain relief, it was woefully inadequate in the face of this massive headache.

Manhattan Project

Bedridden and burdened with the preparation of a big family Seder looming ahead, Mom called in for reinforcements. Always on 24 hour standby, my grandmother Nana Sadie marched in from Manhattan. Loaded down with shopping bags full of holiday goodies she was prepared to do battle on the kitchen front.

A massive cooking effort began.

It wasn’t long before Nana’s rich chicken soup with its golden color  and soothing aroma  filled the house, gently wafting out the open windows for all the neighbors to savor.

But even more famous than her chicken soup, was Nana’s matzo balls which were legendary in their melt-in-your-mouth lightness and fluffiness.

Matzo balls were for my grandmother the measure of a good cook’s ability.

Her balls were always Boombeh (huge) and never Shtickels (little pieces).

Top Secret

The matzo ball recipe, handed down from her mother, my Great- Grandma Posner, was closely guarded, so top-secret, no one but Mom had access to the highly classified information.

Now access to the kitchen required security clearance, and was determined by need-to-know.

No one doubted that something dramatic had been cooking in the kitchen.

Kitchen Confidential

Her recipe was highly coveted – the manner in which she got her batter to reach those heavenly heights was strictly confidential. All the women of B’nai Brith begged her, and the Hadassah ladies tried to hondlen with her. Neighbors nagged and friends became frosty, when she refused.

Mom too, was used to the sidelong glances from the gals of Sisterhood who scrutinized, and analyzed trying to break the code for the sacred recipe. Which brand of matzo meal- Horowitz Bros.& Margareten, or Manishewitz? Maybe Streits was the secret.

Did she use Cotts Club Soda, or stiffly beaten egg whites; oil or schmaltz or, God-Forbid-butter?  No matter how hard others tried to cajole, coerce, and extract the information, their lips were sealed.

Second Rate

It rankled our neighbor, Natalie Moscowitz  especially with Passover approaching. Her matzo balls were puny, the size of golf balls and almost as hard; they had to be skewered with a fork, while digging in with a spoon to avoid shooting them out of your bowl across the table.

More than anything else, the coveted recipe had become a symbol throughout the neighborhood of  Mom’s prowess in the kitchen; those  soft, voluptuous orbs bobbing in a sea of broth, those bewitching balls, a demonstration of her religious fitness and  holiday efficiency.

As a powerful symbol of Mom’s technological might, the matzo ball recipe was ipso facto something Mrs. Moscowitz had to have.

The Outsider

As Mom regained her strength and her migraine dissipating, exchanges between my brother Andy and myself heated up. Small skirmishes continued to erupt throughout the day.

Exasperated and still sensitive to noise, Mom decided an outside, rapid response force needed to be called in to deal with us.

Mrs. Moscowitz  had helpfully suggested the services of her teenage niece Julie who lived not far away on Verona Avenue. Julie Rosensweig could be deployed on a short notice and since she had previously baby sat for us she wouldn’t need clearance.

Or so we thought.

Fowl Play

In retrospect, how were we to know that something dangerous would be entering our house undetected ? Like the sneaky Communists, treacherous decoys could infiltrate as friends and neighbors setting off a chain reaction that would reverberate for years.

It didn’t take long before Nana had proof positive that the Moscowitzes were up to no good. Someone had stolen her secret matzo ball recipe.

Within a few days there was a sudden proliferation of fluffy, light-as-air matzo balls up and down the block. Before you knew it, every neighbor would be serving Nana’s chicken soup and matzo balls for Passover.

Loose Talk Is a Chain Reaction For Espionage

Since the formula was top-secret and Nana prohibited dissemination of information about the matzo balls construction, it must have been espionage that allowed Natalie Moscowitz to penetrate our kitchen and test it. Stealing the recipe confirmed for Mom the Moscowitz’s general duplicity and untrustworthiness.

Each new disclosure, fully substantiated or not, was greeted with a kind of knowing sneer  by Mom.

On the defensive, Natalie said that to imply that she stole the recipe, would suggest that Nana Sadie was the only source of kneidel knowledge  and therefore anyone who learned to do it must have discovered the Posner’s secret formula.

But yes, Mrs. Moscowitz did in fact learn by espionage at Moms house, information about the physics of matzo balls.

A good ball has a solid central mass; the correct leavening was essential  to produce the trapped gases and ultimate release of carbon dioxide, providing the propulsion required to expel the  large amounts of energy locked up in the ball’s nucleus. The timing, and cooling period had to be carefully monitored, the density and ratio of fat to liquid to matzoh meal had to be precisely calculated.

Chain Reaction

It was Julie with her infiltration tactics, who provided specific data on the design of the Matzo Ball.

Julie’s mother, Ethel Rosensweig, a Home-Ec teacher  was a top-secret formula  breaker, who upon questioning, seemed to have substantial knowledge of the recipe.

Julie provided  Mrs. Moscowitz a good deal of information on the correct placement of ingredients most likely to start a chain reaction in order for the spheres to implode on impact resulting in  matzo balls that were Boombeh’s.

She provided a considerable packet of information including several sketches of molds that could be used to make the proper size, critical to the balls implosive core. The correct diameter was crucial; a few centimeters off in either direction, and the mission would have to be aborted.

Natalie Moscowitz found the material of inestimable significance and was willing to share it with the neighbors.

Natalie and the other neighbors disagreed for a time over whether they had allowed for sufficient compression in shaping the balls in order to produce adequate implosion. The problems were solved  and a few days before Passover they were ready to test.

Blast Off

As the balls were dropped into the scalding broth, shock waves were sent though the kitchen.

The correct trajectory of these spheres into the boiling liquid was crucial. Would the balls sink to the bottom of the chicken soup or float delicately over the surface? Did they produce floaters or sinkers?

Almost immediately, the balls themselves swelled so much they filled up the entire pot! BOOMBEH!!

Debate

Was it only through underhanded means that Mrs. Moscowitz gained the information they needed to make the delectable dumplings? Was Julie Rosensweig merely a willing patsy?

Of course both Mom and Nana had underestimated the ability of Natalie Moscowitz to gear up so quickly for the production of  perfect matzo balls for Passover. They also underestimated her talent, resources, and resourcefulness.

There was substantial evidence that Mrs. Moscowitz had keen kneidel knowledge and a research program of her own, way before Nana’s visit.

But she lacked the real know how – using crude margarine where Nana insisted on fine schmaltz.

Nana refused to believe it happened, dismissing the intelligence that indicated it had.

She tasted it to authenticate it. Despite the fact the matzo balls were the regulation two inches in diameter, light as clouds, delicately disintegrating into a fluffy mass, they had missed the critical element.

Nana Sadie smiled dismissively.

Years later I would learn the secret, handed down for generations, until finally it was my time to be entrusted with it. It wasn’t about the seltzer, the stiffly beaten egg whites or even the schmaltz.

The one ingredient you must put in everything you cook, according to Great Grandma Rebecca, is love. If you do, everything you cook will be delicious.

Only then, she claimed, would it be a “meichel for the beichel!” ( a gift for the stomach).

A Happy Passover to all my friends who celebrate it!

Copyright (©) 20018 Sally Edelstein Envisioning the American Dream All Rights Reserved -Excerpt From Defrosting The Cold War:Fallout From My Nuclear Family

For some, the sweet perfume of lilacs drifting through open screened windows evoke spring. For me springtime can be conjured up with the toxic smell of mothballs.

These past many months as I have been sadly consumed with closing down my childhood home of 63 years, sorting and sifting through the detritus of mine and my  parents lives, the lingering smell of mothballs past has become my own personal Proustian madeleine.

I Love the Smell of Naphthalene in the Morning…

By the time of the first tulips sprouting from the soil, white crystalline mothballs would appear like magic dotting the interior landscape of my home as my mother launched her garment battle plan for the Great Spring Migration of shifting seasonal clothes to their appropriate closets.

Gathering great heaps of clothing from countless dresser drawers, cabinets and closets Mom would begin the annual seasonal schlepping of apparel from one location in the house to another.

Winter woolens were susceptible to the ravages of moths. Vintage Fashion pages from 1958 catalogue

This was all done as part of the mid-century-housewife – approved preparedness program against the onslaught of vicious perpetrators out to destroy the family wardrobe.

Winter woolens would survive…if you prepared. By late spring insatiable moths were on the prowl greedily licking their lips in anticipation of feasting on your cashmeres, woolens, and tweeds.

Separate But Equal

Unlike in my own current clothes closet that is a “closet for all seasons,” mid-century clothing hewed to strict rules and exacting locations in my parents’ house.

The recent Brown vs. Board of education ruling regarding separate but equal was disregarded when it came to apparel. God forbid a summertime Liberty of London cotton floral skirt would co mingle with a Pringle cashmere sweater set in the very same closet at the very same time.

Not in my mother’s house.

With military precision, summer’s white shoes and handbags were taken out of storage and the march of the winter woolens would begin their descent into the bowels of the damp basement for captivity in our cellar clothes closet.

Cold War Cold Storage

Basement Fallout Shelter Life Magazine Sept. 15, 1961

As the cold war was heating up at the dawn of the 1960’s I pleaded with my parents the practicality of building a fallout shelter in our basement. To my eternal disappointment, a large clothes closet was built in its stead, the safety of a scratchy Woolrich woolen sweater from ravenous moths clearly more valuable than my own from a nuclear holocaust.

Mom Bugs Out

While others stayed up at night worrying about a Russian attack my mother was a bundle of nerves when it came to bugs.

Spring was opening of the offensive against insects who as scientists were telling us “are the real foes and future nemesis of man.” Insects were the bane of Moms existence…pesky flies that contaminated food and brought filth into the house, legions of ants tracking who knows what onto her Clorox clean counters.

But it was the destruction and cruelty of moths and their larvae that could decimate an entire family’s winter wardrobe in the dark of night that sent shivers down her spine.  Hungry moths thrived and grew bloated on your Fair Isle sweater or fur collared princess coat. Blankets and draperies didn’t fare any better

Like any smart housewife, Mom knew she had only herself to blame for the holes in Dad’s worsted wool suit and took protection of the family household seriously.

Containment Policy

First line of defense in her campaign was the containment of the garments.

Containment policy was not just a cold war policy but the rule of thumb for clothing too. Once in lock down the clothes were hermetically sealed in large plastic hanging quilted garment bags of celadon green and pink.

But containment alone was not sufficient deterrent for these sneaky plotters. You needed the annihilating  power of mothballs.

Luckily science had come to m’ lady’s rescue with a powerful offensive – a lethal insect and pest repellent guaranteed to save a family’s precious wardrobe.

No longer did the lady of the house have to rely on old fashioned cedar chests in the war against bugs. No more checking for seams and folds for larvae and eggs. The deadly combination of Naphthalene and para dichlorobenzene which vaporize at room temperature packed a one two punch with the toxic fumes killing clothes moths, their eggs and larvae.

Smelling like camphor, these powerful chemicals designed to kill moths were conveniently sold in solid form such as moth balls, flakes, cakes and crystals.

Naphthalene is highly flammable and  para dichlorobenzene is now a known carcinogen. “You could trust it,” the ads promised, “to protect your blankets, draperies, and clothes.”

You just couldn’t trust it with your health.

Blissfully unaware, for decades Mom littered the basement closet floor with moth balls and little orange “No Moth” tin canisters  hung merrily from the ceiling like Xmas stockings.  Those pesky insects didn’t stand a chance.

All The Proof You Need

As a young bride Mom swore by Larvex which was a moth proofing product sprayed directly on the clothes themselves and was a favorite with modern housewives. Moths, the ads claimed would rather starve to death than ingest the toxin.

Completely odorless and stainless the chemical spraying lasted a year. The results were equally as long lasting on humans.

Guaranteed as safe as DDT, the active ingredient in Larvex was Diethyl Diphenyl Dichloroethane.  DDD is closely related chemically and is similar in properties to DDT which was eventually found to be a human carcinogen.

The product left a long lasting residual toxicity that starved the moths and continued to kill for a full year. For people, the effects could be felt decades later with respiratory problems and cancer.

Take No Chances- Di Chloricide

A favorite crystal form of the insecticide from Mom’s youth and still very popular when she ran a home of her own was Di chloricide. Made by pharmaceutical giant Merck, it not only killed moths but prevented mold and mildew. For a damp basement like ours it was a blessing.

Di Chloricide was a boon to housewives like my grandmother in the late 1930’s when it first appeared. Nana Sadie could be free from worry over moth damage when she put away her winter clothes. In the top of each garment bag my grandmother placed a small cheesecloth bag filled with Di chloricide crystals (the cheesecloth bag came with every can) and she could rest assure her garments would be safe until she needed them.

M’lady apparently didn’t need to know the harmful ingredients.

It’s the modern way to protect your clothes- and it doesn’t leave a “moth ball odor.” The carcinogens acted odorlessly . Vintage ad Di-chloricide 1935

My grandmother was impressed as the product came with a ringing endorsement not only from the head housekeeper at the Waldorf Astoria but with the seal of approval from smart Fifth Avenue furriers.

Yes Di chloricide is death to moths, but it’s very easy and pleasant to use,” the copy reads in this 1935 ad. Di chloricide crystals give off a penetrating vapor that kills flying moth and moth worms. Just sprinkle among the garments in your trunk the vapor works through all the folds, seams, and linings.”

The vapors also worked thru the lining of your throat and esophagus.

The active ingredient Dichlorobenzene is a carcinogen that affects the respiratory system and breathing and repeated exposure can damage nervous system, cause trembling, and damage lungs, liver, and kidneys.

“Ask your druggist for Di chloricide today,” the ad implored the reader.

You’ll be seeing him years later for all the health problems you might develop.

Post Script – Moth Proof Memories

As the years went on the basement clothes closet was not sufficient to contain all my parents’ clothes, which is perplexing given that neither of my parents were clothes horses.

My parents had clothes literally hanging from the basement rafters, garment bags hanging on steel beams and any horizontal support,  bulging with clothes from seasons and years past precariously dangling from old copper pipes on the precipice of bursting.

Growing up when there were two growing children living in the house, clothes seemed to be well contained in their owners appropriate closets, but once my brother and I moved out, it was a clothes lollapalooza as my parents attire encroached on our now empty closets and ran amuck in the basement.

In full transparency, some of these garment bags hanging from rafters contained my clothes from the 1970’ through the 1980’s when I lived in smaller apartments and thus never enough close space.

I deposited my clothes in suburbia and never looked back. Until now.

Now it is a tangle of hot pants and Huck-a-Poo shirts, wrap dresses from Dianne Von Furstenberg and lace punk dresses from Betsy Johnson. They would reside there out of sight and out of mind for the far off day when I would eventually retrieve them.

That day has come as I am emptying out the house. The residual smell of mothballs still permeate the basement. Like the memories it brings up,  the toxic vapors stay with me long after I have left. So does the wheezing cough I have after every visit.

Along with the tears.

Copyright (©) 20018 Sally Edelstein Envisioning the American Dream All Rights Reserved

My mid-century home is fading fast.

Right now strangers and bottom feeders are traipsing thru my parent’s suburban house picking over the remains of a family’s long life hoping to score a deal at a tag sale.

It is  the final indignity as we close down my childhood house. It is surreal and sad for me and the symbolism of it all is crushing. An intensely private person, it feels invasive, as though my mother  herself was laying on an autopsy table splayed open for all to view. The multiple dumpsters lie in wait on the driveway, patiently waiting their turn to be greedily filled with once cherished items not sold. The prospect of donating large furniture is dim.

No one, it seems wants them. I know this

There are countless items large and small, but the hardest for me has been the fate of the dining room table the heart and soul of my home. It remains standing at the tag sale, not fetching an adequate price at the auction we held and may well end up being thrown in a dumpster along with other beautifully crafted mid-century furniture. These pieces though technically are considered “mid century,” they are  the dowdier, older sisters of the current, sexier,  trendier “mid century modern” furnishings.

They are the ones no one is taking to the dance. Or taking home.

Not unlike their furniture, my parents weren’t trendy they were traditionalists who at the outset purchased  solid, well made furniture from the best manufacturers in Manhattan showrooms courtesy of Tootsie, Mom’s decorator. To their generation the Henkle Harris walnut polished wood dining  table  was a solid good name.

Money in the bank.

Brown Wood

To today’s Millennial’s, that furniture is “Brown Wood” a feature making it near radioactive in the marketplace.

Brown is not the new black when it comes to furniture. “Brown Wood” in fact is furniture non gratis, it is the new catchall term for all dark  furniture indistinguishable from one another whether mahogany, walnut or cherry rendering it decidedly unsellable.

Along with bone china, sterling silver, and crystal,  all once signifiers of good taste, this generation has no taste for it.

Homage to a Table.

All my sentiments are distilled in this dining room table that was the center of my family life for 60 years. Nearly every person of note in my life has sat at that table at some point, and ever marker in my life had a meal served in its honor.

It’s  where I blew out my childhood birthday candles from a home-made cake made by my mother from a Duncan Hines mix and where she lit Shabbos candles every Friday night. It was the site of countless Passover’s, Thanksgivings  and fancy dinner parties my parents held where I would create elaborate hand drawn menus just for the occasion.

Eating at the dining room table signified an occasion but it was also the table that we as a family boisterously played Bingo and traded real estate on Monopoly on, and it was the table my mother sat at late into the night fretting over bills, enveloped in a plume of smoke.

For 55 years Mom protected the table with heavy, custom-made  table pads and damask and linen  table cloths so that now the bare wood surface belies its age with nary a scratch nor blemish.

Seeing the gleaming wooden top for the first time  in ages was a  revelation at the care my mother bestowed on this piece of furniture but made it all the more painful thinking it might well be casually tossed in a metal dumpster, scratched and marred and mistreated. So undignified.

So I  find myself stuck in my dining room and it’s fate.

For someone who counts on continuity this hits to the core. I am crushed.

Copyright (©) 20018 Sally Edelstein Envisioning the American Dream All Rights Reserved

Fifteen years ago in a darkened hospital room, I held my mother’s frail hand and gently whispered in her ear how she was the love of my life, that I was going to tell her story, that I would write her story, our story and I kept that promise. When I lost my mother Betty 15 years ago, I found my voice and I used my words in ways I hadn’t before.

In 2008 when she died, my virtual footprint was surprisingly faint. Not only did I not have a website, I didn’t tweet, wasn’t on Facebook, and had only recently chosen to sign up with Myspace instead. Clearly, my underdeveloped social radar was way off on that decision. Committed to my Blackberry I wouldn’t get an iPhone for another 2 years.

Four years later I would start this blog and on it I would from time to time share her stories, introducing Betty to a wider audience. My childhood posts were often among my most read and beloved. Now her image has been liked on Instagram, her words shared on Facebook, and her anecdotes tweeted.  Her stories have been widely read online.  None of these venues would be comprehensible to my very Luddite mother.

There is a symbiosis to this. It was my mother who encouraged my storytelling skills as a very little girl. Along with playing the sing-song game “A my name is Alice and I come from Alabama and I sell Apples” a favorite pastime of ours was what she called “Continuation Story.” The aim of the game was to create a complete story between the two of us. Each would contribute a few sentences and then move on to the next person before a complete story would evolve over time.

Pool side from 1956 to 2008 Photos Sally Edelstein

Fifteen years.

It feels inconceivable that she has been gone that many years. It feels like five at the most. Perhaps “grief time” is like dog years, where each human year is approximately 5 years for an adult dog.

How could she be gone what amounts to my entire childhood plus 5 bonus years? When I turned 15 it felt as though I had lived an entire life. To arrive at that age seemed to have taken forever in the slow-motion way that childhood unfolds.

Now time moves at a mind-boggling accelerated speed, as it does for us all who are privileged to age.

Her beloved little grandchildren who played on her living room floor, have now not only gone to high school, they are both college graduates with careers of their own

It saddens me that she has not been here these many years to share in and kvell in my own accomplishments and my happiness, but secretly there is a part of me that is grateful that she has not been here to see my losses.

So much mishegoss has transpired,  she wouldn’t begin to comprehend. I would have wanted to protect her from all that, as strongly as the feeling of also wishing she were still here to have protected me.

But through the adversity, I drew on her considerable strength, the strength I absorbed from her and bubbled to the surface when needed. In a way, she was by my side.

The woman who gave me life entrusted me to know when it was time to end hers. It fell on my shoulders and at times, even still, the weight of it sags.

It was the honor of my life to have taken care of her final years. Without either of us knowing it, it was her final gift.

Her story ended in April 2008, but the continuation story continues with me.

© Sally Edelstein and Envisioning The American Dream, 2023. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Sally Edelstein and Envisioning The American Dream with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

As an old-school lover of newspapers, I’m particularly thrilled to have a double-page spread with a bonus Brownie-era photo published in Sunday’s New York Daily News.

That a black and white snapshot my 30-something father took with his Brownie Starflex in 1958 is now splashed across two pages of New York’s hometown paper in a whole other century, delights this former hometown girl to no end.

My article landed in the right place

To a lifelong lover of paper, it is particularly meaningful to have a hard copy of a story I wrote.

Say what you will, print still matters.

To me.

Sure, the feel, and smell of newsprint are primal, but it’s the permanence of it, that matters to me.

An avid collector of ephemera, along with hundreds of boxes filled with a century’s worth of vintage magazines I also collect newspapers past and present. The mundane and the momentous, the tragedies and the celebrations of the twentieth century as portrayed in print seem vital to me, even as newspapers themselves are on life support.

Newspapers, once our main source of receiving breaking news still remain for me tangible evidence of the facts. Seeing history in black and white makes it real for me in a very visceral way.

There is permanency in print.

Unlike sound bites that disappear into the ether,  print allows me to linger, and return again and again.

And I confess, reading articles online pales to reading them in print.

Ok boomer, I can hear millennials say in a generational rolling of their eyes.

Don’t get me wrong I get most of my news from the web, on my computer, my tablet, and more often than not my iPhone.

I love the immediacy of the web, the far and diverse range of audiences it reaches, and how it generates immediate feedback creating interchanges on Twitter and social media.

But newsprint focuses. There is no scrolling and clicking. It blocks distraction. Reading online I comprehend less, often forgetting why I clicked on a page and start randomly clicking on outside links until I’m tumbling through cyberspace like a marooned astronaut.

Paper is grounding.

But for those who don’t live in New York, please enjoy my story ….

The news of the death of teen idol Bobby Sherman yesterday finally surpassed all the Trump posts on my social media feed as women of a certain age lamented the passing of their first crush. And gay men whose uncertain feelings could be easily expressed with Bobby.

I get it.

My junior high bedroom walls were an homage to the two Bobbys in my life.

There were the Bobby Kennedy for President campaign posters from his 1968 presidential run, The large black and white face with the toothy grin and shock of Kennedy hair watched over me as I did my social studies homework.

Then there was Bobby Sherman, vibrating in Tiger Beat-saturated color, whoa-oh, his piercing sky-blue eyes gazing back at mine.

Bobby, Bobby, Bobby, do ya love me?

I had a crush on them both. Bobby Kennedy spoke to my burgeoning political and social justice aspirations, tinged with sadness at the abrupt and tragic ending to his young life in June 1968.

But Bobby Sherman was pure pop fun, dreamy and desirable in ways that at 14, I was just awakening to.

While the rest of the world seemed threatening, Sherman’s smiling visage beamed from the walls of thousands of teenage girls, a reassuring totem against riots, drugs, and war protests that raged outside.

Three months after the loss of RFK, Bobby Sherman landed a role as Jeremy Bolt, a bashful, stammering logger on ABC’s “Here Comes The Brides.” Teenyboppers across the country fell in love with this adorable, unassuming boy on their TV sets every Wednesday night. The comedy was set in the boom town of Seattle in the 1870s, with the idea of importing marriageable women from New Bedford, Massachusetts, to the town.

While David Soul, who played his older brother, had his fans, it was Bobby who was the breakout heartthrob, as we listened to him croon the show’s theme song.

Thursday’s conversations in the school lunchroom were always centered around the  TV episode the night before. I could join in the excitement when a new poster of him appeared in 16 Magazine, and envy the girls who pulled tuna fish sandwiches out of their Bobby Sherman lunchboxes and thermos.

For someone like me, who was never boy crazy, I finally found a pop star I could “like” and authentically share in the conversation.

His was a safe crush.  Bobby was squeaky clean, suitable for Tiger Beat and 16 Magazines with his dimples. His bubblegum pop, non-threatening smile made him easy to love. He wasn’t sexually dangerous like a Mick Jagger. While the rest of the world seemed threatening, Sherman’s smiling visage beamed from the walls of thousands of teenage girls,  a reassuring totem against riots, drugs, and protests, free sex that raged outside.

Easy Listening

Growing up, my older brother and I shared a common bedroom wall, but when it came to tastes in music, we were worlds apart.

By 1970, his album collection was prodigious. That spring, while our shared wall vibrated with the sounds of Creedance Clearwater, Jethro Trull, Crosby, Stills & Nash, blaring from his Pioneer stereo, I happily lay on my bed listening to the Easy Come, Easy Go ez listening sound of Bobby Sherman on my small GE Celadon green portable record player.

But mine were no ordinary 45’s purchased at Korvettes.

Mine came straight from a cereal box.

The Best to You Each Morning

In 1970 Post capitalized on Bobby Sherman by putting records of his songs on boxes of multiple cereals including Honey Comb and Cinnamon Raison Bran. There were 4 different records available each with 5 songs. Some included Easy Come Easy Go, Hey Mr Sun,  Bubblegum and Braces and Little Woman.

Cut-out cardboard records called flexi records were a popular cereal promotion. No box tops to save and mail off to Battle Creek, Michigan. The incentive to finish off the box quickly to get at the record was smart marketing.  Mom kept me in constant supply.

The sound quality wasn’t very good, and they tended to warp days after they were cut from the cereal box but it was Bobby and  I didn’t mind.

Whoa-oh

In Your Dreams

Next to Rock Hudson, Liberace was Sue Ellen Wolinski’s absolute dream date. Liberace was just so fabulously different from any other fellows she had ever met. A wonderful pianist, yes. But, OH! so much more.

Come Wednesday night in the 1950s, wild horses couldn’t pull this perky miss away from her Philco when the master entertainer’s hit TV show was on. Along with 30 million other viewers, Sue Ellen sat transfixed, convinced the heart-throb was gayly winking just at her.

With that infectious smile and wavy hair, he was just dreamy. Well, dream on, Sue Ellen, because only in your dreams would Liberace be available to you.

In The Closet

For years, the press about Hollywood stars successfully created the illusion of heterosexuality while the reality of their lives was very different.

The golden age of Hollywood wasn’t so golden if you were gay.

Being in the closet was once a requirement to make it in Hollywood. Some of the brightest stars were suspected to have been in “lavender marriages” for the sake of their careers. These marriages were arranged by Hollywood studios to hide their sexual orientation from the public.

In the 2013 HBO biopic “Behind the Candelabra” the story of Liberace in the 1970s starring Michael Douglas,  focuses on his 6 year relationship with the much younger Scott Thorson.

But in the 1950s, Liberace was the heartthrob of millions of housewives and teenage girls. Receiving 10,000 fan letters per week, he was deep in the closet, albeit one lit by the glow of a candelabra.

No matter what nasty rumors hinted at Liberace’s sexual orientation, one important fact stands out like a sore thumb, or should I say, like a dazzling candelabra: the ladies loved and adored their pianist. To even hint to the girls that “My Liberace” was given to anything but heterosexual hunkiness would be an invitation to have your head handed to you- and not on a silver platter.

Liberace performs  Bumble Boogie

Girl Loves Boy. Boy Loves Boy…Boy, Oh Boy

When Liberace closed his TV show crooning his signature song, “I’ll Be Seeing You,” Sue Ellen took him at his word.

And in fact, in the fall of 1954, it came to pass.

That September, Sue Ellen was in seventh heaven when she came face to face with the dreamboat himself. Making an appearance in her hometown of  Miami for the opening ceremonies of a new branch of the First Federal Savings and Loan Association, Liberace was nearly crushed to death by a tidal wave of ten thousand eager women who crowded the bank for a glimpse of there idol.“The women acted like wild animals,” one policeman reported after he had helped fight them off from nine in the morning till 6 at night.

Amid the crowd, Sue Ellen locked eyes with Liberace.

The lucky lady was certain he was staring intently at her, winking his famous wink …attracted, she was sure, by the shimmering beauty revealed in her freshly shampooed hair. Closing her eyes, she imagined the two of them in the Miami moonlight, the handsome hunk, reveling in the fragrant, silken softness of her Luster Creme tresses, tenderly touching her smooth, glistening locks as he murmured: “Dream Girl, where have you been all my life?”

In her reverie, she never even noticed the handsome young man with the long, lovely lashes standing right behind her for whom the wink was surely intended.

Sweet Dreams

Gals like Sue Ellen were helped along by the publicity machine furiously churning out puff pieces on the flamboyant star,  fanning the flames of romantic possibility with the light-in-the-loafers-lothario.

In December 1954, a cover story in TV World Magazine announced- Liberace Tells: “What I want in a Woman!”

Mid-Century Housewives, career girls, and teenagers alike pored through the magazine article that, like all the other hundreds of fluff pieces, fueled their hopes and dreams while fueling Liberace’s career.

What I Want in a Woman

“It’s quite obvious how women feel about him,” the article in the magazine begins.”The big question is, how does he feel about them?”

One and only one person could supply the answer: the maestro himself. And so a journalist named Peer Oppenheim paid him a visit at the television studio on Wilshire Boulevard, where his television series was filmed.

Liberace, we learn, has been engaged three times, and out of approximately 2,000 fan letters he gets each week, about a dozen come from hopefuls of all ages who propose to become Mrs Liberace as soon as possible.

“What do I think of women? I think they’re pretty wonderful,” said Liberace, and almost in the same breath confessed how important it is to have them on his side.

“In most instances, directly or indirectly, they have the last word- in politics, in business, and particularly as far as music and entertainment is concerned. I have studied the lives of famous composers and musicians pretty thoroughly and found that in each case women have played a prominent part in their success. Did you know that Liszt turned his piano sideways so women could see his profile?”

Still, in the days of Liszt and Chopin, women showed their affection a little more subtly than by tearing off buttons, ripping jackets, snatching ties as souvenirs, or trying to break into the houses of their heroes at all hours of the day and night.

“Doesn’t that sort of demonstrativeness ever bother you?”Liberace is asked.

“Oh no. They usually don’t get out of hand too much. I seem to have…well, a restraining influence over them. No matter how wildly they behave before I get to the scene, they usually calm down when I arrive,” he answers coyly.

There are some qualities in women Liberace likes better than others, and a few he can’t stand at all, artificiality, for instance.

“I have nothing against lipstick and powder. But I don’t like false eyelashes and that sort of thing.”

(Clearly he had no problem with a dash of lipstick and rosy rouge applied to his own countenance either.)

The reader learns that he got his first disillusioning shock through a girl to whom he was once engaged. She was a performer, and for stage effect, had to use strong make up and bright eye-catching clothes.

For professional purposes, Liberace has no objections.

But apparently away from her work, Mr Showmanship thought she should dress in a simpler more conservative, less attention-getting manner (obviously not to compete with his own sequined, spangled outfits)

“When we walked along the street together, people used to stare at her. But they were just gawking at her gaudiness, and there was no admiration in their eyes.”

He tried to change her, and when he didn’t succeed, he broke the engagement.

Home and Hearth

He believed women should be domestically inclined, yet not the “hausfrau-type” who feels obliged to slave over a hot stove all day.

“When I get married, if I can afford it, I want my wife to have servants. But at the same time, I want her to take a personal interest in anything that concerns the house, and supervise all domestic activities,” he declared firmly.

(During the 1950s through the 1970s he was the highest paid entertainer in the so we can assume he could well afford a servant …especially a houseboy or two.)

According to Liberace, the biggest trouble with women was “that if they are not married at an early age, they get frantic, for fear of becoming ‘old maids. Most women seem to think that once they turn 30, they start losing their looks and their charm. I feel that they have so much more to offer then,” he says convincingly. “As a matter of fact, I think most women are much more attractive in their thirties.”

 (He may prefer mature women, but clearly liked his boys young)

Thirty-three himself, he claims he wants to marry a woman in her thirties because “She is more mature than a younger girl, has more to talk about, and is more on an equal basis with me.”

He has no sympathy for women who let themselves go once they are married, who no longer care about their appearances or the impression they make.

As a final thought: “I don’t care for glamorizing either.”

(Said the flamboyant Mr. Showmanship, known for his excesses to the max)

“Looks are of secondary importance to me. It’s the understanding a woman can show, her kindness, her thoughtfulness. ( Especially understanding when you step out with a man) “Not every woman can be beautiful, but everyone can make herself desirable.”

That’s what Liberace wants, Gals!

People participate in the LGBTQ Pride march on Sunday, June 30, 2019, in New York. New York’s Pride March. (AP Photo/Craig Ruttle)

Liberace never came out as Gay. But as Pride Parades proliferate in every town and city this month, celebrating LGBTQ pride, let’s be grateful that the closet he was forced into will no longer be necessary.

Happy Pride

Copyright (©) 2025 Sally Edelstein All Rights Reserved

Related Posts:

Locked in the American Dream Closet

Unintentionally Gay Ads- Does He or Doesn’t He?

The Gay Bachelor and the Bride

• Reynolds: We Knew Liberace Was Gay (abcnews.go.com)