It was one of those rare, becalmed moments of peace combined
with the imaginary, solo playtime of a magic-infused child’s brain. A momentary
regression to innocence, a mini second of pure escape.
Alas, it was not to last however, this workaday lull for the
aspiring bourgeoisie. Slowly the weekend preparations began a stone’s throw
from where I sat, assaulting my brief reverie.
First the chair haulers, then the floral arrangers, finally
the nervous, busy staff skittering about everywhere on the grass, the awful, grating
and piercing noise of sound testing, the unending chair placement, the floral
arrangements, the construction of the matrimonial canopy, the folding chairs being
unfolded and lined up, the equipment, the sound testing. . .
Wave Hill in its nineteenth century heyday was a grand private
estate, a respite for the likes of of robber barons, a President, a great
American writer. It was donated to the City of New York in the 1960’s and for a
couple of decades remained a quiet and pretty neighborhood retreat from a
time gone by; it offered views
overlooking the Hudson River and in the distance a famous bridge that was not yet
built or part of the landscape in that former century. It was a place to unwind
from the everyday cares, an old fashioned simple pleasure with an aura of
former elegance. It was free and there were no tour buses. On a weekday one could conjure up pensively
strolling the paths after alighting from a horse drawn brougham or some similarly
patrician and sublime Edith Wharton moment. There would have been high tea no
doubt and a roaring fire on late winter afternoons in the great hall, maids and
butlers silently scurrying about. One could dream.
Eventually the city bureaucrats got hold of the place and
had ideas. They quickly realized the former estate was a potential cash cow and
not just an “environmental center with beautiful gardens” as the new brochures eventually advertised; now there are conferences year round, tour buses, an
expansive gift shop in the newly fashioned visitors’ center, and weddings on
summer weekends. These latter affairs are gross. Money, money, money is what
they scream and it takes many hours and a formidable army of caterers and
contractors to set up the trappings for that one, lavish night; while all this
goes on, the last public visitors are allowed to continue to loll in their
Adirondack chairs prior to closing time- a sort of lame nod to the proletariat.
This past weekend being one of the last lollers to be lolling, I
was able- nay, forced- to check out the guests as they began arriving, noting
an astonishing array of wildly expensive and sometimes odd dresses, natty suits, hairstyles,
face lifts and the occasional comforting sight of an unsculpted, overhanging
belly. The robber barons were back. Many of the party goers looked like
business associates.
As I was leaving I also happened to notice the wine with
which the staff was filling dozens of stem glasses set upon a white table near
the entrance for these thirsty arriving guests; the familiar, celebratory, red elixir
being poured by the impeccably dressed young waiters attired in crisp black
and white uniforms was being ladeled out from what resembled a large, plastic
bucket of the kind used to wash floors. In essence, a rather worn looking, not
so spiffy pail full of cheap, red stuff that looked a bit like Kool Aid or
perhaps supermarket punch.
Who knew. . . ???
