Galleon Icing

Leaning back in an Adirondack chair at Wave Hill on a recent June afternoon, I was gazing up at the sky, basking in melodious, soul soothing birdy tweets. A few clouds in a perfectly clear and sunny universe, one in particular, started to resemble an old galleon ship made of frosty white cake icing gently rocking on an infinite sea of pale blue. A kind of aquatic fairyland, it you will,

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. . . ???