BY MARIAN NEMETSKY
How would you describe
life’s journey? How would
you even begin to talk
about the plans, and the plans gone
awry; the tears of sorrow, and the
tears of happiness, the expectations,
and the unexpected, and the tragedies
and the laughter? It could take
a book. Yet, Robert Frost said it all
in one sentence, “The afternoon
knows what the morning never
suspected.”
In the morning of my life as a
young bride and a senior in college,
I married my Prince Charming. The
Plan was that once he completed
his MBA and we were both on
our professional paths, we would
work for five years, buy a house,
start a family, and live happily ever
after. With that graduate degree,
he would be going up,up,up in the
business world, and maybe even
earning $10,000 a year.
After about two years into The
Plan, my dear friend and her husband
became parents of a delightful
baby girl. We spent the next several
months enthralled with that baby.
Finally, we looked at each other
and said, “We want our own little
delightful baby—girl or boy.”
In the tiny bedroom of our apartment
in Brooklyn, we could put a
crib on one wall, and a bathinette
on the other. If we walked in sideways,
it would work. My Prince
was at a new job, approaching our
salary goal. The Plan curved a little,
but a house was still on the horizon.
Unbeknownst to me, the rule in
New York City for teachers who
became pregnant was that they had
to leave IMMEDIATELY. Since I
looked like I swallowed a large
pumpkin by my fifth month, my
teaching days came to an abrupt
halt. In fact, because of the size of
my “baby bump,” my New York
based obstetrician said, “We could
be looking at twins.” (Sonagrams
had not yet been invented.) Twins
were definitely not in The Plan.
At the same time, my Prince was
suddenly laid off. Two departments
merged; last hired, first fired.
So we watched John F. Kennedy’s
inspirational inaugural speech in
our tiny apartment, both jobless,
with the possibility of twins on the
way. When he said, “Ask not what
your country can do for you, ask
what you can do for your country,”
it filled us with hope, but we still
had much anxiety.
By my ninth month, my Prince
thankfully got a new, better job,
and I looked like I swallowed a
huge, ripe watermelon. At my
next pre-natal visit, my doctor’s
associate examined me. As he
prodded my burgeoning belly, he
kept mumbling, “uh huh, uh huh.”
Then he concluded, “Well, little
mother, it’s definitely TWINS. I just
felt the second head.”
“OMG”
I waddled out into the waiting
room to tell my Prince.
A week later, at the scheduled
appointment with my regular doctor,
he said, “I want you to take an
x-ray. It’s perfectly safe now—the
baby or babies are fully formed.”
I did, and then came the phone
call. My whole body shook as I was
about to find out what the x-ray
revealed.
“Good news—it’s only one very
big baby.”
Relief flooded my body. But, I
still had one more fear.
“Uh, how many heads does my
baby have?” I asked, nearly in tears.
“Why are you asking that?”
“Well, your associate said that he
felt two heads, and so…”
I could tell he was holding back
a big laugh.
“I promise you, he has only
one head. A baby lies in the fetal
position, and he must have felt the
backside. Relax, I’ll be seeing you
soon.”
Now, in the late afternoon of my
life, I can look back at that anxiety
filled time with some amusement.
Luckily, my Prince and I have
been blessed with two one-headed
sons, daughters-in-law, and grandchildren.
However, through the
years we’ve experienced plans, and
plans that have gone awry; tears
of happiness and tears of sorrow,
expectations, and the unexpected,
tragedies and laughter. Robert
Frost’s words still ring true, “The
afternoon knows what the morning
never expected.”
But, what about the night?
BY IRENE FRANK
I was intimidated before he walked
in. He was THE art and antiques
dealer in New York City. It was
said he was tough and had a very discerning
eye. And I was about to put
all my treasures on display in hopes
that he would help me downsize
from a large house on Long Island
to a small apartment in Queens. My
son advised me not to be sentimental.
“Be ruthless,” he said. “Just get
rid of the stuff and don’t look back.”
The doorbell rang and I ushered
in Mr. Discerning Eye. His
demeanor was grim. There was
no small talk. He was a very big,
no-nonsense guy. He could have
been Mussolini’s twin brother.
In the hallway stood my treasured
19th Century grandfather clock, beautifully
carved mahogany with inserts
of burled wood and a wonderful brass
face and pendulum. He passed it and
said, “Uh hum.” Next to it hung an
old unicorn tapestry; its twin hung
in the Cloisters. “Uh hum,” he said.
We passed an antique hall tree with
brass hooks for hats and a place for
canes or umbrellas. I had found it in
a barn in Maine and had it refinished
at great expense. “Uh hum.”
In the dining room, I had laid
out my 14-place Shelly bone china
dinner set. I had started collecting it
at my engagement and it had taken
years to complete. Each piece was
a perfect gem with scalloped edges
and delicate pansies dancing over
the almost translucent surface. My
heart would break at the thought of
giving it up. He uttered, “Uh huh.”
I pointed out the antique Tudor
dining room chairs with their new
upholstered seats and refinished
wood turnings. He said, “Uh huh.”
Above my piano was a huge parchment
painting bought in Egypt
framed in a highly burnished gold
finish. It told the story of the god,
Isis, and I had taped the authenticity
papers behind it. “Uh huh.”
On another wall hung an expressionist
painting of an old rabbi
holding a bible. I didn’t know what
moved me to buy it until Aunt Milly
pointed to it and said, “There’s
Papa.” It did look just like my grandfather,
who spent the last years of his
life in an old men’s charity ward, 10
beds to a room. As a little girl I was
upset at the way he lived and sulked
when we visited him. I understand
now that I bought the painting to
keep him safe and still in the family.
The art dealer barely looked at it and
once again said, “Uh huh.”
I was getting very depressed at
the encounter. My treasures left no
impression on him at all. This silent
hulk of a man was hurting me. We
walked into the kitchen—the last
room I was going to allow him
entrance to. There were no paintings
or antiques there; I had kept
it simple and minimal. The only
item of color was a little painting
by my six year old grandchild of
her family, their dog and their new
house. Around the crude figures
she had painted dollar signs and I
had framed it in a dollar store pine
frame to make her feel important.
Spotting it, this unresponsive,
taciturn man exploded with joy. His
eyes lit up as he shouted, “Wow, I
love it. How much do you want for
it? I must have it!”
I replied, “Uh uh,” as I led him
to the door. “Thank you for coming,
sir.”
THE AFTERNOON KNOWS
WHAT THE MORNING NEVER SUSPECTED
The Man with the Discerning Eye
28 NORTH SHORE TOWERS COURIER ¢ February 2021