With Pauline’s departure began a new adventure, one that probably deserves a whole separate book by itself. That tome would be entitled Florence Henderson’s Housekeepers, by Stephen King.
It is an understatement that I was fairly spoiled by the years we had my sister, Nanny, and a few others who set the bar very high for their successors. When you have someone living full-time in your home, slowly but surely the truth begins to emerge. And the stakes are very high as you entrust the most precious things in your life to their care.
We all have quirks, eccentricities, and peculiarities. We all carry some unpleasant baggage. We all have our fair share of drama that comes with the human territory. But most who came to work for us were blessed with a greater abundance of all. It wasn’t like they were working for Cinderella’s stepmother. They got a nice room with a private bath, salary on the generous side, car, and more. The conditions were fairly laid-back, and beyond the daily tasks and responsibilities of their jobs, they were included in the family and its activities to the degree that they wanted to participate.
“Toot, toot, toot, toot, toot…” That was the constant high-pitched drone from one of our first employees as she went about her tasks. She was highly recommended from a doctor in Beverly Hills. On one of her days off, she left the door to her room open. On her bed I saw a book and opened it up. It was full of spells and incantations. We had a devil-worshipping witch living in our midst. The “toot, toot, toot” she shared with me was an occult chant to conjure money and wealth. She told me that she would put a protective ring of salt around a chair to ward off something. The last straw happened when she wasn’t getting along with Barbara. She gave my daughter an envelope. Inside was a swatch taken from a piece of Barbara’s clothing. It had been burned. Where’s the Exorcist when you need him? Goodbye.
The next was a very heavyset woman. She came very highly recommended. All she wanted to do was make soup. There would be pots going all over the kitchen. She did little more than cook and eat. Joe said she did make good soup. Adieu.
Then we hired a very tall African American woman, about six feet tall and very strong. Very highly recommended, but we soon found out that she was emotionally unstable. We were all scared of her. I said to Ira, “We have to let her go.” He was afraid to tell her because she was so big and tough. So guess who got that job?
The very sweet woman from Central America was, of course, highly recommended. She dutifully sent her earnings down to her husband and children. One day, she went into an office to pay one of the utility bills for her apartment where she stayed during her time off. There was a long wait, and the clerk called out names to announce when it was their turn. As she waited, she heard a name she recognized and looked up to see that it was her husband, the one who was supposed to be with the children in her home country. When she went up to the clerk, she told her story and pleaded to get the address on her husband’s account. “I can’t give you that information, it’s confidential,” the clerk replied. After she told her about sending all the money, the clerk relented. My housekeeper showed up at the address to discover that her husband was living with another woman. A friend was intercepting the money and sending it back to him in Los Angeles. She moved back to her home country, which soon thereafter had a devastating earthquake. I never heard from her again.
Next was a young couple. Highly recommended. They were great at cooking and cleaning. They were devotees of the Maharaj Ji, the round-faced young guru who had a big estate in Malibu with all the Rolls-Royces. They would borrow the car to go to meetings or do various errands at his bidding. We would get into some spirited discussions. “How come you’re giving all your money to him, and he’s driving all those Rolls and Mercedes, and you can’t afford to buy your own car?” There was always a bit of secrecy about where they were going, and they started, for whatever reason, to fabricate stories. Once they told me one thing, but went off instead to Miami and came back sick with parasites. They even showed me the big ugly worms in a jar. That was hardly a comforting thought since they were preparing our family’s food. “Okay, I think maybe this is not going to work,” I thought to myself. The young couple was history. Sad, because I really liked them.
Soon after, I found a very sweet Lebanese woman, who was a horrible driver. It didn’t help that she had a heart condition that she forgot to disclose. From time to time she would nearly pass out. After that was a woman who was a hard worker but a secret drinker—not the person you want driving your kids to school. Then there was the uptight and rigid British girl who believed that children should be seen but not heard—no, thank you. How about the barefooted one in cutoff shorts who would come and sit on my bed and say, “What are we going to do today, Flo, honey?” Another was working out great, but she called me late one night and said she needed to borrow a lot of money from me. Her husband had just been arrested for running a big illegal alien smuggling operation. The money was for bail. Hey, I’m only skimming the highlights.
Finally, I found a woman who ended up being the keeper for several years (and trained Shelley, my current helper and great friend, who
