I grew up in the warm nook that is the Philadelphia high society during a period of considerable opulence in the Westfeld household. In 1964, my father, Todge Westfeld, had risen to the level of Senior Art Curator at the Philadelphia Museum of Modern Arts, and this afforded us a much more lavish lifestyle than we were accustomed to. We left our tiny row house on Bridge Street and moved into our massive town house on Lombard Street. Mother enjoyed calling our new home an urban mansion; the term wasn't incorrect. What row home do you know of that has wings, multiple parlors, private bedroom suites, and a rose garden on the roof? We had stepped out of the mundane and embraced a life of grandeur.
We were never poor, but we certainly weren't hosting debutante balls or spending the holidays in the South of France prior to Father accepting his position as Senior Curator. Mother no longer needed to tend to boring tasks such as helping me with studies or making sure my clothes were ironed; we had staff for that. Lillian the tutor, Reginald the butler, Ragna the maid, Piers the gardener, and Alois the cook all made sure the Westfeld residence ran smoothly, and that meant I saw less and less of my mother. I wasn't necessarily opposed to the idea.
Philomena Sax-Westfeld spent her days entertaining the other ladies of Philadelphia's high society. She frequently had high tea with Eugenie Porter-Kent, the wife of the famous restaurateur Lawrence Kent. She discussed fashion and current events with Amelie Cottilard, wife of the French fashion designer Leland Cottilard. She played bridge with her fellow Daughters of the Revolution society members Lorraine Abbott, spouse of Pennsylvania Senator Warren Abbott, Madeline Prichard, founder of the Prichard Mercy Home for Children, and Rosalie Griffin, wife of the Olympic silver medalist swimmer Carl Griffin. My mother is all about connecting with high-profile and high-power individuals. She believed in the notion that it is not just what you know, but who you know that matters. When she wasn't socializing, she was primping and polishing my sisters, preparing them for various black-tie social events. Antoinette, my eldest sister, is twenty-two, and Mother is determined to find her a fiancé before summer. Meanwhile, Lydia and Minerva, ages fifteen and seventeen, are being fitted for no less than six debutante balls.
Then there is me. I was in the strange stage where I was not pretty enough to be fitted for gowns, and not cute enough to parade around town in frilly lace dresses. I spent most days in my bedroom, away from my mother's prying eyes. I was happiest at my easel, transforming my creative expression into something beautiful, something that can be appreciated by others. But mother didn’t think it was appropriate for a thirteen-year-old girl to work on her art all day long. She had tried enrolling me in French language courses, cooking classes, and she had even entertained the idea of sending me to a polishing school this summer. My skin crawls at the thought. I overheard her complaining to my father one night.
"She is entirely unrefined, Todge! All she wants to do is paint her pictures all day long." Father replied, "She does show remarkable talent with a brush though, Philomena." "No, Todge,” Mother argued. “It simply won't do. She must fill up her time with more useful endeavors." Because learning French is clearly a much more useful endeavor.