I’m not exactly sure the function of this piece – I suspect it is a sort of room divider or jardiniere made out of wood with burled wood finishes in an Art Deco style, probably from the late 30s to early 40s.

How this gorgeous piece got to me is a complicated tale of Dominicans, dictators, and me.

The Reader’s Digest version follows.

The piece originally belonged to the beauty queen mistress of a Dominican dictator (let’s call him RT), who was in power from 1930 until his assassination (allegedly by the CIA ) in 1961 (the year I was born…coincidence?) Being already married and like all good Latin machistas not inclined to divorce, RT did the next best thing by providing financial support and publicly recognizing their out-of-wedlock children – one boy and one girl.

The unofficial household were comfortably and conveniently established in a Miami Beach estate located on Collins Avenue and later sold and torn down to make way for a major resort hotel (the Conover?)

Moving right along, the daughter married Tio Joe circa 1960, and the whatever-it-is passed on to Mother (AKA Belica, Isabel Suarez nee Cremata) – an inveterate keeper of, well, everything. It was in her home, next door to mine, that I fell in love with “it”. Exiled in a storage room adjacent to the carport of Mother’s house, the two tops on either end became water damaged and the veneer warped.  Nonetheless, it was still a score when Mother passed it on to me.

Your father hated it from the beginning. Besotted and bewitched by its beauty and whiff of notoriety, I ignored his threats to throw it out of the moving van or into the backyard lake. Lucky for all of us, he decided to try his hand at restoring it a few years ago, using the greatest of care I might add.

Today, it is a singularly stunning and celebrated piece admired by all who see it…and its piquant provenance ain’t too shabby either!

These two champagne cups were wedding gifts Grandma and Grandpa received in 1949. There were probably more pieces to this set, but only these two remain intact, as does the marriage. Don’t these just scream “rumba” and “cha cha cha?” Babaloo anyone? The glass is incredibly thin and fragile, and yet these two pieces traveled from Tampa to Havana to Miami, and like the couple they were intended to toast, remain resilient mementos of a charmed life, full of love, devotion, and bubbly laughter.

As an aside adventure of these glasses, I had read the French claimed the perfect size for a woman’s breast would fit in a champagne glass. Being 12 and incredibly curious, I snuck out one of these cups from the china hutch in the dining room and absconded to the bathroom for the official judging of my own bosom—happily I could claim that my cup runneth over.

I’m not sure anyone can be reduced by the objects they used, but these three unimpressive, dowdy even, treasures are Mamita incarnate. The thimble, ever present as she sewed our clothes. The scissors that she’d carry around in her apron pocket and which snipped away many a “this” and “that.” And the amber bottle with “Elixer Donatal” written in her hand on the fading label. The jewel green liquid medicine had Crème de menthe flavoring and was dispensed frequently by the spoonful for her “nervous stomach.”  Donatal is indeed an elixir. Laced with belladonna and phenobarbital (i.e., a barbiturate), it was just the thing for a homemaker grandmother with a jumpy tummy. It’s also highly “habit-forming.”  Here’s the irony of ironies. Mamita died of stomach cancer at the age of 81. I miss her.