Grandparents in the basement

When I was a young editor and working on the magazine Family Circle, the editor-in-chief Bob Jones gave a big party at his home in Westchester County. The whole staff, as well as husbands, wives and children, were invited. The house was built like an ultrafancy log cabin, with all the bling-bling of modern living. In the front hall, a sign was pinned on a closed door. It said, “Basement,” a warning indicating you could go tumbling down stairs or see something you shouldn’t . I listened as one of the Jones’ children told friends that her grandparents lived in the basement and were told not to come upstairs while the party was going on. Party food would be sent to them. But why? I thought. Aren’t they part of the family circle? Why banish them below stairs like discarded furniture? What I think Bob Jones was doing was to display an attractive, vibrant family, the kind found on the pages of Family Circle. Here, grandparents didn’t belong. They were kept under wraps. Somehow it’s the idea of having them live underground that offends me. What do my fellow bloggers think?