Doris’s opening gambit was strong. She took me to the Nifty Uniform Shoppe, an establishment operated by yet another of her countless relatives, where she supervised my fitting for an ensemble of mostly black silk, maid’s uniforms, white aprons and lace caps. We rode home on the streetcar with my new uniforms in boxes on my lap.
This woman, who in my view was fast becoming the epitome of the “wicked stepmother,” announced she was fed-up with my refusal to do my household chores and that I would be a maid until I demonstrated that I understood the life of a common person who had to work for a living.
She explained to Father that after all the years Marjorie had kept me in finery, the only way I knew to >be good, was to play the girl. She, however, was not about to pander to any spoiled princess. Marjorie, she insisted, had ruined me by giving me ideas above my station and she, Doris, was going to give me an awareness of the value of serving others, instead of thinking only of myself.