Cleveland Amory (1917–1998)

This is quite the story about the origins and perseverance of WASP Bostonian elite – at least from the vantage point of six decades back. Often hilarious though not necessarily scathing; I suspect it provoked much societal consternation towards the author (himself carrying one of “The” family names). He apparently ended up writing books about his cat, contributing to Parade and was a fixture on the Today Show so one might view this as a cautionary tale about pissing off a whole segment show more of your town’s populace, at least if you disdain NBC’s morning offering as much as I do.

The machinations of these gentlemen and gentlewomen, according to Amory, seem simultaneously predictable and bizarre. They’re one of those mysteries eaten by an enigma wrapped inside a riddle packaged within a fortune cookie or however that matryoshka-like reference goes. Amory covers seemingly all facets; their munificent charity offset by a notable stinginess towards retailers and tip jars; Their strictures on “good breeding” by selective marriage which often resulted in a disturbing union of first cousins – Medici-style; Their unrelenting love and corporate control of Harvard which they pronounce Hah-vud (not of Southie origin as I long suspected).

Lest you be confused, these “right families” are not descendents of the hard-scrabble, persecution-relief Mayflowerites. These Grandfathers came here strictly to make a buck and, after the early exploits of one John Hancock, they learned to protect said buck from any threat of profligacy by subsequent generations. Thus they’re a highly conservative, provincial group that started with a few successful sea merchants before the merchant paradigm shifted toward the wrong sort of commerce (no Jordan Marsh department store magnates or Joe Kennedy rum runners needed apply . The “right” family door was bolted shut long before).

Amory obviously takes an irreverent approach but some level of sincerity and fairness predominates. At certain points I experienced something of an admiration for certain aspects of the Brahmin lifestyle (the gents always walked to their office, the ladies disregard repulsive “New York” fashions of the day, Mrs. Jack Gardner drank beer instead of tea), but then the author inevitably transitions to the obnoxiously arcane (total insistence that Boston is the hub of the world – “Why should I travel when I’m already here?”; intense snobbery as regards the rabble – such as Mayor Curly, those suspect new millionaires, and non-Roosevelt U.S. Presidents; insane anecdotes – Sarah Palfrey getting crap from her sisters for exposing her seventy-five year-old ankles to “the peering eyes of Harvard boys” while biking). This is quite the story!

Generally this seems to represent an attempt by Amory to explain how this particular and peculiar segment of the population has managed to sustain it’s livelihood through circumspect financial policy and extreme selectivity in matters of breeding despite general societal transformations and occasional aberrations such as a debutante moving to Hollywood or an old fart marrying his secretary. This was written just after the Second World War so many conspicuous upheavals – Rock-n-Roll, May 1968, heinous Taco Bell commercials – must have chipped away at their Ye-Olde-WASP mores over the intervening decades. As a Boston/Brookline resident for a few years I honestly don’t know how pervasive, if it all, these families and their society are at this stage. The cleanest cut group that I associate with are, at best, BoBos and I don’t check the Society Pages, Snob Blogs, or whatever may exist at this point. There doesn’t seem to be much attention directed towards Cabot, Lowell, nor Parker descendants but it seems apparent that even in 1947 they were already something of an insignificant presence in Boston (and certainly the rest of the world stopped caring many decades earlier). If they were defined at that point by Fridays at the Symphony, coming-out parties, and a handful of elite private schools then I doubt 98% of Boston gave a damn even then. Conversely some of the annoying social-stratification attitudes seem to have been adopted by any number of groups that would by no means figure highly in the First Family hierarchy (other older cities, of course, are afflicted with such issues. In St Louis one would be fortunate to go a few weeks without receiving an inquiry regarding which High School they attended – the local social/economic gauge). Other writings position the provincial Brahmin influence as the main reason New York – which, as it developed, lacked such an individual power segment – gained dominance during the nineteenth century. Amory also alludes to this at points, but overall I think this was his earnest attempt to simply expose his people to the multitude – warts and all – in order to humanize a group that must have seemed otherworldly. show less

Cleveland Amory is the the P.J. O'Rourke of the animal world. I can't resist quoting one of my favorite passages in a book filled with humor.

"Hunters have never seemed to understand what I have tried to do for them. As far back as 1963, for example, on the Today show I announced the formation of a new club -- one to be called the "Hunt the Hunters Hunt Club." All the club ever tried to do was to define the word "conservation" for the hunters the way they have always defined it for the show more animals. We were shooting them, in other words, for their own good. But from the beginning the hunters made no effort to understand this, even though we made clear we never used words like "shooting" or "killing." Instead we used the hunters' own words -- words with which they would feel comfortable -- "culling," "trimming," "harvesting," or just "taking." We wanted them to understand that if we didn't take them, in no time at all there would be too many of them. They would be crowding the woods and the fields and the roads, and they would be breeding like flies. All we really asked of the hunter, when you came right down to it, was for him to take the long-term view. In the end we both wanted, after all, the same thing -- we both wanted a stronger herd. We even asked them directly if they had ever seen a hunter out there in the middle of the winter, starving in the woods. It was not a pretty sight. The hardest criticism we had to take was that the "Hunt the Hunters Hunt Club" had no season on hunters. Nothing could have been further from the truth. The club's very second rule forbade members to take hunters -- and I quote: "within city limits, in parked cars or in the dating season." And the third rule clearly stated that, after harvesting their hunter, members were not to -- and l quote again -- "drape him over the automobile or mount him when they got home." Mounting the cap or jacket, we felt, was in better taste." show less

While I was still reading this book I added a special note to begin my book review! I am so very disappointed that the adorable little white kitten on the cover is pictured with blue eyes rather than the GREEN eyes that the author mentions AGAIN and AGAIN throughout the book! The team responsible for this title at the publisher's office at Back Bay Books for the Reissue Oct-2013 edition was NOT paying attention to details and sadly missed the mark on this one!

I'm sure that the individual show more that gave me this book for Christmas saw the cover and thought it would be a cute story nestled with joyful blips about the delight of a kitten's arrival at Christmas. Other than the 'rescue' of the kitten on Christmas Eve 1977, this story has nothing to do with Christmas or the holiday season. It is instead rather like a memoir of the little white kitten's first year in residence with the author Cleveland Amory, renowned for his devotion to animal rights. [His wonderful legacy continues particularly with The Fund for Animals and at the Cleveland Armory Black Beauty Ranch / Wildlife Sanctuary, located in Murchison, Texas.]

The book details Cleveland and the little kitten coming to terms with kitten/cat "ownership", naming of the kitten as Polar Bear, developing a feeding schedule, the first trip to the veterinarian's office, learning how to "pill" a cat, Polar Bear's first excursion of airline travel, fitness program, and foreign and domestic policies. Interspersed throughout the book are many historical facts about cats as well as details of significant events in the history of the animal protection movement and rescue operations by the author's The Fund for Animals. As long as the reader can move away from perhaps an initial expectation of a Christmas story, and particularly if the same reader has ever lived with a kitten / cat for any length of time, this book will be a most enjoyable choice.

As I dearly miss our little fur face that our family shared life with for slightly over 21 years, it was a trip down memory lane with laughter during some of the author's descriptions and explanations. As anyone that has ever lived with a kitten / cat knows, "Dogs have owners, cats have staff!" Read and smile, read and laugh out loud. show less

Every December I look for a few books that are lighthearted and funny. The Cat Who Came for Christmas fit the bill for the most part, being both a memoir about a specific stray cat coming into Cleveland's life and a didactic nonfiction containing interesting facts about cats. Here are a few examples: Cleveland delves into the theory of a cat having nine lives; he provides names of politicians and rulers who either loved or detested cats; he shares the dirty secrets of animals shelters, show more testing on animals (ouch), and price gouging of veterinarians. He shares stories of his work with animals rights organizations. It is not just a warm and fuzzy story about a cat named Polar Bear. But let's be fair. Polar Bear is the star of the show. The full blown, complete sentence dialogues Cleveland would have with his cat are hysterical.
Cleveland is in good company of famous people who enjoyed cats: Mark Twain, Colette, Walter Cronkite, and Robert De Niro to name a few. show less