I had quite a lot of chores to do when I was growing up. When we moved from 17 Wiltshire Lane to 112 Stoner Drive, my responsibilities grew in proportion to the size of the new house, which was huge.

Prior to this I was expected to fetch things for my mother, as well as my older brothers and sisters since I was the youngest, and my family likes the hierarchy structure. These requests were usually manageable because the Wiltshire Lane House was not that big– downstairs it had a living room, dining room, small family room and kitchen and upstairs we had three bedrooms, or four if you count the large closet that I think Mimo slept in. So when someone asked me to fetch them a glass of water or empty an ashtray, or answer the phone, or set the table for dinner, I could usually fulfill the request in good time.

In 1974 my parents sold the Dumlotti farm outside of Karachi, and the sale allowed them to purchase a larger home in Connecticut for the eight of us.

I remember them saying to us kids, “We can live in a nice house, bigger than Wiltshire Lane and have more money to spend, or we can live in a really big house with a swimming pool and not have that much money to spend. Which do you prefer?”

I think we said we needed to see the houses before we could advise them. So they took us to 112 Stoner Drive. We drove up a hill and pulled into a long driveway and slowly emerged a beautiful English Tudor home. It had a rose garden, a swimming pool, a “play house” which we called the Little House, a three room cabin with a small kitchen and a bathroom, that I’m sure many people would be glad to actually live in. There was a green house, and a carriage house which had eight garages and a 3-bedroom apartment. The grounds were also big, with large trees and a small stream in the back yard. We loved it. And we quickly advised my parents to purchase it, which they did.

The house had 11 bedrooms, more than one for each of us and then some. And another 12 rooms downstairs which included a kitchen and pantry, each of which are larger than some apartments I have since lived in. It had a breakfast room with hand-painted wallpaper, a formal living room and dining room, a billiard room, which we came to call the big room, because, well, it was big. The house had a sun room, a library, a television room, a laundry room and three staircases not counting the ones to the full attic and basement. It also had an elevator. I was particularly excited at the prospect of having a library which I assumed meant that we would all have to check books out, so I asked my parents if I could be the librarian.

The house was known as the Stoner mansion because the Stoner family built it. Later I came to understand the many meanings associated with the Stoner mansion. But more on that later.

112 Stoner Drive was fabulous and for many years it was a bustling place. We really enjoyed it, but the chores began to take on a life of their own.

For instance, the coffee that I had to bring my mother in bed every morning was a bit of a challenge. For one thing, she preferred it in a tea cup and saucer and it was quite a distance from the kitchen, which was on one end of the house, and my parents bedroom was on the opposite end of the house up a flight of stairs. Sometimes this trip could take up to five or more minutes. And I had to make sure not to spill the coffee from the dainty tea cup that would teeter dangerously on the saucer. I think my mother thought mugs were clunky and garrish. I worried that the coffee might get cold in the teacup by the time I got to my parents room, but my mother never complained about that.

It was also my job to water all the plants. We had many plants. My mother had a green thumb and a green house. One day I decided to count the plants and I counted more than one hundred, and that was just inside the house. So this task would take me a while. Or I’d have to empty all the trash bins in the house, one in each room and bathroom. I think that’s about thirty or so trash bins.

My sister Puchi and I also usually had to set and clear the table after dinner which we usually ate in the formal dining room. And then we’d have to load (and/or unload) the dishwashers, one in the pantry, and one in the kitchen. This early childhood training in all things entertaining has served me well. I’ve learned to be very particular (some would say fussy) about things like serving dishes and matching napkins and other things related to hosting a good party.

I still have an article from the local paper which ran a story about my family purchasing the house. “One of West Hartford’s largest houses–the 21 room Stoner Mansion at 112 Stoner Drive–rings once again with the sounds of an active family and will soon be the scene of international parties.” All true, but who do you think had to fetch drinks for the international jet set? I mean I didn’t actually start mixing cocktails until much later, but I did have to take drink orders and other such things that came with entertaining on a large scale. My mother is quoted in the paper, “This house embodies the way I like to live.” Well, if that isn’t the truth.

The younger you were in my family, the more you had to do. Once my mother asked me to pour a glass of lemonade and go outside to the driveway and wait for my brother Tito who was out for a run. Somehow, I knew to draw the line here. First of all, the image of standing out in the driveway with a glass of lemonade, waiting for my brother to return from a run, was too much for even me who was used to doing all kinds of things for people. For one thing, how did we know when he would return? Was he on a  two-mile run or an eight-mile run?  So I said simply, “No. He can get his own lemonade.”