Iris Apfel

Photo Credit: Ruben Toledo

The morning of August 4, 1958 found Carl and me on the deck of the S.S.Coronia, waiting to disembark. It was Carl’s birthday, and we were headed for Dublin’s antique row—Grafton Street—to buy him a present.

Carl was mad for watches. I’d never seen a man with so many watches, everything from the crummiest reproduction to the most expensive Breitling. It was crazy—and he never knew what time it was.

He owned nary a piece of jewelry, though, and I planned to remedy this after he begrudgingly agreed to accept an unusual ring. We went from shop to shop where we found rings of great historical significance and staggering beauty, but nothing with pizzazz.

Before we took the trip, our Manhattan townhouse was broken into and my collection of silver was stolen. They were connoisseur crooks; they took only the best silver, all eighteenth-century Irish silver and Georgian pieces. They took the best liquor. Posing as laundrymen, they made sure to take the furniture cushions with them to complete the ruse, all the while smoking Havana cigars. So, while ring shopping, we decided to replace the stolen silver. We found a store that was a treasure trove—we found our silver and some other things. We had everything set aside and went off to have lunch.

We ate at a pub, trying every Irish brew known to man and talking to people around us. We met a young Irishman who had just returned from Israel, where he served as a Freedom Fighter in the Six-Day War. He offered us a ride back to the ship, with a stop at the antique dealer’s first. He professed to have a lorry waiting outside at the ready; Carl and I had visions of grandeur, only to be directed to a broken-down wreck left over from World War I. After a puttering, stuttering ride, we arrived at the antiquarian and stumbled out of the lorry, much to the chagrin of the elegant doorman standing outside. We were three sheets to the wind.

The shopkeeper, a very ample gentleman, greeted us from behind the counter. On his very large hand, he wore a very unusual ring. It was shaped like a lion in the form of a throne chair.

Photo Credit: Ruben Toledo

“THAT’S IT!” I screeched.

Photo Credit: Ruben Toledo

“THAT’S THE RING!”

The gentleman was taken aback and explained that it was the ring of the Wandering Jew which bore the inscription, “Where Is the House of Thy Father?” He had just purchased this extraordiary piece at the auction of King Farouk’s prized possessions on behalf of the lord mayor of Dublin as a gift for the chief rabbi of Jerusalem, an important Irishman who had come home for a visit to much fanfare.

Photo Credit: Ruben Toledo

He said the ring was not for sale.

DEFINITELY NOT FOR SALE.

I refused to take no for an answer. I threatened not buy any of the silver I’d set aside. I’ve never done anything so nasty in my life—before or since—but I was hell-bent on getting my prize.

The shopkeeper finally capitulated and allowed Carl to try on the ring.

THE RING WAS TOO BIG AND IMMEDIATELY FELL TO THE FLOOR WITH A GREAT THUD.

The shopkeeper saw his chance, and offered to size it and send it to New York along with the acquired silver. I was drunk, but I wasn’t drunk enough to buy that line.

“Thank you very much,” I said, “but I will take it now and have it sized in New York.” Triumphant, I departed with the ring.

I gave Carl a beautiful birthday party that night. We were all having a fine time, when suddenly a fellow passenger came along and started telling everybody about the ring. Unbeknownst to us, he had been elsewhere in the shop and witnessed the whole gruesome episode. Everyone wanted to see the ring, so I went down to the cabin to get it. As I came back, they were wheeling out the birthday cake. It was midnight; everybody was dancing and drinking. Carl put the ring on his finger. We didn’t think about it anymore until we got to the cabin at 4 A.M. Strangely, the ring, which had been much too large hours before, was still on his finger.

Photo Credit: Ruben Toledo

Carl tried to take off the ring, but he couldn’t. Together, we tried to pull it off, but it would not budge. He was on the verge of panic; he thought not being able to get the ring off meant that he was now under an Egyptian curse, as this was the ring of the Wandering Jew. Finally, we decided to wake up the ship’s doctor to help us. Groggy and in his bathrobe, the doctor stumbled into our cabin, took one look at Carl, and pronounced his diagnosis and remedy: he told Carl that he’d had one too many and to sleep it off. He was sure Carl would find the ring on the floor in the morning.

Well, that didn’t happen.

THE RING REMAINED ON FOR MORE THAN FIFTY YEARS.

Carl even had several hand surgeries, and the doctors couldn’t remove it. A couple days before he died, the ring fell off. He put it back on, and it stayed on, but really, it was too loose. When he passed away, the ring fell off again.

When I look back on it, I can see how the whole ring thing might seem crazy. I never wanted to talk about it, I was sure people would think I was nuts or that I was making up a story. But, whether you believe it or not, it happened.

I still have the ring. I’m keeping it for myself.

Photo Credit: Ruben Toledo

Photo Credit: Michael Vollbracht

SUCCESS

If you’re happy, have found love, are surrounded by good people, doing what you like, and giving back to others, that’s SUCCESS. Selling your soul for a buck is not worth the real price you pay—not to me, anyway.

REGRETS

I haven’t done everything properly. No one has or does.

While I may have a few REGRETS, I don’t dwell on them. If I did, I’d be in a booby hatch.

If your hair is done properly and you're wearing good shoes,

you can get away with ANYTHING.

YES, I SAID THIS. And yes, I meant it, but let me qualify my point: you can get away with “anything” within the context of dressing appropriately for your age and the occasion.

That’s another lesson I learned from Mama, who was always dressed impeccably. Everything was always in its place—from her hair to her shoes. She had her own style, but she always looked poifect.

The word appropriate seems to have disappeared from the current lexicon—in both the way we dress and act. I remember strolling down Fifth Avenue in the 1950s and 1960s with great pleasure. Everybody looked put-together and crisp. Now when you walk down the street, especially in the summer, you just want to throw up. People are not getting dressed anymore. Everybody looks like a mess, like they’re on their way to a shower bath or who knows where. Flip-flops, sweatpants, leggings instead of trousers, jeans that are twelve sizes too tight, short shorts that expose way too much—they should all just be outlawed. And when you add the accessory du jour, the cell phone, the impropriety is even worse—people have less and less respect for those around them. And don’t even get me started on those selfie sticks. I say invest in a mirror instead and use it.

It’s upsetting, because when style and good manners go away, the whole culture seems to disintegrate.

Good hair and shoes count for a lot, but they don’t give you license for a sartorial free-for-all in between.

Photo Credit: Swarovski: Niall O'Brien for SALT Magazine, Spring/Summer 2014

Photo Credit: Macy's Merchandising Group Marketing & Creative Services in partnership with Snaps Media Inc.