Doing Our Part: Fighting for freedom in the Hamptons.

For our tenth anniversary, Gary had new back-patio tiles installed in our summer home in Southampton. The renovation was a surprise—for the guests and for me—at our start-of-the-season cocktail party. Sure, we’d had discussions about the dreadful pineapple-patterned squares ever since acquiring the property, so I can’t say I was shocked. I did, however, breathe a long-pent sigh of relief at seeing the new blues and greens.

But the tiles were only icing. The real surprise on the morning of May 22, 1999, was the stunning set of French doors that replaced our old sliding model. They came from Gary’s childhood home in Connecticut, where they’d welcomed the morning sun into the Peterson kitchen every morning for more than forty years. The glass is clearly the work of artisans from back when there was still pride put into the manual labors, and the vertical divide is almost imperceptible when the doors are closed. The mahogany frames practically cradle the crystal, with gently etched curves at the corners.

To tell you the truth, I’d never given much thought to the original sliding doors. But the new flood of light coming from these doors was the type of gift that reminds you that you are meant to spend every summer in one place with that one special person.

Last year, Marianne Wilcox-Ramey’s dermatologist discovered a basal cell carcinoma—on her face, no less. It was benign, but still, that’s a scare. It’s a reminder that all of us must take responsibility for protecting ourselves. So Gary and I had the panes treated for UV protection. We thank God every day that we’re in a position to protect ourselves and those around us, therefore I can hardly describe the shock when I realized that our beloved French doors were actually clouding our vision. When I went out to the house to make arrangements for the spring-cleaning crew, I looked at those doors as protection that I have, but others don’t. I thought of the Iraqi women and children in a desert with no protection at all from a threatening regime.

Those very doors, through which I’ve looked out on all Gary and I have worked for these past years, are now supporting those who would take it all away from us. I loved our pristine French doors for their artistry and their sentimental value, but the Parisian artisans are no longer our allies. This is a clear call for renovations. Living in a democratic nation means doing whatever we can to help the cause.

We’re hosting Hannah’s baby shower in May. At first, the thought of replacing those doors before the event pained me. Nothing can really match the fine etch work, the way the panels open the room more than they close it off, but the threat to our liberty increases by the day, and Americans are choosing sides by their actions—or worse, by their inaction. To host the celebration of new life adorned by our enemy’s creations? It would be hypocritical, a mockery of the values we hold dear and the future we desire for Hannah’s child, her first.

I made a list of pros and cons, and the decision suddenly became crystal clear. We called Armando the next day. He said his crew could have the French doors out in a day, and even have new doors in that night if we wanted to go with a simple set that he had in stock. We were the first so far, he said, but he’s been expecting this. He came over from the Dominican Republic when he was only 14 years old and has been installing doors ever since.

Oh, Armando. He once told me that the only time he has ever been in a fistfight was when someone at a bar said he wasn’t a "real American." I’ve seen at least six homes that he’s done in Southampton alone, and I say that his work proves he’s a hardworking, real American. At my prompting, he’s offering a Freedom Incentive: They’ll lower their day rate by 15 percent for French door removal. And they’ll give it priority status, meaning it will be done within 48 hours.

Back in New York City, I began making phone calls. I contacted our neighbors, in Darien right now, to recommend Armando’s work. "But it’s still cold," Margaret said. "We won’t even be using the house until May." Well, I almost went cold. Then I realized that this was the same line of thought I had had, a few weeks ago, before it all sunk in.

"How many skeletons do you want in your closet?" I asked. "Hiding them out on the island doesn’t mean they’re not there."

There was a heavy silence on the other end. I gave them Armando’s number.

More than once I’ve heard: "Dear, it’s such a shame." Everyone who has seen those doors recognized their beauty. Their condolences only strengthen my resolve. Doing your part isn’t always easy. We have a lot of things easy here, but how much of that will remain without liberty?

Gary and I considered holding a special party to smash the doors. We were looking for a way for everyone to take part, to vent our collective frustration and focus our anger, and also to encourage others to take necessary steps. Then we thought about all that broken glass. Glass shards can lie around for years, invisible, waiting to sink onto someone’s skin—a child’s, even. That’s just what we don’t need—the French biting us back from the grave.

With Armando’s work done, there’s no mess left behind and we’re enjoying much better sleep. We’ve decided to keep the doors in storage—covered, of course, and locked away from the children. There’s still hope that the French will come to their senses.