Sunday, January 18, 2004

By Marc Rosen

Last night I dreamed I went back to the limestone Gothic mansion still standing at Amberson and Fifth avenues in Shadyside. Built at the end of the 19th century by Willis McCook, a Scottish emigrant who became a Pittsburgh steel baron, it was designed to resemble a castle back in his native land. It also was my home from 1965-68 while I was a design student at Carnegie Mellon University.

The house and its matriarch, Margaret "Peg" Bonavita, became an inseparable and remarkable force in my young life and have remained with me to this day.

The house, set back from the street and surrounded by tall, black wrought-iron gates, seemed like the backdrop for Miss Havisham's salon in a movie of "Great Expectations." And in a way, it was.

An eclectic mix of architectural styles abounding with carved gargoyles, stained-glass windows and fluted columns, it should have had a stately name like Dunlieth or Wharton Hall to parallel its lofty facade. Instead, it was simply known as Bonavita's, the family name of Margaret and Emil, the owners.

How prophetic that a house called Bonavita's -- Italian for "the good life" -- would have figured so prominently and indelibly in both my life and the lives of the students and tenants who lived there, many of whom became famous in their fields.

On Christmas Eve, Mrs. Bonavita (as I always called her) passed away at the age of 91. Only a handful of people even noticed. Legends often are made of celebrities who die in their prime; long life seems to blur and even erase the achievements of those outside the spotlight.

Margaret Cecelia Joyce Holleran was born in Pittsburgh in 1912. An Irish lass filled with sass, spirit and audacity, she used to tell me how she would take the old trolley up Fifth Avenue and stare at the fabulous row of mansions still lining the avenue in Shadyside. In 1949, the Bonavitas were able to buy 5105 Fifth at a sheriff's sale for next to nothing. They lovingly restored the old house -- which had been used for Army offices during World War II and had fluorescent lights jutting out of the elegant ceilings -- into efficiency apartments.

Bonavita's soon become famous -- or infamous? -- as the "artsy, bohemian" place to live if you were a P&D (painting and design) or dramat (theater) student. Not at all limited to CMU, the house attracted a wide range of, shall we say, "original" inhabitants.

After spending freshman year living in the CMU dorms, the choice for sophomore- through senior-year living was: the dorms, a fraternity or an apartment. For unsupervised freedom, the easy decision was an apartment. I had passed the row of mansions on Fifth on my way to Walnut Street many times, always wondering what they were like inside. So I made the call.

My roommate and I timidly walked through the gates and up the walk to the terrace surrounded by a carved bal-ustrade topped with urns. We made our way up to the double glass doors and peered into the enormous great hall, which culminated in a grand staircase with a two-story stained-glass nave at the first landing.

After ringing the bell with great trepidation, we waited until a strange woman right out of central casting for the part of Mrs. Quasimodo answered the door. We were ushered into a large salon with a 20-foot, white rococo ceiling that must have been concocted by a pastry chef. There amid the shabby genteel antique decor sat Mrs. Bonavita, sprawled atop a black leather Barcalounger with her leg extended and bandaged, compliments of a bout of phlebitis. In a shabby house dress and sporting ruddy Irish cheeks, she seemed more the maid than the mistress of the manse.

What a lesson I was to learn about not judging a book by its cover. I didn't know it at that moment, but she was to become my second mother and certainly my most unforgettable character.

My life had just changed, and my "new education" would rival the one at CMU for its influence on me.

I became her "adopted son" and was given the premier suite that had been the old master bedroom, which I decorated with antique furniture swiped from the other apartments. She took me to auctions, where I learned about antiques, to this day one of my passions. I had bashes in the billiard room, and we even drove to Harrisburg to see her friend, former Gov. David L. Lawrence.

Mighty heady stuff.

And such fun. I can still recall dragging chains on the floor of the attic after telling an unwanted tenant on the floor below that the house was haunted by the ghost of the mad cousin of Mr. McCook, who was chained in the attic.

In so many ways, Bonavita's was my "coming of age" experience. I was but one of the many whose lives were touched by knowing this great lady, although her son, Charles, tells me I was the only one who stayed in touch. Of this I am proud.

I am not, however, the only one to recall her kindnesses and eccentricities. Not that long ago, I bumped into one of those dramats who inhabited Bonavita's while I was there -- comedian, writer, director and actor Albert Brooks. I tepidly approached him, not expecting him to remember me. But for the next several minutes, we reminisced about our days at that wonderful mansion with the marvelous matriarch.

Yes, last night I dreamed I went back to 5105 Fifth Ave. to see Mrs. Bonavita. But she's no longer at home. She's in residence in my heart.

Marc Rosen is a fragrance bottle designer who has won six FiFi Awards ("the Oscar of the cosmetics industry"). He is a trustee at the Pratt Institute and is married to actress Arlene Dahl. They live in New York City.

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