CLASS DISMISSED

Class Dismissed

Years later, a teacher will remember the excellent students and the trouble- makers. The rest seem to fall between the cracks. It’s the same when looking back at the teachers who have touched our lives. For some inexplicable reason, I recently took a gander at my high school yearbook. The inscriptions that classmates wrote were unanimous. In those days, I was a “swell gal.” Looking at their photographs, I remembered most of them, but not everyone---especially the girl who wrote, “Remember our year in typing.”

I fondly remember the only teacher with a Master’s Degree. Don’t know how he landed in the one public high school in my small Indiana town, but he valiantly tried to impart a love for Shakespeare and the English language to many students who could care less. But neither this fine man nor my classmates are whom I want to write about.

As Woody Allen so aptly put it, “My education was dismal. I went to a series of schools for mentally disturbed teachers.” It started in grade school, when the beautiful Miss Bowman (whom I adored) whacked one of the boys on his hands with a ruler. I heard the crack from across the room, and from then on sat on my hands and kept my mouth shut. I don’t remember any other teachers from those grade school days, but can’t forget some of odd birds from my high school.

The girls’ Physical Education teacher, Miss Barbarian wound a tight braid of hair around her head to prevent her brain from falling out when she was jumping around. Gum chewing was the worst offense in Barbarian’s class, and if she caught a culprit chewer, she’d make the hapless girl spit the gum on the floor, step on it, and then scrape it up with a spoon---a strengthening exercise for the forearm.

For me, participating in sports was an alien concept, and she tried in vain to make a jock out of me. Climbing a rope hand over hand was not my goal in life, and after getting my ankles bruised black and blue in field hockey, I volunteered to be a referee.

I then reasoned that Home Arts would be a safer class. Little Miss Leo, who wore her hair in ringlets, and washed her clothes in White Shoulders perfume, was my teacher. Between sneezes, I learned that everything you cook has to be smothered in white sauce, which, when thickened, could substitute for paste in art class. Miss Leo also taught sewing. I had trouble threading the spindle, spinning the wheel and pumping the pedal on the old sewing machine—all at the same time. I wasn’t surprised when she made me tear out the crooked stitches in the apron I had fashioned. I wasn’t upset, because the only time I planned on wearing it was to protect my dress from white sauce paste in art class.

Miss Tippler doubled as an English teacher and drama coach. She dyed her hair flaming red, and surreptitiously took sips out of a bottle, that she kept in a brown bag in her desk. She wanted to cast me as Mary in the Christmas Pageant, because she said, “You look the part.” I graciously declined, because neither of us had been in Bethlehem at the time, and consequently didn’t know what Mary really looked like. Besides, I wasn’t going to take any assignment from a teacher who was drunk as a skunk.

One of the best teachers I ever met was my son Josh’s second grade teacher, Mrs. McIntyre. Every child in her class achieved excellence to the best of his or her ability. For example, the children in her class gave “morning talks” that taught them to gather, analyze and present material in a meaningful way.  

Josh had a friend, Joey whose father was a physician. The doctor took the boys to the hospital for a tour, and while there, each of them were treated to a urine test, which they gingerly carried to Mrs. McIntyre’s class for a joint presentation. When they finished their talk, Mrs. McIntyre asked if any of the children had any questions. That’s when Sammy, in a jealous pique, said, “My Dad had a vasectomy. Can I bring him for Show and Tell?” For the first time, Mrs. McIntyre said, “No, but thank you.”

Good teaching is filled with ideas. The brain should be used for more than white sauce.

Here’s an idea for you from the author, Flannery O’Connor: “Everywhere I go, I’m asked if I think the university stifles writers. My opinion is that they don’t stifle enough of them. There may be a best seller that could have been prevented by a good teacher.”

Esther Blumenfeld (Hall Monitor. Do you have a pass?)

NO SHRINKING VIOLET

My 97-year-old Aunt Ruth is the incredible shrinking woman. However, although she has lost inches, she has never lost her moxie. Her body may be frail, and her hearing may be failing, but her keen wit is as sharp as ever---as illustrated when I interviewed her during my recent visit to her home in Buffalo, New York. Yes, she still lives in her own house.

Esther: Aunt Ruth, what is your secret to getting old?
Ruth: I refuse to die!

Esther: What is the best way to raise little children?
Ruth: Let them do whatever they want, unless they crawl into bed with you too early in the morning.

Esther: What is the secret to being a good wife?
Ruth: Be your own person, and if he doesn’t like it after he marries you---to Hell with him.

Esther: Who was your favorite person in history?
Ruth: Napoleon. Because he was smart enough to go to Elba where no one would bother him anymore.

Esther: If you could have a conversation with anyone in the world, who would that be?
Ruth: President Obama.
Esther: What would you say to him?
Ruth: When is Congress finally going to leave Washington? I can’t take it anymore!

Esther: What is your favorite time of day?
Ruth: My favorite time of day is evening, because it’s almost bedtime. I like to sleep. I sleep very well, because I read the funny papers before I turn off the light. I don’t think the funnies are as funny as they used to be years ago. Why do you think that is?
Esther: This is my interview Aunt Ruth. You can’t switch it on me.
Ruth: Well, I tried my best.

Esther: What is your favorite story?
Ruth: I like the one about the seven dwarfs. I like their pointed hats, because I imagine they are hiding something under there.

Esther: What is your favorite book?
Ruth: That’s easy. I love It’s A Big World Charlie Brown. I have always liked Peanuts because he is such a pitiful little fellow. I would like to help him, but he never learns.

Esther: If you could have anyone here to visit you, who would that be?
Ruth: Well, dead people don’t walk, but I’d like to see my husband. He had his ups and downs---but then, so did I.

Esther: What do you think about cell phones and computers?
Ruth: They are helpful, but the time will come that no one will leave the house, and you won’t know your neighbors. That could be a good thing, but you’ll never know.

Esther: What is your favorite swear word?
Ruth: Let me think about that. There are so many good ones. (In Polish she said)
“The cholera should get you.”
Esther: I didn’t know you spoke Polish.
Ruth: I don’t, but I can swear in Polish.

Esther: What do you think of today’s television shows?
Ruth: I don’t watch Reality Shows, because there is no such thing.

Esther: Why do you want to eat cake before dinner?
Ruth: Because I’m hungry for cake and not chicken.

Esther: What do you think about the winters in Buffalo?
Ruth: It’s always colder in Rochester.

Esther: Is there anything you’d like to say to end our interview?
Ruth: If I’m in the room---don’t forget that I am here.

As if anyone could---my dear Aunt---as if anyone could. You are unforgettable!

Esther Blumenfeld (Watch out for the walker. She’s Hell on wheels.)

ROOMMATES

Unless you are a hermit, you will find yourself sharing living space with other people. In family situations, this can cause disharmony between brothers and/or sisters. When I was a teenager, my friends all thought that my little brother’s first name was “Get out of here!”

When I went to college, my freshman roommate and I were quite compatible. We even had matching laundry bags. But the girl next door---the one with the machete under her pillow---was sent home. In my sophomore year, I joined a living situation where we were required to change rooms every semester. The rationale behind this moving decision was to prevent cliquishness. There were quads, triples and a few double rooms, but no one lived alone. Consequently, upon graduation, I had shared living space with18 roommates. I think they assigned me several quads, because I can get along with almost anyone, and I spent most of my time on campus.

Only one of these girls is still stuck in my memory and craw. Crystal was a cute blonde with big blue eyes, and the boys were wild about her. They didn’t know her dirty little secret. Crystal was not so cute to live with. She was unclean. She rarely showered, dropped her clothes on the floor, never made her bed and was not acquainted with a washing machine. Our quad was a bit bigger than submarine quarters, but when Crystal’s mound of clothes, wet towels and what-nots invaded my space, I threw the mess on her bed. Crystal didn’t seem to mind the lumps because she slept right on top of them.  

Finally, I had enough of the Crystal invasion. I picked up all of her leavings, put them into a super-sized bag, hid her falsies on the bottom of the pile and tossed the whole slew on top of her bed. She slept on it, but complained about the loss of her enhancements for six months. I don’t know whatever happened to unwashable Crystal, but I certainly hope she came clean to the man she finally ended up with, or that they bought a bed big enough to accommodate her, him and the dirty laundry.

Upon graduation, I got married and lived with the almost perfect roommate for 40 years. I equivocate because my compatriot suffered from piles. He had piles of paper here; piles of paper there---piles of paper everywhere. A brilliant researcher and author, he wrote every thought down. The ideas kept flowing and forests kept dying to feed his creativity. His office at the university was worse than the one at home, and his students would tentatively knock on the door, peek in at the teetering paper mountain and whisper, “Professor, are you in there somewhere?”

At home his office was in the dungeon under the main living quarters. I placed a sign to warn intruders of the, “Disaster Area.” Two desks, leather chairs, several cabinets and an exercise machine were all covered with paper, but he claimed he knew where everything was---unless he didn’t. However, unlike Crystal, he smelled good, his clothes were clean and he had a good sense of humor. He was flattered when I submitted his office as a contender in the “Messiest Office in Atlanta” contest. Unfortunately, he came in second. A guy from IBM won. The prize was a clean-up crew with a bulldozer.

Esther Blumenfeld (“Never trust anyone with a clean desk”--- WSB) 

PUT A CORK IN IT

Years ago I sailed on the Rhone River through the heart of Burgundy and Provence. I could regale you with stories about sumptuous cuisine, world-class art, breath-taking scenery and legendary history--- but I won’t. Because, after a week of gazing, swirling, sniffing, sipping and surreptitiously guzzling French wines, I will share with you some wine tasting tips I picked up along the way.

First of all, when pouring a glass of wine, you fill the goblet about one-third full, so when swirling and tilting the liquid, you won’t dump the elixir into your lap. This is a no-no, especially if the wine costs $80 a bottle. But I need to back up.

There is a term called, “stemware awareness.” When tasting wine, it is much more desirable to use a tulip shaped glass, rather than a paper cup. After pouring the wine, the first thing to do is to gaze adoringly at the wine to study its color. It is preferable to hold a white sheet of paper behind it and tilt the glass a little. If you haven’t gotten out of bed yet, you could use your bed sheet. If the wine is brackish brown or slimy green, don’t go to the next step.

It is advised that you hold your glass by the stem, because if you hold it by the bowl, your hand will warm the wine. I don’t understand this rule because I never hold my wine long enough to let it get warm.

Okay, so now you have studied the color of your wine, it is time to start swirling it in the glass. The swirling lets oxygen penetrate the wine and releases its vapors. This is good, because the next step is to stick your nose into the glass. But before you start sniffing, you need to look at the glass to study the little streaks of wine that appear on the inside of the glass. They appear because of the swirling and are called “legs.” It is enjoyable to watch them run back into the wine. Don’t worry if your legs are wrinkly. Now, you can smell your wine.

The smelling part is rather tricky. There is a difference between a “first nose” and a “second nose.” This does not involve plastic surgery, but the smell will change the second time you stick your nose into your glass. It is considered bad form to stick your nose into your neighbor’s glass.

The sniffing is rather arbitrary, because when asked people don’t smell the same fragrances. One man in our group said the wine smelled like fruit loops, and another man smelled garlic, which I suspect emanated from his breath and not his glass.

Now that you have studied the color, swirled the wine, examined the legs and stuck your nose into the glass, it is time to take a sip of your wine. However, before you swallow, it is advised to let the wine linger a bit in the mouth. If you are a champion wine taster, you can tighten your mouth and breathe in over the wine, and send the aroma back into the nasal cavity. Of course if you aren’t a champ, this could also send the wine down into your windpipe and you will die.
Finally, it’s time to say “A votre sante!” and savor the wine. At this point, purists spit it out, pour another glass from a different bottle and start all over again.

Are they nuts!

Esther Blumenfeld (If Shiraz smells like leather can you serve it to a vegan?)

FAITH, HOPE AND YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING

I am on every charities hit list. Every time I open my mailbox, it is filled with new solicitations. Don’t get me wrong, I choose to give a fair share of my yearly income to worthy causes that I want to support. Sometimes, in a weak moment, I even give additional donations to bell ringers, groups who want to improve our planet or kids who sell unhealthy stuff for their school or scout troop. However, I draw the line when people I don’t know want me to send them money to save my soul. Their tracts get recycled—“dust to dust,” as the saying goes.

Who do you suppose, designs those address labels that accompany solicitation letters? I have received pictures of dogs, cartoon characters, flowers, ships, butterflies, and more flowers. If you like flowers, send those folks $1.00 and you’ll receive many more labels---enough to plant a garden. Most of these labels don’t know what to call me, so I end up being a “Ms.” whatever that means.

The more heavy-handed approach to asking for money involves “free gifts.” I thought all gifts were free. I have received greeting cards, notepads, calendars, pens and my very favorite free gift---an actual “In God We Trust” American nickel. These unsolicited items are supposed to invoke guilt, which in turn, will transform the favor into an un-free gift. I don’t know how many nickels are mailed to strangers, but I do know that 20 nickels make a $1.00. If they are rich enough to send people free money, why do they want more?

Although I have a “no solicitation” order on my telephone, occasionally a numbskull, who can’t pronounce my name, gets on the line. The last conversation I had with one of these folks went something like this:

Hello
Hello, is this Mrs. Blumper?
No. There is no one here by that name.
That’s okay. Would you be able to send money to our charity?
I don’t take phone solicitations. Can you send me information about your charity?
No. But could you send us some money anyway?
Why can’t you send me any information?
We don’t do that, because we don’t have any information to send.
Why do you think that I’d send money to an organization I’ve never heard of, who has no information about itself?
Because other people do.
Well, they are stupid.
In that case, could you send us $5.00?
NO! Not even 5 cents! Take me off your list.
Can’t do that. We don’t have a list.

Esther Blumenfeld (stick it to me)