SCHOOL DAZE (Part Two)

Although Professor Liebling may have been the Beau Brummell of the faculty uniform, Professor Taser was his intellectual and academic equal, and was considered;  “the” professor whom students wanted to be the chairman on their committees. He had written the book that had attracted W.S. to the master’s program in the first place, and my husband was thrilled when Taser consented to chair his committee.

Just having mustered out of the army, where he had been an officer, W.S. was used to a certain amount of positive, superficial and insincere attention, so it was quite a comedown, when the man whom he had induced to become his chairman, had difficulty remembering his name.

“It’s not just my name,” he wailed, “Taser can’t remember anybody’s name.” Commiserating with him, I suggested, “Maybe it’s just you.”

 “No,” he replied. “I know this as a fact. He doesn’t remember Gregg or Todd’s names either. The three of us are in his class, and we three are working on the same research project with him, and he can’t tell us apart.” “How do you know this?” I asked.

“He always insists that the three of us come to his office as a group, claiming that it will save him some time.”

I said, “Well, that makes sense.” “Yeah, but he always insists that we stand in the correct order.”  “Correct order?”

“You got it---standing from left to right---it’s Greg, Todd and then me!”

Being in terror for their academic mortal souls, Taser’s three graduate students did what they were told. Years later when Greg, Todd and W.S. would run into each other at professional meetings, they would still stand in that order. No matter how crowded the room or enlightening the conversation, W.S. always knew his place---the Right! He was always right.

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006

SCHOOL DAZE (Part One)

Some of you have asked me to explain how W.S. and I landed in the middle of cow dung country where there’s definitely “no place like home.” After serving his required two years in the Army (ours), W.S. had been honorably discharged. He had applied and was accepted into two master’s degree programs. One was at Pennsylvania State University, and the other one was at one of the universities a few hours away from his little, air-polluted hometown in Indiana. Both schools had excellent programs and well-versed faculty.

“The choice was easy,” he explained. “My civilian clothes were at my folk’s house, so I picked the shorter drive.” Consequently, his whole professional future was decided by an odometer, and we ended up in farm country at a State University.

I knew that he had had several girlfriends before me, but their parents didn’t live around the block from his aunt and uncle, so I suspect that my marriage was pedometer related, but I was always afraid to ask.

The professors at State U. were an odd lot at best---brilliant but odd. I often wondered if they were that way because they lived in the middle of nowhere, or if they had chosen to live in the middle of nowhere because it suited their oddness. Webster defines “odd” as “differing markedly from the usual or ordinary,” and that’s what I mean when I say “odd.

In a classic article in social psychology, Bruno Bettelheim describes how some prisoners in World War II concentration camps took on the characteristics of their guards. The graduate program at State U. wasn’t exactly a camp experience, but the one professor whom all of the students admired and emulated was Professor Liebling. Noted for his academic research and wealthy from his consulting practice, Professor Liebling was the dynamic leader with a lack of human relations skills whom all of his students wanted to become.

It was easy to pick out Liebling students because inevitably they would adopt his stylistic posture, his manner of speech, his homilies and his gait. But the tip-off was the “Liebling belt.” There was nothing particularly notable about that belt—it was merely a black pebble-grain, leather belt with an ordinary half-moon silver buckle. However, within weeks of entry into the graduate program, the identical “Liebling belt” encircled the waist of every male student in his classes.

Liebling was “The” professor---the one whose classes were a “must take!” His expertise was in training, and among other things, he taught his students how to make slick presentations targeting presidents of corporations.  When W.S. came home from class wearing his “Liebling belt” I knew that he was going to learn to hold up his end---as well as his pants.

Unlike Socrates, Liebling never pretended to be ignorant of his subject matter, and he was a masterful teacher. So, with Socratic irony, he was sentenced by the powers to be---not to death--- but to Deanship. That made drinking hemlock an attractive alternative.

Esther Blumenfeld (To be continued---)

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006

STUDENT WIFERY

I was recently married, and “Wifery” had not been part of my college curriculum. So, as I tried to figure out my new role, “Student Wife” was indeed a fitting description. I lived in constant terror that I would commit the ultimate blunder to jeopardize W.S.’s entire professional future. So, when I received an invitation to my first faculty wives open house, I was relieved when Annie, another graduate student wife, invited me to accompany her.

The gathering was being held at the brand new home of a recently arrived faculty member, and neither Annie nor I had been foresighted enough to write down the address. Of course, this was before cell phones or GPS systems had become part of daily life. After driving around the subdivision for 30 minutes, I was elated when we spotted a house with several cars parked in front, and Annie exclaimed, “Here we are!”  Then she added, “We are 20 minutes late. The door’s open, lets just sneak in and mingle.”

Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, I worked my way through the crowded room to the refreshment table. Pleasantly surprised, I discovered a variety of tea sandwiches, pate, smoked salmon, cheese, fruits and sweets. Filling my plate, and grabbing a glass of wine, I began to relax, and discreetly slid into an empty chair that had been placed into a little alcove next to the living room. Happily, I could sit here until Annie said it was time to go home. But, eating tea sandwiches doesn’t take too long, and after my plate was whisked away by a young woman in a starched white apron, I was left with nothing to do but drink another glass of wine and watch people eat and talk to each other.

Furtively glancing around the room, I made eye contact with a woman sitting on one of the sofas in the living room, and she beckoned me to join her. Desperately wishing that Annie had told me which of these women was our hostess, I smiled and reluctantly walked over and sat next to her, as she greeted me effusively; “It’s so nice to see you!” “It’s nice to see you too,” I responded. Then she asked me, “Have you known Katherine for a long time?” “No, I can’t say I have,” I responded.

Was Katherine our hostess? Perhaps I could find out by asking, “How long have you known Katherine?” “Too long,” she laughed, “She’s my sister.” At that moment a woman of massive girth plopped down next to me on the other side of the sofa. Now I was trapped. “Marie,” said my new friend, “have you met---? “Oh, yes,” I lied, “Marie and I had the pleasure earlier.” Marie, distracted by a waitress bearing another tray of little some things, put a rolled finger-towel in her mouth.

Taking advantage of her predicament, I quickly excused myself and hurried over to Annie, who hissed into my ear, “We’ve got to get out of here. This is the wrong party.” The pate had made her suspicious, and after some discreet questions, she discovered we were one block off course and were now crashing a bridal shower. We had to get out of there before they began opening gifts. The front door was ajar and our hostess was greeting newly arrived guests. Annie whispered, “Keep your head down,” as she shouted, “Thanks!” and dashed past the group at the front door. But before I could follow her, I felt a hand on my arm and found myself face-to-face with our hostess.

“Beautiful affair,” I mumbled. “Well, I am so glad you were able to come,” she smiled, but, “Who in the Hell are you?” hung in the air---heavy and unspoken. How could I explain to this proper lady that I had entered her home, eaten her food and drunk her wine (two glasses) and didn’t even bring a gift? In desperation, I blurted out, “I had a nice visit with Marie!”

Relieved at hearing a familiar name, she responded, “Doesn’t she look marvelous after her face lift?” I could honestly answer, “I hardly recognized her.” My hostess let go of my arm, blushed and asked ever so nicely, “ I am mortified, but I have forgotten your last name. Luckily, at that moment, Annie tooted the car’s horn. So, I said, “Oh, there’s my ride. I must run.”

But halfway down the walk, I turned, waved and shouted. “Don’t worry about it, sometimes that happens to me, too.”

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c  2006

Breaking Out (Part Two)

W.S. found an ad in the newspaper, “Third floor, one-bedroom, walk-up---middle apartment available.” “Perfect!” he yelled. “We can afford the rent. Let’s grab it.” We contacted the landlord, who said he would meet us early the next morning. And, he informed us that another couple had scheduled to look at it tomorrow afternoon. That presented a problem. W.S. had a class with a scheduled exam, and I had to go to work.

We had to be out of our potential landing pad by the end of the month, cheap apartments were hard to find, and we knew we’d lose this one if we didn’t act fast. So, W.S. said into the phone, “We’ll take it. I’ll drop off the rent on my way to class tomorrow morning.”

The outside of the building looked presentable, but the third floor walk-up stairs seemed a bit steep. With promises of beer and fried chicken, W.S. rounded up two fellow students to help us move. “Couldn’t you have found two bigger guys?” I asked. Little Stu must have weighed 100 pounds, and gangly Marty had a bad habit of falling over his own feet. After helplessly watching our mattress tumble down the stairs twice, I decided not to watch what was going on.

We had splurged on a pretty nice flea market sofa. It didn’t smell of mold or cigars. And we had purchased an overhanging lamp that needed to be screwed into the ceiling. W.S. wasn’t handy, but, “This I can do!” he happily exclaimed, screwing in the lamp, which he plugged into the outlet on the wall. We were finally home.

 After sending Stu and Marty on their way, we fell into bed exhausted; anticipating our first good night’s rest in months. Our bed was firmly braced against the wall and no airplane would be shaking our floor.

A light rain pitter-pattered against the window as I drifted off.  A few minutes later, I awoke to the unmistakable sound of overly heavy breathing. “You’re snoring,” I mumbled. Whereupon the snoring turned into rhythmic snorts. I rolled over and saw that W.S. was sitting up in bed, and now we were being entertained with a cacophony of sputtering, wheezing and an occasional whistle thrown in for variety.

“It’s not me,” W.S. groaned, ”I was kind of hoping that it was you.” “Well, I’m awake,” I said, “It must be the guy next door. Let me try a little knock,” So, I tapped on the wall, and was rewarded with blessed silence---just long enough to fall back to sleep before the symphony began again.

A few hours later, after our knuckles began to ache, we decided to move the bed to the other wall. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but the snoring became a distant rumble. The sprinkle outside had now developed into a major deluge with intermittent thunder and lightning. Just as I was falling asleep---one more time, W.S. poked me, “Did you leave the water running in the bathroom?” “No,” I growled, “but if you are worried, get up and take a look.” Reluctantly he got up and went into the bathroom. Returning to bed, he said, “It’s okay.” “Good,” I replied, “Can we go to sleep now?”

When I awakened the next morning the sun was shining, W.S. was fast asleep, and no one was snoring from behind the wall. Life was good---except---except; I still heard the unmistakable sound of running water. “How can that be?” I mused looking out of the window, “It’s not raining outside.” At that, I walked into the living room and discovered that our hanging ceiling lamp had transformed itself, in the middle of the night, into a dangling fountain, and water was spraying in beautiful streams all over our new flea market couch.

W.S. the unhandiest of handymen had screwed our new lamp directly into the middle of the three-apartment rain gutter. Grabbing a bucket, I yelled, “I think we just lost our deposit,” as my chagrined husband came into the room and offered me a towel.

The next night, there was no sound from the other side of the bedroom wall---no snoring, no wheezing, and no whistling. “He’s dead!” said W.S. “What do you mean, he’s dead?” I asked. “Someone must have smothered him,” W.S. replied, “I’m sure of it."

“ I think this place is trying to tell us something,” I mumbled, ”Let’s move!” “Okay,” he replied, as we both drifted off to sleep, not realizing that this was only a foreboding of things to come.

Esther Blumenfeld (Dead men tell no tales.)

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006

BREAKING OUT (Part One)

Sometimes the old homily, “There’s no place like home,” really means,” There’s got to be a better apartment than this!”

Shortly after our wedding, W.S. and I moved to the second floor of a married student-housing apartment on campus. All the allotted university funding had gone into the uninspired red brick structures, and there was no money left for landscaping---let alone grass seed. The one-bedroom place was sparsely furnished. The bedroom had a bed and the small main room had a table, a desk, two chairs and a bamboo curtain which, when opened, revealed a Lilliputian stove, refrigerator and sink. The bathroom sink, shower and toilet were also undersized, fitting the dimensions of the pretend room.

The first thing I noticed was that there was no covering on the windows, but the un-air-conditioned place was hot, so I opened a window. With that, a swirling cloud of dust blew in and comfortably settled on everything including my hair and face. W.S. figured out that if we coordinated the opening of the windows, by opening the window on the other side of the apartment, with a little luck, the dust storm might just blow through before touching down.

That evening, “Touchdown!” took on a whole new meaning. We hadn’t had time to shop for a lamp, and it was too early to go to sleep, so we sat in our two chairs looking out the window. Getting up and heading toward the refrigerator, W.S. said, “Look at that moon. Isn’t that beautiful? I love a full moon.” “It’s pretty, all right,” I answered. But it looks as if there are two of them, and they are getting closer.”

“What do you mean?” he asked. “I’m not kidding,” I replied. “Come look at this!” The approaching moons were getting closer, and suddenly our whole apartment was awash with light, as we felt a rumble, and heard the unmistakable roar of an airplane engine. That plane was heading right for us.

“Hit the deck,” W.S. yelled, as we both dove for the floor under our wobbly table waiting for the impact. But there was no crash. The nose of the plane lifted, the pictures on the wall tilted, and it roared up and away leaving the roof over our heads intact.

The next day, we learned that the property where married student housing sat was cheap, because it was directly in the landing pattern of the airport. We got shades for the windows and earplugs, but neither of those things helped when the college band began their daily blaring of horns and marching at 6 a.m. on the field next door. It was definitely time to move. Breaking our lease due to sleep deprivation and fear of flying might have worked, but the waiting list for the clueless, looking for cheap housing, allowed us to make a rapid escape. Little did we know that we would soon become nostalgic for the good old days of approaching airplanes and loud trumpets.

 Esther Blumenfeld (To be continued-----)

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006