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 offence 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?)

A Moving Experience

Last night I went to hear a trio of girl singers called Triple Threat at the Gaslight Theatre. They performed “A Century of Song,” singing melodies through the ages starting with the 1920s.

The house lights dimmed, the entertainers came on stage and began to belt out their first song, when a bug flew down my bodice and landed in my brassiere.

I was sitting near the front of the stage. I couldn’t get up to leave without the entire audience becoming aware of my exit. So, as the bug began to crawl around, I figured if it didn’t sting me, I’d be okay until intermission.

Every time the trio finished a song and the audience clapped---I beat my chest.

The bug didn’t die until the 1960s. The ‘60s was a time of the Viet Nam War, drugs, free love and now a dead bug in my bra. I shook it out in the Ladies Room at intermission, and the women in there were laughing so hard that I drew a crowd. One woman said that my act was better than the show, and I didn’t even have to sing.

For you purists out there---No, I don’t know what kind of bug it was, because it was well smushed by the time I got rid of it.

The moral of this tale: Curiosity kills more than cats.

Esther Blumenfeld (So, what’s the latest buzz?)

Sleep On It

Labor Day officially became a Federal holiday in 1894. It recognizes economic and social contributions of American workers, as well as the end of summer. To celebrate the occasion, folks enjoy parades, cookouts, athletic events and mattress sales.

After 18 years of good service, I decided it was time to replace my lumpy mattress. I had kept the original paperwork, and thought, “This will be easy. I’ll go to the mattress store and just order the same kind of mattress I had before.” When I showed the sales lady my old bill of sale, she said, “This was a really good mattress. Unfortunately, the company is no longer in business, but we have many, many, many new brands for you to consider. Our price range goes from $500 to $10,000, but we can order a more expensive mattress if you so choose.”

I responded, “I don’t want to have to replace it again in a year, but I don’t want to drive it out of here either.” She said, “Before we begin. Do you have any sleep problems? What is your night like?” I replied, “I go to bed when it’s dark and get up when it’s light.” “So, you don’t have any body problems,” she surmised. “Well,” I answered. “I’d like to lose 5 pounds, but I don’t think that is mattress related.”

At this point, I think she wearied of our conversation, so she suggested that I try out some of the beds in the store. Eying a snotty nosed kid with his sneakers on one of the mattresses, I said, “I don’t think I want to try that one.”

First, I sprawled out on a Memory Foam mattress. “Unless, it can tell me where I misplaced my earrings, I don’t think this one’s for me,” I told her. “Do they make water mattresses anymore?” I asked. “We don’t carry those,” she replied. “Great,” I said. “Getting seasick is not my idea of a good night’s rest.”

After jumping from bed to bed, I decide that foam is not for me, unless it’s on top of a glass of beer. The “spring forward, drop back” mattress would be too confusing since I live in Arizona and we don’t have Daylight Savings Time. I’d probably be springing and dropping at the wrong time. Also, I was never good with numbers in school, so why would I want a Sleep Number” mattress that would be smarter than I am?

“Does the Temper-Pedic snap at you in the middle of the night?” I asked. The patient sales lady explained that the mattress isn’t angry and it is spelled Tempur-Pedic.

Finally, lying on one of the mattresses, I shouted, “This one is for me!” It was as close a match as I could get to replace my old one. Because it was a Labor Day sale, my sales lady took $400 off the listed price, and since she had a special deal on sheets and a super-duper mattress cover, I used the discount to complete the order.

Two days later, two men who must have been hired right out of the circus delivered my mattress. One carried my king-sized mattress on his shoulder, and the other one carried my old one out the same way. “You are the strongest men, I have ever met,” I exclaimed. “We do it all day long,” one man replied, “and after work, we go to the gym.”

My new sheets arrived a day later, which was a good thing, because the old sheets didn’t fit and I awakened that morning with the bottom sheet wrapped around my neck. I’ll bet the store doesn’t give a refund for a hanging!

Esther Blumenfeld (The princess should have removed the pea. It would have been cheaper.)

You're In Charge. Now What?

Last month, I attended a homeowners association meeting where it took two hours to accomplish absolutely nothing. A woman on the Board of Directors wrestled the gavel away from the President, and proceeded to build a case to impose her opinion on others. Her filibuster was built on a cushion of air. The President suffered from rigor mortis as she went on and on. I got up and left as soon as she tried to impress us with psychobabble.

Losing control of a meeting is only one way to torture an audience. All of us have suffered public speakers that can’t organize a talk or tell time. Then there’s the program chairman whose introduction is longer than the speaker’s presentation. And, we all recognize the facilitator who can’t tell the difference between a question and a statement.

Because of our professional collaboration as authors, Lynne Alpern and I were often invited to introduce prominent speakers, facilitate professional meetings, or present keynote addresses to conventions around the country.

Other than using humor as an effective communication tool, one of the reasons we were successful speakers was that we followed the advice of an Episcopalian minister who said, “Every Episcopalian minister knows that no speech should be longer than 20 minutes, because after 20 minutes half of the audience is asleep, and the other half are having sexual fantasies.”

We kept our talks funny and short and always checked out the meeting room exits in case we’d have to make a fast get-away.

Humor is also an effective tool when moderating a meeting. One time, I began by saying, “When I was asked to chair this meeting, I prayed for three things. I prayed for the wisdom of Solomon. I prayed for the patience of Job. And, I prayed I wouldn’t end up like Jonah.”

Because I abhor meetings, I became adept at keeping them moving along---.” “We are going to start this meeting on time, because as my rabbi always says, ‘It’s never too late to repent, but you might as well start on time.”’

Early in our careers in Atlanta, Lynne and I were invited to introduce monthly speakers to a gathering called The Village Writers Group. Many of these speakers were prominent authors, and as our group became well known, we managed to poke fun at some pretty famous people. Here’s a sample from our introduction of Terry Kaye, whose books were adapted for movies and television. We also managed to plant a dig at Frances Patton Statham, a well-known author of historic novels.

Lynne: Good evening. I would like to welcome Terry Kay, whom you will be hearing from in just a few minutes.

Esther: Terry Kay is one of my favorite authors. I’ve read all of his books. After Eli, Dark Thirty, To Dance With The White Dog, but my favorite is, Obsessive Compulsive Love—A Tasteful Tale Of Sadomasochism.

Lynne: Terry Kay didn’t write that.

Esther: Sure he did.

Lynne: No, he didn’t

Esther: Go on. Then it must have been that other fellow, Frances Patton Statham.

Lynne: Frances Patton Statham is a distinguished, respected woman author.

Esther: Then why did she write, Obsessive Compulsive Love?

Lynne: She didn’t write that book either.

Esther: I am so excited. Terry Kaye is actually here. I even buy his Mama’s cosmetics.

Lynne: His mother sells cosmetics?

Esther: You know---Mary Kay.

Lynne: Mary Kay is not Terry Kaye’s mother.

Esther: Then why is she using his name to sell her cosmetics?

Lynne: You’ve never even met Terry Kaye.

Esther: I was introduced to him once in a crowd, and he was as nice as he could be. You know he prides himself on never forgetting a name. Why that man meets you once, and he remembers your name forever.

Lynne: He remembered your name?

Esther: Sure enough. I went to one of his book signings a year later and he recognized me right away. He said, “Hey, Darlin’.’”

Lynne: Your name is “Darling?”

Esther: Well, actually, it’s Esther, but if Mary Kay can call him “Son,” Terry Kaye can call me, “Darlin’.”

Lynne: Are you finished?

Esther: He’s a lot better looking on his book jacket.

Lynne: You’re finished!

And that’s the way it’s done.

Esther Blumenfeld (few are chosen)

Put A Cork In It

Now that I have my land legs back, I could tell you about sailing 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?)