There's A Stranger In Town

In a survey by Hilton Worldwide, and the American Happiness Association, Tucson is first among “the happiest U.S. cities to travel to during the winter months.”

When my husband and I made Tucson our home, we were cautioned that we would get calls in the winter, from people we hardly knew, wanting to stay with us. Naturally, we delighted in hosting numerous friends, but when a woman who was, “the friend-of-a friend-of a friend,” called to inform me that, “We are coming to Tucson.” I replied, “How lovely, and where are you staying?” I don’t know if they ever arrived, because I never heard from her again.

Every winter thousands of tourists arrive from every state in the Union including Florida. After all, ours is a “dry heat.” Sometimes when I’m hiking, I will encounter a visitor who will ask me a question such as, “Will you please take my picture.” I am usually happy to oblige unless they start shouting directions, “Be sure to get the cactus, and the mountains, and my son---without his finger in his nose---in the picture.” The other day, a woman approached me in the desert, and asked, “How far do I have to hike to find a lake?” I answered, “Minnesota!”

A couple sitting at a picnic table told me they were from Wasilla, Alaska.  I asked them, “Do you know Sarah Palin?” “She lives seven houses down from us,” answered the man. “Can you see Russia from your house?” I asked. “Sure,” he replied, “Every school child knows Russia is only 2 miles away.” His answer was only fair, because I also tease people when they are clueless about the West. Friends from New Jersey were excited when I suggested they ride the stagecoach to my house from the airport. They were disappointed to find out that is the moniker of the limousine service.

I have been a tourist many times in my life, and have found out the hard way that it is prudent to learn some customs, such as, “haggling is encouraged.” I don’t like to haggle. When I say, “No,” I mean, “No”. But when a vendor chased me onto my tour bus in Morocco, I bought a coat, that smelled like a camel, for $5.00 just to get rid of him. Also, I learned in Mexico not to hand my camera to the man with the burro, because after he took my picture, he wouldn’t return my camera until I gave him some pesos.

Language can also be a problem. When a customs agent asked a couple from India, “What is your purpose for being in the United States?” The man said “tourism.” The agent thought he said, “terrorism.”  Whoops.  I learned that if you know no other word in a foreign language, “toilet” is essential! I had to get my request across with charades in Viet Nam.

So, I have an affinity for visitors who come to my city. One morning, when I hiked to the top of my mountain, the clouds began to lift, and, as I came over the ridge, the sun’s rays shone on the white hair and long beard of an old rabbi who was reciting his morning prayers. For a moment, I thought, “Oh, My God! It’s Moses. But then, I realized that was impossible, because this frail old man couldn’t lug two tablets of stone down the mountain, and, besides that, people haven’t yet learned the lessons from the second set (Moses broke the first ones).

When he was finished with his prayers, I said, “Shalom” (Peace), and he “Shalomed” me back. I asked him where he was from, and he said, “New York.” Now I was certain he wasn’t Moses, because New York isn’t in Egypt. Boy, was I relieved. I wouldn’t have to help him carry those heavy tablets down the mountain after all.

Esther Blumenfeld (come up and see me sometime)

Not A Whole Lot of Sowing Going On

Most children have a favorite book. Mine was The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett. What enchanted me was the beautiful garden hidden inside a stone wall. It reminded me of the Garden of Eden--- without the snake or naked people.

I romanticized the idea of gardening, not realizing that it involves sore muscles and dirt under the fingernails. Some people have a gift for enhancing nature. I can look at a plant and it will wilt. My mother planted a garden of miniature vegetables, but they weren’t supposed to be that way. Maybe it’s genetic---me not the vegetables. I have a friend, who has such a green thumb, that she told me, “I couldn’t get to the tomatoes. It was like a jungle out there.”

When my husband and I moved into our first home in Atlanta, we discovered that the previous owners were horticulturists. They had labeled all of the plants and trees in Latin and English, and our 4-year-old son ran through the yard, filled his little bucket with the labels, and presented them to us as a housewarming gift.

I was not totally ignorant. I knew the difference between a dogwood and a pine, and recognized magnolias. However, some of the plants closer to the ground were puzzlement. I called in a professional gardener to help with my education, but first I pulled some weeds around a beautiful plant with shiny leaves. When the man arrived, he looked at me and said, “Lady, do you feel okay?” “Yes,” I replied. “Why do you ask?” “Well,” he said. “Maybe you should go inside and take a Benadryl. You’ve been nurturing a patch of poison ivy.”

Now that I live in the desert Southwest, I have learned that planting a garden involves a jackhammer to break up caliche (sedimentary rock). Journalist, Clay Thompson says, “God put this hard deposit of calcium carbonate under the surface of arid soils to keep overly ambitious do-it-yourself types from digging post holes when they should be indoors out of the sun.”

My Secret Garden now consists of strange plants and trees that have thorns to keep me from picking their flowers and fruits.  And what of that little boy who pulled the labels off of those trees and plants in Atlanta? Well, I never asked him what he did with his little bucket, but years later he wrote a thesis at the University of Wisconsin. It was titled, “The Development of Vegetation Theory in the United States.” I guess that those Latin and English labels came in handy after all.

Esther Blumenfeld (“A weed is a flower in disguise”--- James Russell Lowell)

Get Reel

Last week I went to the cheap movie house to see a French film. The projector broke so the theatre manager announced that those attending could get their money back, or attend the Muppet movie that had just started in the other theatre. I opted for the Muppets, because the puppeteer, Peter Linz, who has been my son’s friend since high school, created the new character, “Walter”.

The surprisingly entertaining plot involved a human actor and the puppet, “Walter” who were brothers. At the end of the movie, the man brother remained a human being, and the puppet (manipulated by Peter Linz) came out of the closet and realized he was a Muppet. The audience could have clued him in at the beginning of the movie, but it was a sweet illusion.

Several years ago, when I was in New York, my son and I visited Peter at the television studio and watched the show. The puppeteers were dressed in black, stood in a hole in the floor and stuck their hands up as they worked the puppets. The director shouted orders at their hands such as, “ Twitter, show more emotion!”  He forgot that there were people standing in that hole, and the puppet illusion became his reality.

Movies give us pleasure, but some people never see the man behind the puppet, or actors as real people. Consequently, illusion sometimes knocks heads with reality.

In the movies: A speeding car goes 100mph around mountain curves. In real life, people find out that cars don’t fly.

In the movies: A man gets shot, jumps on a galloping horse, saves a drowning calf, carries his woman’s laundry basket into the house---all before she puts a bandage on his wound. In real life, a paper cut really hurts!

In the movies: Alien creatures invade a home and are beaten back by a child who can blow fire out of his nose. In real life, the IRS will perform an audit, because flaming nostrils are not a legitimate deduction.

Imagination and “Let’s pretend” are what makes life fun. Movies make us laugh and cry. Movies can make us think or escape thoughts for a short while, but movies aren’t close to real---unless you are Woody Allen.

In The Purple Rose of Cairo, a movie idol jumps off the screen and into real life. Allen’s brilliance causes illusion and reality to collide. However, I promise, if you take it upon yourself, to jump from your theatre seat into an actual movie, you will tear the screen, and find a lawyer waiting for you on the other side. That is why movies are called “flights of fancy”---not flights of bodies.

Esther Blumenfeld (swinging on a star)

And Whose Little Supposition Are You?

I recently received a postcard with the photo of a baby girl wrapped in a bath towel. The parents had written, “Can’t wait for you to meet our little Daphne. Love, Minnie and Buck.” They had made the assumption that, even though I didn’t know them, I’d send a gift to little Daphne, and that I wouldn’t notice the misspelling of my name. I finally figured out that Minnie and Buck are the progeny of people I haven’t seen in 40 years.

Wethern’s Law states that, “Assumption is the mother of all screw-ups.” I am convinced that not being a mind reader causes most arguments in relationships. “You should have known,” makes the assumption that your partner knows what you are thinking, so there’s no reason to clue him in.

Another common assumption is that when someone is silent, he may not be saying anything because he’s thinking. Few people consider that he may just be stupid. And what about the “dumb blonde” rap? The blonde bombshell, Jane Mansfield had a genius IQ level of 163, spoke 5 languages and was a classically trained pianist and violinist.

We all make assumptions such as; (a) People will be on time for appointments. (b) The refrigerator will be cold when we open the door. (c) The medicine the doctor prescribes will cure us immediately.

My friend, Judy went to the drugstore to pick up a prescription. She said, “I am picking up a prescription for Judy Cook.” The pharmacist said, “There is no such prescription on record.” She replied, “Well, maybe it was made under my husband’s name, Don Cook.” “No such prescription,” said the pharmacist. “I don’t understand,” said Judy. “The veterinarian said she’d call in a prescription for my dog, Xerxes.” “Oh,” replied the pharmacist. “I have a prescription for Xerxes Cook.” I assume that Judy had to pay for the prescription, but then again, maybe Xerxes does have a charge card.

One of the worst assumptions is if a person supposes that documented facts can change another person’s opinion.  After all, we are all experts on our own opinions. Validity is based on fact. Faith validity is based on “I believe this is true, so consequently it is.” I recommend that it is useless to muddle up already befuddled thinking with facts.

Years ago, when my family took a car trip through the South, we ate at a small restaurant in Alabama. As we were leaving, the waitress said, “Y’all come back now. You hear!” Mom turned around and went back. She assumed the waitress had meant for her to “Come back.” “So what do you want?” said Mother. “Nothing,” replied the waitress. “So why did you ask me to come back?” said Mother. “I didn’t.” said the waitress. “Yes, you did,” said my Mother. “Well, Honey, I didn’t mean right now,” said the waitress. “So, why did you want me to come back?” said Mother. “I didn’t,” said the waitress, and she left in a huff.

As with most assumptions, I don’t think my Mother ever understood what that encounter was all about. She did have eyes in back of her head, but she wasn’t a mind reader.

Esther Blumenfeld (I assume my flight will be on time---or not.)

Truth, Beauty And The Yuck Factor

When I was in 4^th grade, the art teacher instructed us to draw a dragon. It didn’t take me a long time to finish the assignment, so I handed it in, took a book out of my desk and proceeded to read until the school bell rang. As I gathered my supplies, the teacher asked me to stay. I stood at her desk. She held up my dragon and said, “This is the worst piece of art I have ever seen.” She was probably right, but I thought it was beautiful.

Art is a value judgment. As a matter of fact, good art is not always aesthetically appealing to viewers. Obviously, mine was neither good nor appealing. However, I wonder what my art teacher would have thought of Tracey Emin’s exhibit, My Bed (1998).  It was the actual messy bed where she slept and engaged in various activities that involved the secretion of body fluids. The bloody and semen soiled bed was exhibited in the Tate Gallery in 1999, won a prize, and was later purchased for a great deal of money. It brought fame and fortune to Emin, but I don’t know if she used the money to buy new sheets. A work of art exists in the mind of the creator, but sometimes it is okay to ask, “What in the world were you thinking?”

I have been privileged to befriend several artists over the years, and recognize that they see the world with unique vision---different from the rest of us. Artists see lights and shadows, color and forms, shapes, textures, line patterns and various materials which, combined with a wide range of ideas and feeling, contributes to the overall meaning of their finished work. I have visited art galleries all over the world, and maybe because I don’t have the gift, I have a keen appreciation of the remarkable talent of truly great artists, whose work can bring tears to my eyes. Sometimes, I enjoy just sitting on a bench admiring an inspired creation.

Recently, a friend invited me to join her to view a special museum exhibit of “Modern Work.”  When I entered the first gallery, I saw some scaffolding with paint cans on top, and asked the attendant, “Are you remodeling this gallery?” “No,” he replied. “That’s a work of art, but you can walk under it.” “Is the hole in the wall and the plaster on the floor part of his exhibit?” I asked. “No,” replied the attendant, “That’s the work of a different artist.” I couldn’t say, “My kindergartener could do better than that,” but I could have said, “ A demolition crew-----!

The next artist gave us 6 framed bottle caps accompanied by 6 matching framed bottle openers. He didn’t paint them. He framed them. I’m not sure his was a quest for knowledge as much as a quenching of thirst, and I got the message that he prefers imported beer. I don’t think that bottle caps and openers will stand the test of time, but then famous works are also often misunderstood.

Martin Kippenberger’s $1.1 million “When it Starts Dripping from the Ceiling” in the Ostwall Museum in Germany was damaged when a cleaning woman scrubbed away a painted rain puddle beneath a rubber trough placed under a stacked tower of wooden slats. Obviously, his work made an impression on her. The final exhibit in my tour of the “Modern Works” was indeed bizarre. Some people say that “Art is in the eye of the beholder,” but not in this case. Five plaster casts of a man’s male organ were placed on five books. I have heard of thumbing your way through the pages, but not in this case.  I don’t know if the artist used his own anatomy for the plaster casts, but if he did, I do know--- he wasn’t Jewish!

Esther Blumenfeld (My dragon wasn’t that bad after all)