LETTING GO

In order to help pay for my college tuition, I worked for pittance during the summer in the office of a men’s trouser factory. During my Junior year, the owner of the factory announced his retirement, and that his son would now take over the operations.

However it turned out that for two reasons it was difficult for the son to hold the reins. The first was that many of the employees had known him since he was a child, and the old-timers still called him, “The Kid.” Secondly, the “Old Man” had trouble letting go of the reins, and became “semi-retired.”

I have never understood “semi-retired.” For me, retirement means that you leave what you are doing, and now you focus on your own world in a different way—doing things you’ve always wanted to do, but never had the time to explore. Kind of like a semi-truck. When retired, you can detach the tractor unit from the trailer unit, and the tractor part of you can proceed without the trailer.

I don’t think I am responsible for running people out of their professions, but lately so many of my old faithfuls have left me. For instance, after my last colonoscopy, my proctologist retired and left town. He always told me that I had a “tortured colon.” I guess now I have to take twists and turns with a new fellow.

Then my dentist retired, and I had to find another one of whom my insurance company approved.  I am sure he’s a good  dentist, but I rarely see him.  I only see his technician twice a year who thinks I am a “good flosser.”

My accountant retired, so I found an excellent fellow who was recommended by my new broker.  My former broker moved to Texas where he is probably rounding up cattle instead of clients.  I made sure that my new accountant and new broker are as young as my son.  After all, how many more  professional folks should I be expected to train?  

After operating on my cataracts, my Ophthalmologist liked it so much that he moved to the other side of town and is now only performing surgeries.  So, now I have another doctor who looks deeply into my eyes.

The latest person on my, “So you’re the new guy” list is my attorney who was a colleague of my former retiring attorney. Since this was an opportunity to review my estate and what to do after I’m  dead  paperwork, I proceeded to update everything. That was no fun at all! After the paperwork was finally signed and delivered, I told my new attorney,”I hope I never see you again!”  I think he thought I was kidding.

Now my Rabbi (which means teacher) is on the slippery slope of retirement, but I guess that rabbis, priests and ministers never really retire. It just means they won’t have to go to so many meetings.

My brother, David just retired after helping hundreds of people for many years as a Family Counselor. He is now relishing his non-schedule, relaxing and enjoying everyday with his family. That is a good beginning on the road to retirement. After all, if you do it right, shouldn’t  retirement actually be—- the best job you’ve every had?

Esther Blumenfeld (“Why is it when a man retires, and time is no longer a matter of importance, his colleagues generally present him with a watch?”)

SITTING NOT SO PRETTY

Many years ago, when taking a flight across the sea, the seats in Economy Class were reasonably spaced and comfortable—two seats on one side of the aisle and three seats on the other side. Also, the aisle was walkable between the rows where cheerful flight attendants could comfortably roll a cart of beverages.

With an aisle seat there was room to stretch at least one leg while comfortably putting the foot of your other leg under the seat in front of you. Some people preferred the window seat to rest their heads (unless it was a bumpy flight) and politeness afforded that the arm-rests on either side were given to the lithe person who sat in-between. Getting out of your seats to go to the loo or just walk about, before Charlie and his Horse set in, wasn’t too difficult, and generally your seat mates were relatively pleasant.

Nowadays, the Economy Seat on a flight across the sea has taken on the trappings of a medieval torture chamber. With the Deregulation Act of 1978, Congress removed government controls on fares, routes and market entry. Sounded good at the time, but this led to cramming as many people on a plane as possible, and the distance between seat backs shrank from as high as 36” to a low of 28” on low-cost flights.

Three things were not taken into consideration:  1.  Since the late 1980’s the average American person has gained 15 pounds and waists have increased. People have gotten bigger as seats have gotten smaller. 2. Human behavior has gotten worse because crammed in people get easily irritated, and a few alcoholic drinks can help create mayhem, and (because of rising prices) 3. Carry-on luggage above the head and below the seats are fuller and crammed in as much as the people.

Several years ago, I took a 13-hour night flight from Hell!  I had reserved an aisle seat, but when I boarded the plane, I discovered that the window was mine. The aisle seat had been taken by a woman who informed me that she had already taken 3 sleeping pills. Then I spied a man in the middle seat who was chomping on a 3-foot sandwich. At first I thought he was playing a harmonica, but with the sounds he was making, I knew he needed more lessons.
I tried to be pleasant and offered to exchange my window seat with the sleepy woman on the aisle since she had told me she planned not to move or wake-up until we landed, but she grunted, “No!”

I then told my seat mates that with a 13-hour flight, I planned to walk about, and from time to time, they’d have to move and let me out. “The sandwich man said, “You can just crawl over me.” He also said, “I like having my suitcase over my head” which had nothing to do with my problem. At that, I caught the eye of a passing flight attendant and said, “Could you please tell him he will have to get up if I need to get out.” She replied, “You tell him!”

At that, I sat down and we took off. As soon as we hit the proper altitude, the seat belt signs went off and the man sitting in front of me put his seat way back. My knees hit my chin. Only 12 1/2 hours to go!. During the flight, in order to stand up, I grabbed the headrest of the guy in front of me and bounced his head back and forth a few times. I then stepped on the feet of the guy with the sandwich (who now looked like a sword swallower with his French fries) and pushed the sleeping woman’s arms into her lap so I could climb over her.  I stood in the back of the plane as long as I could without blocking the washrooms.

When we finally arrived in New York, I was told that there was now an 8-hour layover before my flight back to Tucson.

In 2018, Congress passed legislation for the FAA to set standards for seat dimensions and aisle widths that afford safety—nothing happened. Four years later, after receiving many complaints from passengers, the FAA has now requested public comment on optimal seat size. The request for comments closes on November 1st.  Oops!  Missed it by that much!

Esther Blumenfeld

NICE ISN'T ALWAYS

A few days ago, a dear friend tripped, and fell down, right on her pretty face. It happened in a parking garage on the East Coast. She sat stunned and bleeding as a man drove into the parking place next to her. He got out of his car, took one look at her, slammed the car door shut and walked away.  I guess he had already used up his niceness.

I conscientiously try to do at least one kind thing a day.  Once a day is enough when you are retired. However, being a good person shouldn’t be too difficult, but sometimes it does have its limitations.  For instance, when hiking in the mountains I often see someone taking a photo of a friend or a group of friends. I usually stop and ask, “Would you like to be in the picture?” Usually, people are delighted and hand me their camera or phone.

One morning, I spied a woman taking a photograph of a group of people, and asked her if she’d like to be in the picture. She said, “Oh, Yes. Thank You!” and handed me the camera. I noticed a young man standing at the side of the group and said, “Get into the picture!”  Whereupon he replied, “I don’t know those people.” I said, “That’s Okay. Get in anyway!”—and he did. Good Lord! Being nice can be so hard!

Another time when I was hiking, I climbed to the tip-top of a mountain where I could enjoy the spectacular view. When I got there, I noticed a little Chinese lady practicing Tai Chi. Knowing only one greeting in Chinese (which I can’t spell) I said, “KneeHow.” She was so excited that she stopped exercising  and began to babble to me in Chinese. She then happily followed me all the way back to the parking lot and kept right on chatting.  I kept smiling and nodding my head. I agreed with everything she said, and from the smile on her face, I knew she thought I was an excellent listener.

On my frequent hikes in the mountains, I have dispensed many bandaids for the fallen, but have never had to treat snakebite. I did, however, come across a man sitting on a boulder at the top of a steep hill. He was breathing heavily and his face was white as snow (which I don’t often see in Tucson, Arizona.) I gave him my water bottle and asked if I should call 911. “No!” he said and “Please don’t call my wife!” Fat chance of that since I didn’t know his wife. It turned out that this successful paragon of industry was recovering from a heart attack, and his doctor had ordered him not to go hiking yet. “But,” the man protested to me, “ I have been hiking these mountains since I was a teenager!” I said, “Mister, You aren’t a teenager anymore.”I walked him to his car and scolded him all the way down. I said, “The next time I catch you disobeying you doctor, I’ll call your wife for sure!” Never saw him again.

I won’t tell you about the time my neighbor wanted to show me his girlfriend’s dog. Trying to be nice, I said. “Sure”—even though I didn’t like his girlfriend. I won’t tell you that the mutt ran out of the house and left me with his toothmarks and 6 stitches on my left leg.

However, I will end this tale of goodness with the story of two people I met in the dining room  of an elegant cruise ship. The 80-year-old man was dressed in a designer tuxedo, and his 25-year-old fiancé wore a silver shimmering number. As we were to be seated, she invited me to sit with them. Being a kind person, I could not in good conscience refuse her heartfelt  invitation. Her heartthrob didn’t say much as he quaffed his third martini (stirred not shaken—the drink not the guy) as she regaled me with tales of his private island estate, his racing horses, his airplane and his yacht, and she nearly blinded me with her 5-year-old diamond engagement ring.

He wasn’t much to look at and only grunted once in a while, but I figured she was attracted to him for one reason or another.  My Mother used to say, “Every pot has a cover.” I thought it strange that he ordered mousse ( a fluffy cousin of pudding)   as a main course, but then I discovered  that with all of his wealth, he was not a classy guy—as he put his dentures on the table. Certainly, he could have put them on a plate!

By the way, My friend, the fallen woman, is just fine.  A kind man found her, called 911 and stayed with her until help arrived.

Yes, there are some good people in this world—better than me, but I will keep on trying.

Esther Blumenfeld

AROUND THE BEND

All my life, even as a child, I was just a step behind conformity.  I learned early on that sometimes the road less traveled is less traveled for a reason, and sometimes if you worry too much about consequences you’ll never do anything that’s interesting or imaginative. As a poet once told me, “I tried to be normal once—worst two minutes of my entire life.”

I think it started on my third birthday, on the ship, coming to the United States from Germany. I had the run of the ship, and thought it would be a grand adventure to climb into a lifeboat that was hanging over the side.  It was a great deal of fun until a sailor shouted, “Stay, little girl, Stay!” and crawled on his stomach to get me out.  Where did he think I was going to go?

Then, after moving to our home in the United States, I stubbornly refused to learn the English
language. It made no sense at all that people couldn’t talk the way I did. This was a great concern for my Mother, but my Father said, “Don’t worry, Dear. The children on the street will teach her English.” However, everyday when I came in from playing outside, Mother would ask, “Did you learn any English today?” And, everyday I’d answer, “Nein!” However, one day when she asked me, “What did you learn today?” I smiled and said, “Shit!  Booger! Fart”  She shouted to my Father, “Get the dictionary!”

I was fluent in English before going to Kindergarten, and enjoyed all of the activities except resting. Resting was no fun at all! So, I surreptitiously slid my little blanket close to my best friend so we could visit. The problem was not a problem for me. It was my attitude about resting that irritated the teacher.  It was her problem! Consequently, my report card included a postscript, “Esther is a bad rester!” Resting is still not my favorite activity.

Getting older, I still have choices, and I still believe that you don’t have to do what everyone else is doing, but I also try to remember that I can’t control everything, because if I try I won’t enjoy anything.  For instance, if I ever need “service repair” on my television, computer or telephone, I know that half of the people who live in the Philippines will try to fix my problem—maybe not the first time— but then no one is perfect. Getting over-heated won’t fix anything, so it’s important to remember that real people are not perfect, and perfect people are certainly not real! And, if nothing else, how many times have you had the opportunity to have a nice chat with someone in the Philippines?

My favorite cartoonist is Stephen Pastis.  His comic strip, PEARLS BEFORE SWINE is, “caustic commentary on humanity’s quest for the unattainable.” Well, no matter what— I still try. So many times in life I’ve taken the seemingly impossible road. Sometimes I’ve been successful, and other times not so much.

One of my better days was the day I purchased a new toaster at Bed Bath and Beyond. I got it home, put a piece of bread into it, but the pop-up button would neither pop up or stay down. So, I immediately drove back to the store with the errant toaster.  I also took with me—four slices of bread. I said to the clerk, “The button won’t pop up or stay down,” and put two slices of bread into the toaster. She tried it, and sure enough there was no popping going on.  Then she called the supervisor, who also tried to unsuccessfully toast the bread.  By now, other people began to enter the store.  He brought a new toaster to the desk.  I said, “Please unpack the box, and let’s try the new toaster.”  He dropped the toast into the toaster, and the three of us watched the bread begin to toast—-as did several customers who also seemed interested in the activity. The toast did pop up (to no applause) and as the crowd drifted away. I said to the clerk, “Would you like to have the toast?”  She said, “Sure!”  Then I said, “Would you like to have the rest of the bread?” She said, “Sure!” Her vocabulary was limited, but she did seem to  like toast. No one is perfect!

Lesson learned:  “If at first you do succeed, try not to look surprised.”

Esther  Blumenfeld

MAD AS HELL

Yesterday, I had an experience that is all too common as well as all too aggravating. It began with a notice on my e-mail that my monthly premium for my Cigna Dental Insurance had not been paid, but “if that is in error, ignore the e-mail.” My monthly premiums are automatically taken out of my checking account. So, I called the insurance company to see if there was a problem. Anyway, I tried to call the insurance company.  

After dialing the number, I was unceremoniously put on hold with a barrage of elevator music. I set my phone to “Speaker” and began to read the newspaper. Sports and the Comics didn’t take too long. I advanced to the Front Page. After finishing the Front Page section, the music on the speaker phone paused. My hopes arose. The music began again. So, I progressed to the National News. Twenty minutes had passed. As I picked up the Local News section, a loud voice on my phone said, “Dear Customer, this survey will only take a few minutes of your time. Please rate your answers from ONE to TEN. TEN being the highest.” That was all I needed to hear.

Then it began: “How satisfied are you with your experience?”  Answer:  “ONE!”
“Was your experience satisfactory?” “ONE!”
“Was the agent helpful?” “ONE!”  

As  the questions continued the answers were ‘ONE—ONE—ONE.”
Finally, “Would you recommend this company to your friends?”  Answer, “What do you think?”

“Tell us why:” “Because I had a simple question and no one picked up the frigging phone before hitting me with this lame brained survey.” I hung up!   Later, after cooling off, I called the number again, and heard a message. “If you received an e-mail that your bill has not been paid, it was sent in error. Please disregard.” (and stop grinding your teeth).  I made up that part.

It is very hard sometimes not to get angry.  I will spare you the four hours I spent with 5 different departments, 4 disconnections and 5 different “service people” on the phone with AOL—with  no real problem resolution.  I also answered their survey with improved profanity.
Even though I get frustrated and sometimes angry, I rarely lose my temper. That takes a lot of control.

When I was three-years-old my family escaped the Nazis and we made our home in Springfield, Missouri. Four years later, we moved to Sioux Falls, South Dakota.  I liked my new school and my new friends, and was a very happy little girl.  Every afternoon after school, I’d walk home by myself—even on snowy days. Now that I was 8-years-old, I was pretty independent.

One afternoon, I heard a sound behind me.I turned around and saw a big boy from my school. I didn’t know him, but I figured he was a new kid who lived at the Army/Air Force Base. He caught up with me and I looked up at him and said,, “Hi!” He stared down at me and said, “I know who you are. You are a dirty German!”

 I looked up at him, balled my fist and shouted, “I am an American Girl!” I closed my eyes, flung up my fist and ,since I was much shorter than he, I hit a Bulls Eye right on his nose.  I had never seen so much blood in my whole life!  I ran home crying and as I entered the house shouted, “I think I killed someone.” After my Father calmed me down, I told him the whole sad story. He was shocked and said, “Esther, you were in a fist fight?” “No,” I replied. It was no fight. He cried, bled and ran away.” Then my Father calmed me down and said, “Don’t worry the nose bleeds a lot when hit.” I doubt you killed him since he ran away, but perhaps you should apologize for making him bleed. Think about it.”
I kind of thought about apologizing but didn’t, because I never saw that boy again.  However, I never— ever— hit anyone again. But, I must admit, when I get mad as Hell, I occasionally  do hit my head against a virtual wall.

Esther Blumenfeld