DO I KNOW YOU?

Twenty-eight years ago (I remember it well), when I still lived in Atlanta, I was about to enter the doors at Lenox Mall, when I heard a man’s voice shouting, “Esther! Esther!” I turned around and saw a man jogging toward me. He had just emerged from the American Airlines Kiosk.
Smiling, he enfolded me in a bone-crushing hug, and said, “It’s been years. It’s so good to see you.”

After he let me go, I looked at his joy-filled face and said, “It’s good to see you too,” but I had absolutely no idea who he was. As far as I knew, I had never seen him before. However, with that effusive greeting, how could I say, “Who, in the Hell are you?” I guessed that perhaps he was one of my friend’s discarded husbands. Maybe, he was taller than I remembered, but I couldn’t say, “My, how you have grown!”

While I was pondering my next move, he said, “How are Warren (my husband) and Josh?”(my son), and I said, “They are just fine.” Now, hoping to get a clue about a name I recognized, I said, “And, how’s the family?” I figured everyone has a family. No clue there because he said, “Just fine.”

Then I tried, “So, what are you up to these days?” He responded, “You know— This and That.” At that point, I figured, if this dull man wasn’t a discarded husband, he obviously  should be.

“Well,”I said,”It’s really been something seeing you. Got to run,” and I did!

I have a very good memory for faces, even if I forget a name, but this time I did draw a blank. It only happened to me one more time, but this one was understandable.

Here in Tucson, last year, a woman’s voice trilled across a store, “Esther!  Esther!” “Look over here.  Here I am!”  Sure enough, she was there, but I did not recognize her.  However, she greeted me by saying,”I’ll bet you don’t know who I am.” I said, “I’m not sure, but I kind of recognize your voice.”  She said, “I was your neighbor 25 years ago, but I had a face lift, and a nose job after I moved.” Her hair was a different vibrant color, and she told me that she had lost 100 pounds.  Then I said, “I remember who you used to be,” and I did. I remembered the day she was sitting in a tree in my back yard, looking for her lost bird. How could I forget!

The guy in Atlanta? I’m still not sure who he was, but I do think that he was one of my friend’s former husbands. But, I must admit, that after number FOUR, they all started looking alike.

Esther Blumenfeld

I'LL DRINK TO THAT

Headlines such as, “Asylum Seekers Waiting Along Border,” “North Korea Fires Two Missiles,” and “Break Up Facebook, Founder Says,” announce important newspaper stories, that rightfully grab a reader’s attention. However, if you live in Arizona, the State that bumps up to Mexico, and has a Mexican restaurant practically on every corner, it’s the stories of the shenanigans of our State Legislature that prompts this reader to say, “Are they nuts?”

Of course, what the Legislature is not doing is taking up a bill for gun safety. What they are doing, as I read the headline in my newspaper is, “AZ Legislature is set to declare lemonade the State’s official drink.” Okay, finally, they are going to squeeze out a harmless bill upon which all Legislators can agree.   But—No! Several days later, I read, “Senators to reconsider lemonade as State Drink.”

Ah! Ha! The majority leader is flexing his muscles.  Not long thereafter, I read, “Lemonade voted out  as State drink. Senator says it lacks ‘uniqueness.”’ Really? Right now, 26 States and 2 Territories, have declared their official beverage—Are you ready?—“MILK!” How unique is that?

One Senator suggested that since Mexican food is so popular in Arizona, Margaritas should meet the test. That didn’t work because a Representative pointed out that some people don’t drink alcohol. However, being lactose intolerant didn’t seem to interfere with all the milk decisions.  

Only 2 states have alcoholic beverages as their State drinks—Alabama—"Conecuh Ridge Whiskey”—and, Virginia—“George Washington’s Rye Whiskey.”  Puerto Rico touts “Pina Coladas.”  Makes sense to me.

What doesn’t make sense is that there was a march on the Arizona State Capitol last year of 15,000 high school students to advocate for gun safety. That legislation went nowhere fast, but the headline I last read was, “Bill to make lemonade AZ’s State drink reaches Governor.” That rode the fast track and took no time at all. A civics lesson, if I’ve ever seen one.

My favorite State beverage selection is in  Maine, where “Moxie” is the State drink.
Hooray! No doubt about it, the citizens of Maine have Moxie.

Esther Blumenfeld (The Arizona State gun is the Colt Single Action Army)

ANOTHER TALE FOR HAWTHORNE

Poor Hester Prynne had to wear a scarlet letter “A” for the rest of her life. Her only mistake was that she lived in the wrong place. Had she lived in Tucson, the home of the University of Arizona, she would have been admired as a faithful Arizona Wildcat Basketball Fan, and her fellow citizens wouldn’t have scorned her one bit. They wouldn’t even have asked her, “Why are you wearing a scarlet letter “A”? They would have cheered her, as well as the school color.

So, Hester wore an “A,” and I, after successful Mohs surgery, look as if I have been kicked in the face by an ass—not the surgeon—but by a petulant mule, who kicked me under my eye and left the 1/2 moon imprint of his hoof. Now, strangers peer at me, and say, “What happened to you?” Of course it’s the big, white bandage on my face that attracts them.

Covering a boo-boo on your leg or arm isn’t so noticeable, but on your face, unless I’d wear a long black veil, or put a bucket over my head, there’s no place to hide. I know that the scar under my eye will fade, but in the meantime, I had to come up with some snappy rejoinders other than the trite, “You should have seen the other guy.”

One stranger asked me, “Were you in an accident?” I said, “No, I did this on purpose.”

My next rejoinder to the curious was, “Oh, Nuts!” Isn’t this October? I thought it was Halloween.”

Then, “I am a member of the famous Schmeckel Dueling Society.”  That one really worked. The stranger quickly scurried  away.  

My favorite come-back was, “ I wanted a unique picture for my Holiday Greeting Cards. It will be either this one, or the picture of my colonoscopy.”

I did find out that it is a huge mistake to tell  people the truth about my surgery, because it gave them the opportunity to tell me how much worse their surgery had been than mine. One woman regaled me with the tale of how she ended up cockeyed.  Not a pleasant story, but the telling made her feel Oh, so much better.

I tried saying, “The scissor slipped when I was trimming my bangs,” but it left one woman so horrified that I never said that again.

A person can always answer a question with a question, so I said, “Have you ever slipped while branding a cow?’

Pretty soon the bandage will be put aside, the scar will fade and the onlookers will lose interest. In the meantime, I have discovered that the best answer for inquisitive people is,
“Why do you want to know?”

Esther Blumenfeld (All better and sassy as ever)

ICARUS HAD IT WORSE

When I was a little girl, my Father didn’t earn enough money for many extras, but occasionally he did treat Mother and me to an afternoon movie matinee. In those days, going to the movies meant seeing a double feature. The first movie was family fare such as Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney dancing and singing their way across the screen. However, the second feature was invariably a shoot-em-up Western or a Gangster movie.

One afternoon, the second show was LADY SCARFACE. I took one look at the woman’s face, climbed into my Father’s lap, and spent the rest of the movie staring at the people sitting behind us. I had forgotten the movie until I was recently confronted with Basal and Mohs. No, it’s not a law firm. Neither is Basal, Curly and Mohs a famous comedy team.

But let me back up——

Tucson has 350 days of sunshine a year. Thus, it is important to lather oneself with sunscreen and wear a big hat (unless you are in the house). It is also a must do to visit a dermatologist once a year, because being overly sun-kissed can become problematic. All went well as my dermatologist perused my aging skin, until she put her nose on my nose and said, “You have two basal cells on your cheek under your left eye.” Then, holding up a mirror she said, “See!” Nope, I didn’t see anything, but then I never went to medical school either.

Before I could say, “How in the world did you spot those things?” she had taken samples for a biopsy and sent me on my way—cheerfully saying—“I think they are malignant, but because they are on your face, under your eye, I will refer you to a Dermatologic Surgeon who specializes in Mohs.” I found out that is not a dance team either.

Her diagnosis was correct, but when the Surgeon heard that I was coming, she left for an extended vacation. Three weeks later, I met the doctor, and she scheduled me for early morning surgery the following week. Her assistant told me that the surgery could take from 2 to 5 hours. I said, “What is she going to do—pull them out of my ears?” (I didn’t say ears). “No, No,” the nurse said, “The surgery takes around 15 minutes, but the analysis of the tissue takes 45 minutes, and the procedure may need to be repeated until only healthy tissue remains.” Then she added, “You might want to bring lunch.”

The day of surgery, I woke up at 5:30 a.m. with a back spasm, that took my mind off of my face altogether. I arrived at 7:45 a.m. and was immediately ushered into the operating room, placed into a reclining chair, with pillows under my back and knees (Yes, I did whine a bit about my back) and then my eyes were taped shut and covered. To this day, I don’t know who did the surgery, but she sounded very nice. After, the procedure was repeated for the third time, only healthy tissue remained, and I was free to drive home with a compression bandage on my 15 tiny stitches.

The next day,  I changed the dressing, looked into the mirror and realized that my handiwork covered too much of my face. I now resembled an Egyptian mummy, and I wasn’t sure I had covered the scar. So, I went back to the doctor’s office for a tutorial on how to change a dressing. I was told that the surgery was successful and that the scar will fade.

That is a relief, because  the actress, Judith  Anderson got paid to scare little children. I certainly don’t want to do it for free.

 And, Yes, my back is all better, but that’s another story.

Esther Blumenfeld (Dedicated to Dr. Frederic Edward Mohs)

EVERYBODY IS SOMEBODY

When crossing the street in New York City, I feel much safer surrounded by a band of strangers. When we get to the other side of the street, we pedestrians will separate and go our own way, Chances are, that I will never see any of these people again. But, for a moment, their presence, amidst the traffic, was comforting.

My son, Josh lived in New York for a few years, and he cautioned me not to speak to strangers. He said, “Don’t even make eye-contact with them.” There was an article in the New York Times about a man who died while riding the subway. He rode for 45 minutes before anyone noticed. That involved no friendly words and no eye contact.

Strangers on airplanes have often shared secrets and life stories with me—even when I have an open book in my lap. They know they are safe, because chances are that they will never see me again. They know that they don’t have to pretend, and can be exactly who they are.
The thing is, that a person is a stranger, because you don’t know him yet, but once introduced you really aren’t strangers anymore.

My mother-in-law had a friend who was waiting for her plane in the Chicago O’Hare Airport. She began to chat with a lovely young woman sitting next to her. Their plane had been delayed, so they were able to talk for some time. My mother-in-law’s friend really took a liking to this personable young woman. So, she said, “My son lives in Chicago. Would you mind if I gave him your name and phone number?” The young woman said that it would be okay with her. A year later, this lovely stranger became her daughter-in-law.

Parents will caution, “Don’t open the door to strangers.” That is good advice, but nowadays the internet indiscriminately invites all kinds of strangers into our homes.

My Aunt Ruth spoke to everyone. No one was a stranger in her life. One Sunday morning she took a walk in her neighborhood and noticed a  a very large, rather homely woman at the bus stop. The woman was  dressed for church. Aunt Ruth said, “You look so nice.”  At that, the big woman, with tears in her eyes,  gave Aunt Ruth a bone-crushing hug and replied, “Thank you! I have had a very bad week, and you made my day!”

At the moment when bad news turns our world upside down, we are all strangers in a strange land, and a smile or kind word from another person can be life affirming.

I like familiar strangers such as the people who work in all of the stores I frequent. I don’t know their names, but we recognize each other and exchange pleasantries. Sometimes, that is enough to turn a ho-hum day into something memorable.

One Monday afternoon, I went to a really early bird matinee. I was the only person in the theatre. The lights were dimming when a woman and her young daughter entered the theatre. I said, “Sorry, this is a private showing,” and they turned around and started to leave the theatre. Then they stopped, turned around again and we all burst out laughing.

I like making people laugh—even strangers.

One evening, five friends and I were having dinner in a restaurant. We talked and laughed and had a really good time. When we left the restaurant, everyone went to their own cars. My friend, Paula and I were headed to her car when another car, filled with strangers, pulled up next to us. A woman pulled down her window and said, “We were at the same restaurant and noticed that all of you were having such a good time. Are you related?” I poked Paula and said, “Yes, She and I are sisters.”  “Are you also related to the others?” asked the woman.  “Yes,” I said, “We are all distant cousins.” She drove off, so pleased to learn that we were one big happy family.

So, where’s the harm? For a moment, we weren’t strangers, and the world was a much better place.

Esther Blumenfeld