STRANGERS IN A STRANGE LAND

June and Bubba were from Mississippi. Bubba wasn’t his real name. I think he was the third Richard in his family, but he didn’t want to be known in graduate school, as “Richard the Third,” so everyone called him Bubba. He was the quintessential Southern gentleman, who loved his “bourbon and branch”--- and having a good time--- in equal doses. But anyone who mistook his easy manner for slow thinking was sorely mistaken.

As many a New Yorker has found out to his chagrin, the attorney or businessperson with a Southern drawl is nobody’s fool. As a matter of fact, Southerners, who want to lay it on thick before cinching a big deal, have been known to whisper to one another, “There’s room for only one Good-Ole-Boy at this party.”

Whenever we’d scrape together enough money to go to a restaurant, June was the person we’d ask to make reservations. Her honeysuckle voice, and that charming accent, always got us the best table in the house.

There’s a Southern tradition that every home should have a gun and a dog. I don’t know if they owned a gun, but they possessed one heck of a dog. As a matter of fact, Caballero was the biggest dog W.S. or I had ever seen. When we would go to their apartment, Caba would bark, fog up all of the windows, and then wag his tail. W.S. would always say, “I don’t know which end to trust. You go in first.”

Caba was too much dog for a mansion, let alone a small apartment; but he was considered a member of the family, so he had the run of the place. His playthings were everywhere, and June thought he had an ample supply of toys. However, she found out that she was mistaken on the day that Caba brought home a policeman. He had knocked him off his motorcycle. She had to repeat over and over, “No, darlin’ dog, you can’t keep him.”

None of us had the luxury of two cars, so usually Bubba dropped June off at work before going to campus. However, one day he had to drive to the other side of town early, so she volunteered to take the bus.

 It quickly turned into a blustery, rainy day. After waiting for 30 minutes, struggling with an umbrella (which had blown inside out) June was visibly relieved when the bus finally arrived. The door opened, and she shouted, “Are y’all going south?” And the bus driver replied, “Obviously, not as far as you want to go, Honey.”

It isn’t easy being a stranger in a strange land.

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006

THERE'S SOMETHING FISHY GOING ON (Part Two)

As the old saying goes, “Good Things Come in Threes.” W.S’s and Dick’s research presentation in Savannah, W.S’s birthday, and the NCAA final four all converged on the same day. Dick and W.S.’s presentation had gone well. So, the three of us scheduled dinner at a beautiful restaurant to celebrate.

I hadn’t had time to go shopping for a gift, so I asked W.S. “What would you like for your birthday?” He took a deep breath and said, “Do you know what I’d really like? I’d really like it if you and Dick would go out for dinner so I could order room service, stay in, and watch the basketball game on television.”

“Okay,” I said. “It’s your birthday.” Dick and I went to one of the priciest restaurants in town. “It’s on W.S.” I said, as we toasted the absent birthday boy. We had a fine time. Dick had never eaten soft-shell crab. He had eaten crab, but never soft-shell crab. Is there a difference? You betcha!

When we returned to the hotel, W.S. thanked us profusely. His team had won, he had gorged himself with Southern Fried Chicken, and gushed, “This was the best birthday I have ever had in my whole life!”

After a bit of chitchat (mostly about the game), Dick bid us adieu. As we were preparing to turn in, we received a frantic call from him. “My head is swelling and my face is really red. No, I think it may be turning purple.”

We rushed across the hall to his room, and sure enough, our friend had a red pumpkin head and was now itching---really itching---as hives started popping out all over his body. “I think you are allergic to something,” said W.S. “What did you eat?” “Soft-shell crab,” cried Dick and I in unison. Actually, I said it. By now, Dick had trouble moving his lips.

“I think we should call a doctor,” I said. But Dick was adamant: “NO DOCTORS!” “Okay,” I responded, “Let’s try some Benadryl and baking soda. I have some in my suitcase.” As I was leaving, I heard Dick mumble, “She carries baking soda in her suitcase? “She works at a high school,” said, W.S. “It’s part of her tool kit.” Actually, baking soda is cheaper than bubble bath and good for the skin.

I made Dick promise to take the Benadryl, soak in a tub filled with water and baking soda, and if that didn’t help, to please call a doctor. He promised he would. I didn’t sleep all night, and neither did W.S. because I kept poking him and saying, “Do you think he’s all right? Shall we call him? Do you think he’s dead? What do you think? “I think,” said W.S. “I think that I am very glad we delivered our paper before dinner,” and then he rolled over and fell asleep---one more time.

The next morning Dick was a good as new. He said that the Benadryl had knocked him out and after a short period of scratching, he had a marvelous night’s rest. “You had better stay away from soft-shell crab,” I said. “But I really liked it,” he replied. “How do we know it was the crab?” I replied, “We know, because you turned into a mutant, and if you ever eat that dish again, and it doesn’t kill you---I will!”

Little did I know then, that the creatures of the deep weren’t quite finished with the three of us, so oblivious to what the future would bring, we returned to Cow-town, Indiana undaunted and unafraid.

 Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006

THERE'S SOMETHING FISHY GOING ON (Part One)

Dick England owned a mountain in North Carolina. It had been in the family for generations, but he hadn’t been there since he was a toddler. “It isn’t much of a mountain,” was all he could remember his mother saying about the place, but he had a yearning to see it. So, a week between classes, he flew to North Carolina, rented a car, and drove to England Mountain.

Dick and W.S. were working together on a scientific paper concerning some research they were conducting, and it had been accepted for presentation at a professional meeting in Savannah. The day Dick returned from his trip, he came to our apartment for a study session. Naturally, I was eager to hear about his adventure, so I ran to the door when he knocked.

“Don’t ask!” he said. Undeterred, I said, “No way! I want to know what happened.” “Well, my Mother was right. It isn’t much of a mountain, but when I got half way up the hill, someone started shooting at me.” “You’re kidding!” said W.S. “I would not joke about bullets whizzing past my head.” “What did you do?” I asked. “I hid behind a tree and yelled, Stop shooting. It’s Richard England. This is my mountain. Dammit!”’

He then told us that the shooting stopped as abruptly as it had begun. “But, I stayed behind that tree until I saw a little old lady walking down the road flanked by two of the biggest, meanest looking men I have ever seen in my life, and all three of them were smoking pipes and carrying shotguns. As they got closer, I stepped out from behind the tree, and the old lady said, ‘Why, if it isn’t little Dickey England. You certainly have growed. We thought you was the revenoorers.’”

That was when Dick found out that his mountain was a haven for bootleggers, and he had almost stumbled onto one of the many stills in the area. Not wanting to go blind, he turned down a swig of rot gut, and when the old woman told him that “the young’uns are growin’ a crop down the road a spell,” he decided not to ask what they were growing, and bid them a forever fare-the-well. England Mountain was obviously a bastion of free enterprise, but “Little Dickey” didn’t want any part of it.

Since the scientific paper had been accepted for presentation, a few months later, W.S. and Dick were off to Savannah to report on their research. Naturally, I tagged along.

As the old saying goes, “Good things come in threes.” Their research presentation, W.S.’s birthday, and the NCAA final four all converged on the same day. Dick and W.S. got their presentation out of the way quickly because their session was right before dinner and all the scientists were too thirsty for cocktails to ask too many questions. The three of us had scheduled dinner at a beautiful restaurant to celebrate. (To be continued---)

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006

A JERSEY GREETING

“Hello,” I said, answering the phone. It wasn’t very original, but usually gets results. “Hello,” a gruff voice growled. “This is Velma. Rocky will be there to get you at five-o’clock.” “I’ll look forward to that,” I replied. “Thank you very much,” and hung up the phone. “Who’s Rocky?” I wondered, and, “Do I owe him any money?”

I quickly called and left a message for W.S. “Who are Rocky and Velma and why are they out to get me?” Twenty minutes later, he called back and told me that Rocky and Velma are fellow graduate students. “They are a very nice couple. Don’t be afraid of them. They aren’t much bigger than you.” “But she sounded so tough,” I replied. “That’s just her New Jersey voice”, he said. You’ll like them. Sorry I forgot to tell you about dinner at their house, but Rocky offered to pick you up. I’ll meet you there.”

Rocky was certainly a misnomer, because the man who picked me up was a gentle, studious fellow. His mother probably named him after her contractions rather than his disposition. He and Velma had met while they were dance partners in a college campus production. “Unfortunately, I dropped her; but I picked her up, and we’ve been together ever since,” he said.

So began a lifelong friendship with two of the dearest people I have ever met. Velma apologized for having been crankier than usual on the telephone, but earlier that day, when she had returned home from class, she found a strange man sitting in her living room, reading the rough draft of her dissertation. “What are you doing?” she demanded. “I’m waiting for the dentist,” he replied.

“Look around,” she said. “Does this look like a reception room?” “Well, he said, looking around. “I think so. Will the dentist be long?” “This used to be a dentist’s office. It isn’t a dentist’s office anymore. It is now an apartment,” Velma said. “Can’t you tell the difference?” “Do you know the dentist’s new address?” he asked. “I do not!” said Velma. “Don’t you have anything else to say to me?” “You could use some better reading material,” he replied, on his way out. “ I didn’t understand that stuff at all.” The living room wasn’t arranged like a reception room, but I must admit that their narrow little kitchen did suspiciously resemble a dental laboratory.

One day as W.S. and I were walking across campus, we passed a man who immediately got my attention. He wore a green-checkered shirt, a purple bow tie and orange trousers. “Is there a golf course around here?” I asked. “No,” said W.S. “That’s Velma’s major professor, the brilliant Dr. Emmett.” “As in Kelly?” I asked. “No!” he replied. “Dr. Emmett never clowns around. He is world-renowned in his field. “Which is?” I asked. “Spacial Perception,” said W.S. “What does that mean?” “I think it involves shapes and colors,” he replied. “Well,” maybe he’s wearing his research,” I surmised. Why else would anyone look like that on purpose? I don’t know if brilliance breeds’ oddness, but every professor we encountered had nurtured his own quirk.

Rocky’s major professor was a---I’m-going-to-write-every-other-word-on-your-thesis kind of guy. Professor Bodkin was a micro-manager of the worst kind. Not only did Rocky’s work need the Bodkin stamp of approval, but it would also bear his fingerprints, his footprints and probably a bit of spittle to seal the deal.

Rocky told us that one-day when he mailed a letter (which Bodkin had approved), he found out that his professor had waited at the blue drop box for the mailman, because he wanted to change a word. I’m not sure if a wrestling match ensued, but I do know that unless you have a stamp on your hand, you are to keep it out of the drop box---which happily proves that---even the Bodkins of this world are not in control all of the time.

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006

INVENT-A-JOB JOB (Part 2)

Although “Sick Bay” was not in my job description, I knew that as attendance counselor, I needed to keep as many healthy kids in school as possible. Consequently, when I received a phone call informing me that, “Jimmy is sick today,” I had to wonder why Jimmy has a father whose voice is changing. With deep compassion, I called back to check on Jimmy’s state of health.

“What do you mean?” Jimmy’s father said, this time in a deeper voice. “Well,” I replied, “when you called me fifteen minutes ago, you said that Jimmy had the crud, and I just wondered how he’s feeling.” “I didn’t call you,” said Jimmy’s father. “Isn’t he in school?” “No, he’s not.” I answered. “I hope he’s not dying. “He’s going to wish he had,” was the reply.

Shortly after our conversation, Jimmy or Betty, or any other hooky player, would appear in my office, appropriately chagrinned, and I would always say, “I am so glad you experienced a miraculous recovery. Welcome back.” I honed my investigative skills and became the best bounty hunter the school had ever had. After several weeks of keeping attendance records, bandaging cuts and dispensing tissues, I was confronted by my most challenging medical emergency. A 15-year-old lad came into my office clutching his bleeding nose.

Stunned, I offered, “Your nose is bleeding. I mean it’s really bleeding!”  “I was bitten by a rat,” he said. “Ah-Hah!” I responded. “Go lie down and press a damp rag on your nose. Do you know what happened to the rat?” “It’s in the Science Lab,” he said, offended that I was more concerned about the health of the rat than his swollen nose.

“Well, you just lie there, while I go check out the rat,” I said. In a few minutes, I returned, greatly relieved that the lab rat was isolated and was clearly healthy. The teacher informed me that the boy had been playing with it, and had let it run up his arm. When the rat ran into an obstacle (he didn’t know it was a nose) he nipped it on his way down the other arm. The rat was lab raised, healthy and posed no threat for anything worse than loss of dignity.

I prayed that the boy’s mother wasn’t the hysterical type when I called and told her, “Your son had a small accident. A rat ran into his nose.” It was the best I could do. After she finished screaming, I assured her that the rat was healthy, but she insisted on talking with her son. By now, the bleeding had stopped, but his nose was swollen and red, so I suggested that she take him to be checked out by his doctor.

He wasn’t happy, because he was going to miss frog dissection, but I couldn’t be concerned about that. After all, there were 10 kids tardy because of flat tires, and none of them had arrived in the same car. 10 cars—10 flat tires. I figured it must be an epidemic, so I picked up the phone to alert the school nurse.

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c 2006.