Dreams

Yesterday, I treated myself to a pedicure. Sitting in the chair next to me was a charming 12-year-old girl who asked me if I had attended the rodeo that was in town. Turns out that she and her girlfriend had ridden horses in the parade, and her mother was now treating them both to a day of pretty hands and feet.

After chatting a bit, I asked her what career she wanted to pursue when she grew up, and she said, “I want to be a magician. I’m already really good at card tricks, and now I’m working on my patter (the funny things magicians say to distract an audience).

I wanted to ask her if she could make one of my irritating neighbors disappear, but thought better of it, since she hadn’t told me that she wanted to be a mob boss when she grew up. More’s the pity!

When I was her age, I wanted to be a singer of popular songs, so my mother entered me in a contest sponsored by a local radio station. My grandfather, the concert pianist, prepared me for the event by teaching me to sing the operatic aria, “Sempre libera” from La Traviata. Violetta wasn’t willing to give it all up for love, and all I wanted to sing was, “In My Sweet Little Alice Blue Gown.” But, I couldn’t argue with my determined grandfather, because my German was limited, and he played the piano extra loud when I tried to protest.

So, I bombed on the radio at a very early age. I was “Sempre liberating” while other kids were playing songs on their combs and singing songs such as “Don’t Sit Under The Apple Tree With Anyone Else But Me.”

Although I felt totally humiliated, it was all worth it, because I had never seen my strict grandfather smile before. I want to believe it was a smile and not a grimace. That ended my aspirations to become a lounge singer.

I hope that my little magician’s dreams come true, and if she adds a disappearing act to her repertoire, I will be sure to buy my nasty neighbor a front row ticket to the show.

Esther Blumenfeld (Who made me the grown-up?)

Nature Abhors A Vacuum

When I look into my closet and see that some of the clothes are now featured in vintage shops, I know it’s time for spring-cleaning. Oh, but it’s so difficult to discard such old friends.

Spring-cleaning can be traced to the ancient Jewish practice of thoroughly cleaning the home in preparation for the feast of Passover, which commemorates the Jews hasty departure from Egypt following their captivity.

The Persian New Year, “Norouz” falls on the first day of spring and Iranians still practice “khooneh tekouni” which translates into “shaking the house” where everything is thoroughly cleaned.

Scotland’s cleaning is December 31^st, on “Hogmanay,” a practice also found in Ireland and New Zealand. In Greece, it is traditional to clean the house before Great Lent, which is called “Clean Week.”  And in North America and Northern Europe, March is always a good time for spring-cleaning, because doors can be left open and high winds can blow dust out of the air. I tried that on a windy day in Arizona, and a cloud of dust blew in, and decided to stay.

Chicagoan, Ives W. McGaffey invented the first vacuum cleaner in 1868. It was called the “Whirlwind,” but the person using it had to manually turn a crank while pushing it around the floor.

Roseanne Barr said, “I’m not going to vacuum until Sears makes one you can ride on.” But, there’s so much more to spring-cleaning than vacuuming the rugs. It involves delving into places you didn’t even know existed in your home.

My Uncle decided to clean out the crawl space in his basement. His four teenaged sons had used that space as a dumping spot for broken sports equipment, pizza boxes, aluminum cans, old shoes and other disgusting disposables. He took one look at the pile of junk, closed the trap door and decided that his kids had found a creative way to add insulation to the house.

When cleaning out cupboards, I usually find something that I have to ask myself, “What is this?” and “Why did I keep it?” I have a friend who says, “Don’t throw it away. It might be a collectors item.”

This year when I cleaned out my freezer, I found frozen sauce in a plastic bag. I still don’t know if it was meant for meat or for ice cream.  I hadn’t labeled it, so maybe it came with the house.

 A sure rule of house cleaning is; “When washing windows, the spot is always on the other side of the glass.” And, it’s always a good idea to check the date on   swollen canned goods.

Cleaning out office files is most difficult. I’m fairly organized, and claim that I know where everything is---whether I do or not. I know that important stuff should be kept, but then invariably everything is important.

Being condemned to spring-cleaning is much like the Greek Gods condemning Sisyphus to eternally roll a rock uphill. Every time poor Sisyphus got to the top of the mountain, he had to watch that heavy stone roll all the way back down again.

Joan Rivers has it all figured out. Rivers said, “I hate housework. You make the beds, you wash the dishes and six months later you have to start all over again.”

A friend told me, “Spring-cleaning won’t kill you!” But, if it does, I won’t have a chance to tell her she was wrong. So, if I put it off long enough, spring will be over. There’s always next year.

Esther Blumenfeld (“My idea of housework is to sweep the room with a glance”) Erma Bombeck

Wedded Bliss-ters

Digging into my mental museum, I decided to share with you the true story of a wedding from Hell, which I attended fifty years ago. And, YES, it is still exceedingly memorable. The formal wedding and reception dinner were held on a Sunday evening, in December, in the sanctuary, and adjoining reception room, of a little congregation, in a small town near Chicago---where many of the grooms relatives lived.

The wealthy parents of the groom had arranged for a private bus to ferry their fancy Chicago friends to the wedding. Since my husband, Warren, was a groomsman; we arrived a couple of days early.

Saturday morning, Warren looked at the sky and said, “It looks like rain.” He was wrong. It didn’t rain, but late Saturday night, it began to snow. The groom arrived. He hadn’t forgotten to bring his tuxedo, but bringing the wedding license had slipped his mind. Luckily, one of his uncles woke up a sleeping judge, who ordered the powers to be, to open the license office, and by Sunday morning, when the bride arrived, the license was well in hand. Unfortunately, she had forgotten to bring the wedding cake. It kept snowing!

The groom’s aunts had planned an elegant champagne lunch, for out-of-town guests, at the only hotel in town. As we were seated, and the heartfelt toasts were being made, the private dining room doors flew open, and 30 unexpected relatives of the bride (from Detroit) burst into the room, shouting “Is this the place for lunch?”

One of the aunts almost fainted. Another aunt explained, as politely as possible, that since she had not been informed that they were coming, food had not been ordered for them, but she would arrange for some sandwich platters, if they could wait quietly. They decided not to wait, and began to take rolls out of the breadbaskets. When another aunt said, “Please stop doing that,” they left. The breadbaskets were empty. As a matter of fact, they took two of the baskets with them. The almost fainting aunt kept mumbling, “Not our side of the family. Not our side of the family.” Unfazed, the bride said, “What a nice surprise! I had no idea they were invited.” By now the snow was coming down very fast.

Radio commentators reported, “Chicago traffic is backed up due to blizzard conditions.” Most of the guests had decided to get to the wedding early due to the increasingly bad weather. The chapel was beautifully decorated with roses. We could smell them, but no one could see them, because as soon as we all were seated, the lights went out. It was like sitting in a nice smelling coal mine. It was pitch black inside the chapel when the busload of bejeweled and mink covered guests arrived, in their wrinkled tuxedos and gowns, from Chicago. Carrying a flashlight, one disgruntled man said, “I’ll buy the damn electric company in this Burg, if they turn on the lights!”

Candles were lit, and I prayed that they wouldn’t burn down the chapel. Warren prayed that he wouldn’t be poisoned at the dinner, because the refrigeration in the wedding reception area was also down and out. I couldn’t see the bride come down the aisle, but I assume she was present when the vows were said. After the ceremony, the candles were brought into the reception area. The melting ice-sculptured swans looked more like pigeons, and the champagne was a bit warm, but the food had not spoiled. I’m not sure what I ate, but it kind of tasted good.

“Dancing in the Dark” was a good theme song for the wedding, and then it was time to leave. By now, all of the cars in the parking lot were totally covered with snow. Two of the drunken Detroit relatives had located a couple of shovels and asked Warren, “Where’s our car?” He showed them where to dig.  When they were finished, they had dug out our car. Oops! 

The snow removal truck had only cleared the street that led to the hotel. There was no way we could go anywhere else. So everyone, including the bride and groom spent the night in the hotel. The next day, the bride’s relatives returned to Detroit with their newly acquired breadbaskets. The wealthy people returned on the private bus to Chicago, without buying the electric company, and we were free to go home.

Esther Blumenfeld (The marriage was kaput in a year. I guess they turned on the lights.)

Volenda Esski

In her book, The Middle Place, Kelly Corrigan writes, “Parents define you first.” If she’s right, I guess perhaps they see you as you want to be seen, and then again---perhaps NOT.

Recently, my brother, David sent me some letters he found in his attic. They were written in 1945, when he was an infant, and I was a 9-year-old spending a couple of weeks in summer camp. I hope through the chuckles, you will catch a glimpse of the woman I became. I know I did.

“Dear Mom and Dad,

Boy, am I having fun. We sang songs on the bus and Rosalie dropped her letters into the water.”

“My Darling Daughter,

I bought 3 movie magazines with pretty actors, and I will save them for you, so you can cut them out for your scrapbook. Be a good girl and wash your ears. Mommy”

“Dear Mom and Dad,

For breakfast I had raisins, Wheaties, milk and toast. I went swimming and am in cabin #1.”

“Dear Daughter,

I imagine that you were so busy enjoying yourself that you did not find the time to write.  Mommy”

“Dear Mom and Dad,

I’m very sorry I didn’t write to you, but I lost my pencil. Now I have to go row a boat.”

“My Dear Daughter,

How are you getting along with the other girls? No fighting? Do you sleep well in your bunk? How does it feel to be on an island? Daddy”

“P.S. The spot on the paper is drool from your baby brother.”

“Dear Mom and Dad,

I saw two raccoons last night. They say there are deer on the island. The cabins are full of spiders, but they aren’t poisonous. How many dishes did Daddy break since I left?”

“Dear Daughter,

Please don’t bring any spiders home. Please don’t forget anything at camp. Remember the BLANKETS belong to Mrs. Dworsky. Are you washing yourself good? How about your ears and neck? Do you treat them well? Be a good girl Mommy”

“Dear Daddy,

I am writing a play for you.

(Signed) Volenda Esski”

So, I grew up, washed my ears and neck, and wrote some more plays and a few books. I don’t know where I picked up the pseudonym “Volenda Esski.” Sometimes, I still find excuses not to write, but eventually I manage to find my pencil. I’m not collecting photos of movie stars anymore, but I still keep scrapbooks that have preserved some sweet memories.

My breakfast habits haven’t changed much. I still enjoy swimming, but can’t remember the last time I rowed a boat. And, I never “fight” with my friends. I’m still not afraid of spiders, and occasionally when I drop something, I realize that I have become almost as clumsy as my Father. However, I never dropped 8 dinner plates at one time. In all fairness, the seat of the chair he was standing on broke through. He was okay---the dishes---not so much.

Esther Blumenfeld (“It kills you to see them grow up. But I guess it would kill you quicker if they didn’t.”) Barbara Kingsolver