MUSIC AND SOOTHING SAVAGE BEASTS

I was born into a very musical family. My father wooed my mother by playing the violin beneath her window. He played well enough that she married him, and happily they didn’t end up like Romeo and Juliet.

My mother had a beautiful singing voice (better than the one she used when she chased me around the dining room table, with her slipper, shouting, “Act like a lady!”  And, her father (my grandfather) was a concert-trained pianist, whose father had told him that he would disown him if he sought a musical career.

My little brother didn’t inherit much of the musical gene, but he enjoyed sliding down the banister, and jumping on the piano keys on his way to the floor. However, in middle school, he did play the bag bass drum in the marching band, which was bigger than he was.  The school couldn’t afford summer uniforms, so he marched in the summer parade in his winter uniform. All we could see was a big loud drum coming down the street behind two flatulent horses.

Unfortunately, a talent for music was not to be one of my gifts. My parents paid dearly for my piano lessons, but I wore out three teachers before they admitted that their daughter was a total failure as a pianist. I had a problem coordinating the keys with the foot pedals. It didn’t help much when after a ten-minute practice, my musical mother would yell from the kitchen, “That’s enough!  Go out and play.”

So, to help me develop an appreciation for classical music, my parents took me to symphonic concerts when I was a very little girl. I liked the “pretty music” but usually fell asleep before the concert was over. As a child, I felt like Woody Allen who said, “I just can’t listen to anymore Wagner, you know…I’m starting to get the urge to conquer Poland.”

When I was a pre-teen, I heard that there was going to be a local scheduled singing contest for children on the radio. I wanted to enter singing a simple popular song, “In My Little Alice Blue Gown.” Instead, my stern grandfather insisted that I sing “Habanera”, the most popular aria from Bizet’s opera, CARMEN. 

No practice had been scheduled at the radio station. When I handed the pianist music from the aria, he just looked at me and dropped ashes from his cigarette onto the piano keys. When it was my turn, the piano player and I started the musical experience together, and we mercifully ended the song together---but we hadn’t done too well in-between. When I got home, it was the first time I ever saw my strict grandfather smile---or maybe it was a grimace. To this day, I will never know.

I have always enjoyed music---all kinds of music. I enjoy Beethoven, Bach and Mozart, and I love jazz even though Frank Zappa said, “Jazz isn’t dead. It just smells funny.” I like country music, because I can make up some funny lyrics along the way, and I love going to the simulcasts of the Metropolitan operas, even though my tuchas (look it up) still can’t manage 8 hours of Wagner.

I occasionally sing songs in Hebrew to herds of deer in the mountains. I’m not sure they feel soothed, but they do pause, raise their heads, and give me soulful looks that seem to say, “You can keep it up, Lady, just don’t eat our food.”

Esther Blumenfeld (“For those of you in the cheap seats, I’d like ya to clap your hands to this one; the rest of you can just rattle your jewelry.”) John Lennon

MARY'S FOLLY

MARY’S FOLLY

My friend, Mary may have low vision, but she makes up for it with extremely high energy and enthusiasm. She hangs with a crowd of women who have no idea what “old” means, and they approach life with vim and vigor. They snub their noses at anyone who calls them “elderly”. 

One of Mary’s pals, Joan, recently had a hip replaced, so she suggested that her friends bring the cards and poker chips to her house, as she cried, “Let the games begin!”

Since Mary can’t drive, Gloria, her 92-year-old compatriot picked her up, along with another player, and they began the trek to Joan’s house, which is far, far away, on the other side of the moon. Bossy Mary took the co-pilot seat, and, although she can’t see that well, she played navigator all the way.

When they got to Joan’s house, and drove up the beautiful curving drive, Gloria said, “Look at that lovely yard. Isn’t it great how Joan’s husband, Buddy takes care of everything.”  The three women, of seasoned years, all got out of the car, carrying their bags of cards and poker chips, and rang the doorbell. After waiting for a few minutes, Mary rang the bell again.

Finally, the door opened, and a big man, wrapped in a white terrycloth robe, with his hairy legs exposed, said, “Sorry it took me so long, but we are in the shower.”
Mary said, “Oh, Buddy, you’re looking so good,” and she gave him a big hug. Whereupon she walked into the house and said, “Sorry, we’re early.”

Stopping her, before she could go any further, Gloria said, “Mary, that’s not Buddy. Buddy is a lot shorter than this man. We’re at the wrong house.” Happily, Gloria caught up with her before Mary got to the bathroom. After all, she wasn’t wearing a shower cap. 

I never did find out who was in the shower with that man, but I suspect that he is still in shock---standing there in his comfy robe, with his hairy legs sticking out---wondering, “What in the Hell just happened?”

Sometimes life is just like that.

Esther Blumenfeld

TALK TO ME

In Europe, most people speak more than one language. That’s because when you cross the street, you are in another country. Jarod Kintz said, “What does it matter if you can speak two or more languages, if you have nothing original to say in any language?” He might be right. Politicians all over the world speak gibberish in different languages. To paraphrase one American Congressman, I find those people “untrustable.”

Once, in the Houston airport, I had a conversation, in my fractured Spanish, with a woman traveling to Honduras. She said her flight was going to take three hours. If my Spanish numbers were wrong, that flight would take either 13 or 30 hours. Spanish is not the only language that I butcher. I speak menu French and can say, “Bonjour, Merci, Au Revoir and Toilette” Toilette is a most important word. When I was in Viet Nam, I asked a sales lady for directions to the bathroom. She couldn’t figure out why I wanted to take a bath in the department store. That’s when I found out that Charades is a very good game in any language.

Unless I am reading the words very slowly, Hebrew is still a dead language to me. But reading from right to left has to surprise my brain a bit---which is supposed to be a good thing. My German is the German language of a three- year- old child, because that’s when I was thrown out of Germany. I took German in college and brought tears to my teacher’s eyes.  I’m not sure if it’s because I used some words I had learned from my Grandmother, or because my linguistic skill was so bad.

When I studied conversational Spanish (for the third time) my teacher would ask me a question in Spanish. Then when I replied, she usually said, “Whoa! Where did you get that word?” And, I’d have to admit, “I made it up.” What’s the difference? No one usually listens anyway when people talk.  

English is one of the most difficult languages to learn. Yet, so many people, other than Americans, speak it well. George Bernard Shaw said, “England and America are two countries separated by the same language.” He was right. The English always sound so intelligent.  How smart are they? It was cold when I went to London, and I wanted to buy a sweater. No one knew what I was talking about. A saleslady finally said, “You want a jumper!”  I said, “I didn’t know you sold horses at Harrods.”
 
Here’s what I have learned about language:

1. Everyone has an accent. It depends where you are when you are speaking.
2. Toddlers can speak Chinese.
3. A foreign language is helpful, if you don’t want children to know what you are talking about.
4. For some people, speaking the truth is a foreign language.
5. Talking to teenagers is impossible in any language.
6. It’s fun to speak another language, and the more languages you speak the more friends you can make. So, learn a foreign language. It’s good for the brain and the funny bone—especially if you are misunderstood.

In a Budapest Zoo the sign read:
“Please do not feed the animals. If you have any suitable food, give it to the guard.”

In a hotel lobby in Bucharest:
“The lift is being fixed for the next day. During that time we regret that you will be unbearable.”-----However, I may add, not as much as the Superintendent of Schools in Arizona!


Esther Blumenfeld (“Ladies are requested not to have children in the bar.”) Cocktail Lounge in Norway

TAKE A HIKE

Ellen DeGeneres said, “My grandmother started walking 5 miles a day when she was 60.  She’s 97 now, and we don’t know where the heck she is.”
Finding Ellen’s grandma, not-with-standing, the U.S. Surgeon General, has recently issued a prescription for sedentary Americans to “take a walk!”

Driving 5 miles is a piece of cake. However, walking 5 miles takes a bit of stamina. Somehow, the recommendation to walk 10,000 steps a day became a goal of the gullible. Depending on your stride, supposedly 10,000 steps can be achieved on a 5-mile walk. The origins of the 10,000 steps recommendation aren’t scientific. The pedometers sold in Japan in the 1960s were marketed under the name, “Manpo Kei” which translates to “10,000 Steps Meter.” 

If it’s any comfort the CDC recommends 150 minutes of moderate activity a day. I know that I can walk at least 2000 steps back and forth to the refrigerator in that amount of time. I take great pleasure in hiking nature trails in the mountains. Of course, there is a difference between hiking and walking.

Hiking means; rocks, dirt, bushes, fresh air, and little gnats that fly up your nose. Hiking up a hill is tedious and slow, but it relaxes the mind when you focus on not brushing up next to a cactus or stepping on a rattlesnake. 

Walkers go on concrete, asphalt, gravel and sand. Hikers seek the natural environment. Walkers seek Starbucks. Hikers dress the part with sturdy boots, natural fiber clothes, hats with broad brims and walking sticks. Walkers look like everyone else wearing flip-flops and carrying water bottles. Hikers take essentials to deal with an emergency. Walkers take a house key and plastic bags for dog poop. Some walkers go around and around in shopping malls. They keep walking until the stores open. Then walking can get expensive.

Jogging is an annoying mutation of walking. It is an activity for people who enjoy sweating and pain. P. Jones said, “The trouble with jogging is that by the time you realize you’re not in shape for it, it’s too far to walk back.”

My recommendation for those who walk or hike or even jog is to stop once in awhile, and look behind you. The reason is, because, like everything else in life, you don’t really know where you are going, unless you appreciate where you have been.

Esther Blumenfeld  (“I like long walks, especially when they are taken by people who annoy me”) Noel Coward.

DO YOUR BEST

Wherever there’s a skill, there seems to be a competition for those who want to be recognized as the best at what they do.  There are contests in dance, voice, spelling, and even beauty, although I don’t think those contestants, in bathing suits, need as much skill as chess players.

A few years ago, I received a competition VHS tape from my window washer, Lou Bright. He is a member of the International Window Cleaning Association, and won a medal in the International Window Cleaning Contest. As a finalist, he had competed in three divisions: Speed, Skill and a Nine-Widow-Panel Obstacle Course.

The Obstacle Course is judged on accuracy and is very subjective like figure skating in the Olympics. A one-half point is taken off for every mistake. As I watched the tape, I saw the judges sitting directly on the other side of the windows. The contestants’ tools were: water, squeegees, and towels. 

The first was a Speed Contest and the judges watched closely from the other side of the three panel window, as some of the competitors squeegeed from top to bottom and others from bottom to top, knocking off water in record speed. A short speedy Frenchman won in no time flat.

The next contest was for skill. The judges placed their noses close to the glass, intently staring out, while on the other side, combatants duked it out one-by-one aiming for accuracy. No drip could show up in this contest (water not person). And, as each contestant finished, the judges disdainfully pointed out little spots of water to the disappointed washer. The last contest, an Obstacle Course, involved a nine-pane trick window with a recessed frame.

IWCA was established in 1989 by a group of window cleaners from Lubbock, Texas who determined there should be a voice for those working in the industry.   Allied with OSHA, the Association provides members with safety information. Now hundreds of window cleaners from around the world convene at the International Window Cleaning Association Convention and Trade Show.

In 2008, window washing attracted the attention of the Mechanical Engineering Department at Michigan State University. A team of students competed against schools from all over the world---including Carnegie Mellon, Hong Kong Polytechnic, and Colorado State. They won with their window-washing robot called “Winboni,” a tiny square robot that runs on AA batteries and attaches itself to a window with a suction fan. It moves across the window with powered wheels and scrubs it clean with felt pads.

When he won his medal, my friend. Lou Bright thanked his customers and his wife and dedicated his medal to his father, who had always encouraged him to “Be the best at what you do.” Lou is the best at what he does.  He is a happy man who enjoys his work.  It allows him time to ski in the winter, and he had the privilege of washing a window at the Eiffel Tower in Paris.  How many people can say any of that?

Esther Blumenfeld (“Be good at something. It makes you valuable.”) Randy Pausch