HOLD THAT THOUGHT

Okay! So yesterday I woke up with a case of laryngitis, and I sounded very much like an unhappy Bullfrog. Since I couldn’t communicate through my nose, and the Good Lord provided me with three other holes in my head, I had no choice but to use two of them for listening, and keep the other one closed until further notice.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow said, “The human voice is the organ of the soul.” Well, Henry tell that to a Trappist Monk. So, for the time being, I had to shut down my voice until I could find a cure for my ailing vocal cords. Not wanting to bother my doctor with silly stuff, I decided to Google the Mayo Clinic website, and see what their physicians recommended.

The Google Mayo doctors informed me that my vocal cords were stressed, and that the best cure was to keep my mouth shut. They also warned that whispering is even worse for the ailment than speaking in a normal voice. 

After drinking my fill of tea with honey and lemon, I decided to skip the lemon and add a shot of whiskey. It didn’t improve my croaking, but it did cheer me up---as did several friends whom I had e-mailed about my predicament. They called and suggested that perhaps I should take my frog act on the road. One friend suggested that faking laryngitis was an inventive way to avoid talking with people you don’t want to talk to.

Vincent Van Gogh made a suggestion that I found not helpful at all. He said, “If you hear a voice within you saying ‘You cannot paint’ then by all means paint and that voice will be silenced. Since the only voice I had was now in me, I remembered another time when I was in grade school and my inner voice had suggested that I wasn’t much of an artist. My teacher confirmed it when she looked at my painting and said, “That is the worst painting I have ever seen.” I suspect that Vincent would have turned his bad ear in her direction.

Life is not fair! Why do I have laryngitis while all those fool politicians keep right on talking? I’m sure that soon both time and whiskey-tea will take care of the problem. In the meantime, in my stead, please lend your voice to a good cause until I’m back in the saddle again.

Esther Blumenfeld---Speak softly and carry a big shtick.

Good Bye OLD FRIEND

My car has a new safety feature—ME! 

I’m not driving anymore.  After 85,000 miles, and 21 accident-free years, I decided to give up my little old Saturn as long as I could still find it in the parking lot. I did not want live to be so old that I terrify people, and I still take life one mile at a time.

A driver where I live forgot where she was going which is especially frightening when encountered with a road closure and a detour. I don’t like unexpected scenic views.

It’s not my driving that scared me—it’s those other people. For instance, a stop sign is more than a suggestion, and turn signals should not be a guessing game. Consequently, I always drove like I only have one life to live, and I irritated other drivers because I drove the speed limit..

I don’t look at giving up my car as a bad thing, but rather than I am just transitioning to a new speed. Also, I am very fortunate that transportation is available where I live. 

Of course, there’s always Lyft, but I don’t like it because my Mother always told me not to 
get into a car with a stranger.

Esther Blumenfeld

WHERE IS SHIRLEY?

I have a new friend named, Joyce. She told me that she took a minor tumble and hit her knee, but it was okay because her knee is made of titanium. I told her that she is the first person I have ever met who has a museum knee. The Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao, Spain, designed by architect, Frank Gehry is constructed out of titanium, glass and limestone.  As far as I know, Joyce’s knee does not contain glass or limestone. However, her knee did remind me of an adventure I had, on a cruise that arrived in Bilbao, Spain.

I arrived in New York a day before the cruise, where I met five women who would be sailing with me—two sisters and three of their friends.  However, shortly after I met them, one of the women fell and broke her arm, so now there were—two sisters and two of their friends. 
Unfortunately, one of the other women cut her foot on a piece of glass, and, because she was on blood thinners, she had to go to the hospital. Now, there were three women left—the two sisters and Shirley.

One of the highlights of the trip was our tour to the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao.  I remember that the outside titanium walls of the Museum moved when they were touched. I don’t remember any of the exhibits inside, but making a wall move with my hand was certainly memorable. After the tour, I returned to the ship with the other passengers.

The two sisters invited me to join them at High Tea at 4:00 p.m. where they also planned to meet up with Shirley.  All passengers were required to be aboard ship at 4:00 p.m because the ship was scheduled to leave at 5:00 p.m. 4:00 p.m. came and went, but Shirley did not show up, so after checking her cabin one of the sisters reported her missing.  Then  every ten minutes the announcements began; “ “Shirley, in cabin….please report to the Reception Desk.”
Then the rumors began, “Maybe, she jumped overboard,”  “Maybe, she was pushed”  Maybe, she was kidnapped.”

It was now 5:00 p.m and the tide was calling so we had to depart. A member of the staff got off the ship to search for missing Shirley. Finally, an announcement calmed everyone that Shirley had been found in Bilbao. What was not told was that she was found sitting in a hotel room where she had complained to the concierge that her luggage had been stolen.

Before the cruise,  Shirley had put a sea-sickness patch behind her ear, but being Shirley, she surmised that two patches would be better than one, and consequently, she began to hallucinate.  Naturally, after this mishap, Shirley was not allowed to re-board the ship anywhere, so her son-in-law had to fly to Dublin (our next stop) to pick her up.  Unfortunately, the weather turned bad, and the sea turned rough, so we weren’t’ allowed to enter the port, but the two sisters did wave a not-so-fond farewell to Shirley— as well as— her extremely rain soaked and  aggravated- looking son-in-law.

Esther Blumenfeld

CURIOSITY

Recently, someone said, “I don’t understand banks. Why do they attach chains to their pens? If I trust them with my money, why don’t they trust me with their pens?” I had no answer for his question, but I did immediately recognize the evidence of an inquisitive mind, since I have one myself.

Years ago, I was curious about how I could defend myself in a sticky situation, so I signed up for a self-defense class. The teacher was a burly, retired police officer. He wore protective gear while demonstrating how to raise a knee, break a nose and gouge an eye.  After I asked a few questions such as, “Wouldn’t it be easier just to give him my wallet?” and “Could I get sued if I hurt him?” the officer finally said, “Don’t ask. Just do it!”

After a few lessons, it was time for the final exam that involved throwing the policeman to the floor when he attacked me.  I took one look at the masked attacker, grabbed my purse and ran out of the building.  Yes, I flunked the course, but I did learn to always look behind me when someone is following me.  I have met the nicest people that way.

My son, Josh, is always dismayed when I talk to strangers, but I am just not good at building walls. The thing about walls is that I always want to know what’s behind them.  Every person is unique and has his, or her, own story, which---if you are a good listener--- they are usually willing to share. And, often, I can learn something of value. My goal is to learn one new thing a day, and, if I have done that, it’s an accomplishment.

For instance, when I see people looking at something on the hiking trail, I always ask, “What do you see?” They are happy to share the spotting of a deer hidden in the foliage, or a rare bird on a branch, or a snake sitting on top of a cactus. “How can a snake climb up there without getting impaled on those prickly spines?” Good question! Thick skin.

In my adventures, I have run into a variety of people. One day, I endeared myself to a scantily clothed, young woman, posing for a magazine photo, when I gave her a spritz of bug spray. I have bandaged a bleeding knee on a kid from Alaska, and I said “Hello” in Chinese (the only Chinese word I know that sounds like Knee How) to a woman doing Tai Chi. She followed me all the way back to my car chattering in Chinese. Needless to say, I didn’t learn much from that exchange, except that nodding sagely seems to work.

I usually ask camera-toting visitors if they’d like a group photo. The photo taker is always so pleased to be included in the picture. One day, I told a man to join the group. He said, “I don’t know those people.” So I said, “Well, get in the picture anyway,” and he did. Years from now, no matter how inquisitive they are, those people still won’t recognize him.

Children have an annoying habit of asking, “Why? Why? Why?” and adults have an annoying habit of replying, “Because. Because. Because” The children are curious, but eventually find out that parents don’t have all the answers.

As I get older, life gets, as Lewis Carroll said, “Curiouser and curiouser.”
With modern technology information is instantaneous. Unfortunately, too often, as Oscar Wilde observed, “The public have an insatiable curiosity to know everything, except what is worth knowing.”

There are so many questions still to be asked, and I’m sure many answers will be found, but sometimes people want to discourage those with inquisitive minds by recounting the proverb, “Curiosity killed the cat.”  However, few people remember that, “satisfaction brought it back.”

Esther Blumenfeld (“Curiosity killed the cat, but for awhile I was a suspect”) Steven Wright.

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