Wanted A Puppy. Got A Brother

“The highlight of my childhood was making my brother laugh so hard that food came out of his nose.” Garrison Keillor

I was nine years old when my brother, David was born. My father called and said, “You have a baby brother.” “Hooray!” I shouted into the phone. “Is he a boy or a girl?”

Now, some sixty years later, as I look across my kitchen table, I remember the boy, but see the man whose funny quips and gentle laughter remind me so much of our father. David is no longer the little boy who slid down the banister, jumped on top of piano, stomped on the keys---on his way down to terra firma--- bounced off the piano bench, and then ran like Hell to get away from our grandfather, the pianist.

His musical explorations continued when he fell in love with the big bass drum, and joined the band in grade school. The school couldn’t afford summer uniforms, so at the 4th of July parade, he sweated in his woolen uniform, valiantly banging on that enormous drum, while marching behind two flatulent horses.

Although my teenaged girlfriends swore that his first name was “Get out of here, David,” I acclimated to his mischief and mayhem. Most of his pranks were harmless, such as when he “borrowed” my lipstick to make himself up as a clown for Halloween, but I thought there was a limit to this sharing stuff when he gave me his chickenpox.

Most of his mischief was harmless except when he and his larcenous friend, Chuckie ran away from home, ended up on a farm and asked the farmer if they could “borrow a horse.” I want to think that Chuckie was the mastermind when they broke into our grandmother’s apartment, and ate all of the goodies in her refrigerator. David claimed that it was to teach her not to leave her window open when she was gone, because “burglars could get in.”

When he became a teenager, I was convinced that he would never be a successful criminal, because when he sneaked a smoke in the bathroom, he left a window open---just where Mother was tending her garden. Busted!

He grew tall and strong as he lifted weights in his bedroom. To this day, I don’t know how the weights left those deep indentations in his bedroom ceiling.

When he joined the Peace Corps in the 1960s, he was sent to a primitive area of Micronesia for two long years. The letters and audiotapes sustained us, but we knew his homecoming was overdue when a coconut fell on his head, and then he wrote, “I am looking forward to reading the Sears Catalog.”

I don’t know when my little brother became my big brother, but it happened. To the outside world, we have changed, but with our memories, stories and shared laughter we reach beyond the touch of time.

Once, when I was angry with my brother, I yelled at my mother, “You should only have had one child!” I didn’t mean it, but she considered it, and I’m sure if she had taken my advice, I would not be here to tell this tale. Once a Prince always a Prince!

Esther Blumenfeld “Big sisters are the crab grass in the lawn of life.” Charles M. Schulz

The Times Are A-Changin' (Bob Dylan)

Before my Father died, he asked me to destroy his diaries, but my niece wanted to keep them. No problem! No one could ever read them anyway. The early records were written in a German code. Even the Enigma Machine couldn’t have broken that cipher. His more recent English language diaries were scribbled in his unique handwriting that bore a strange resemblance to Egyptian hieroglyphics.

The only person I ever met who had worse handwriting than my Dad was my old hometown physician. When I presented his scribbled prescription to the pharmacist, I learned about the “curse” in cursive. I don’t know if doctors enter bad handwriting contests, but I was told that one directive was so unclear that a hospital technician called the physician for clarification. The harried doctor barked out, “X-Ray knows!” So they X-rayed the patient’s nose.

I recently read a newspaper article about the demise of cursive handwriting. Soon it will no longer be taught in public schools. Handwritten note taking has been supplanted by technology---laptops and tablet computers.

The word “cursive” comes from the Medieval Latin word “cursivus “(which means running). It is also known as “script” where symbols of the language are co-joined--- running writing. Teaching cursive writing to young children encouraged hand eye control, and I assume the brain was involved in there somewhere. Now, when kids text messages, they have thumb control, and I’m not sure where the brain fits in.

Technology is a wondrous thing, but since everyone’s signature remains personal, and is different from everyone else’s, how will people, who don’t write in cursive, sign legal documents? I guess with digital creep, they will have to resort to signing with a big “X” again the way people did before they learned to read and write. But then, a signature could always be validated with DNA if you spit on the paper

So if kids can’t write in cursive, will they be able to read documents written in curlicue letters such as the U.S. Constitution or the Declaration of Independence? Sadly, I assume there won’t be any more beautiful letters from loved ones that can be saved and cherished.

History gave us some really busy letter writers. Napoleon Bonaparte had to rest his hand in his jacket after reportedly writing 75,000 letters in his lifetime---many to his beloved wife, Josephine. Stamps must have been cheaper in those days. Now, an e-mail love letter can be sent to several girlfriends---all at the same time for free.

It used to be, that the only person who’d read your mail (other than you) would be the mailman. Ours would deliver cards and letters from my grandparents, who escaped the Nazis during WWII, and got to London just in time for the Blitz. My proper grandfather tried to write in English and sent us a postcard that said, “Everything is fine, but we don’t have much intercourse.” I think he meant socially. Until now, my family and the mailman---not the whole world---enjoyed his blunder. Isn’t technology amazing!

Esther Blumenfeld (“I’m Gonna’ Sit Right Down and Write Myself A Letter.” Johnny Mercer)

Happy Birthday To----

I’ve never understood why some people don’t want to celebrate their birthdays. When I say, “Happy Birthday!” instead of saying, “Thank you,” they whine, “Don’t remind me.” So, my usual snappy comeback to this insipid response is: “Well, I for one, am glad that your parents had sex!” That horrifying thought usually brings them back to reality.

I enjoy celebrating my birthday, and thanks to my imaginative family and friends, the festivities often last the entire month of May. Getting older is inevitable, so my motto is, “Have fun while you can.” I get a kick out of those sappy cards sent to me from out-of-town friends, and of course, the touching sentiments from my son and daughter-in-law always make my heart sing.

My in-town friends feel the need to take me out for lunch and dinner. This activity usually includes their devious plan to order a slice of cake that arrives with several forks. Not wanting to burn down the restaurant, the cake arrives with only one candle. Jerry Seinfeld says, “You know you’re getting old when you get that one candle on the cake. It’s like, ‘See if you can blow this out.’” It’s bad form to spit on the cake when blowing out the candle. I usually make a wish such as, “I hope they remember that they all are on diets,” but my wish never comes true. What’s a little taste among friends?

According to the Guinness Book of World Records, “Happy Birthday To You” written by the Hill sisters in 1893 is the most recognized song in the English language. That’s because it only has four words, and you can usually remember four words even after having a couple of glasses of hooch. The only challenge is to remember the name of the person you are singing to. 

One year, five waiters in a Chinese restaurant sang to me as “Dear Lester.” Do I look like a Lester? Some people don’t want others to know how old they are. When asked, I like to tell people that, “I am 95 years old.” That way people will always tell me that I look really good for my age.

Recently, a young woman suggested that for my birthday, as a gift to myself, I should begin computer dating. I am willing to try new things, but that’s not one of them. With my luck, a former jailbird would contact me, and for our first date we’d knock over a bank.

Larry Lorenzone reminds us, ”Birthdays are good for you. Statistics show that people, who have the most, live the longest. So take a page from my book and enjoy your special day. It only comes around once a year.” Jack Benny said, “Age is strictly a case of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.”

 Esther Blumenfeld (“How old would you be, if you didn’t know how old you are?”) Satchel Page

Connect The Dots

 Yesterday, a woman asked me, “What do you think about when you go on those long mountain hikes all by yourself?

Those who know me well would never ask, because they are familiar with the quirky ruminations that go on in my mind. Sometimes when I start talking, one of my friends will say, “Where did that come from?” I’m not always sure where it came from, but I know I will end up writing about it somewhere.

However, hers was a fair question, and deserves the best answer I can muster. So follow my thought train as I hit the trail at 6:30 a.m., and see if you can figure it all out.

The first thing I thought was, “Be mindful!” It is the mantra of my 90-year-old friend, Betty. She says it when she gets behind the wheel of her car. I thought it because the rattlesnakes are coming out of hibernation. Since nothing rattled or slithered across my feet, I sang, “The hills are alive with the sound of music,” and proceeded down the path. I stopped singing because I forgot the rest of the words and had scared a couple of rabbits.

Then I thought about the Dutch airliner that flew from New York to Amsterdam with 25% of its fuel consisting of waste cooking oil from fried Louisiana Cajun food. I made a mental note to ask an attorney if smelling fried crawfish and cracklins while munching on pretzels (while sitting in a cramped seat on an airplane) is cruel and unusual punishment. All kinds of strange things happen on airplanes. My friend, Marilyn, a flight attendant, caught a passenger trying to buckle a seatbelt around her Chihuahua.

When I reached the top of the mountain, enjoying the spectacular view, my thoughts flew from up in the air to down under---literally under the ground. I wondered about a cemetery in Spain that is threatening to evict those who are buried there, if they don’t pay for the lease on their burial sites.

Why would a dead people care if they were evicted? I’ll bet that the dearly departed wouldn’t give it a second thought if they were arrested, bone cuffed and sent to jail.

Returning to the dirt path, I pondered that, “An apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, unless you’re in a hurricane.”

So what did you expect me to think about? Maybe something interesting such as, “Are those people jogging or is that girl chasing that old man down the street?”

Maybe someday I can connect all of these thoughts and write a story about them.

Anything is possible.

Esther Blumenfeld (Okay, so what’s the speed of dark?” Steven Wright)

Backing Up

I have never liked class reunions because they are too much like jogging backwards. I prefer remembering my classmates, and the good times we had, frozen in my memory, as they were those many years ago. Bennett Cerf said, “Middle age is when your classmates are so grey, wrinkled and bald they don’t recognize you.”

A reunion is “an assembly of people who have been separated.” Sometimes the separated part is a really good thing. My husband’s high school was in a very tough mill town. “BYOB” was written on the bottom of his reunion invitation. He said, “They want me to bring my own bottle for the fight after we all get together.”

I enjoyed my high school years and have stayed in touch with a few old (and getting older) chums. However, in many instances old friends are like old shoes. Some just don’t fit anymore.

Instead of attending my high school class reunion a few years ago, I paid $25 for a video of the reunion. It was the best $25 I have ever spent. I watched people I didn’t recognize milling about, and wondered why one of my classmate’s mother attended our reunion. Then I realized it wasn’t her mother---it was she! I watched a fellow, who used to play “Blue Moon” on his trombone, try out his skill as a hypnotist. He tried to hypnotize 10 people in the front row. I dozed off immediately, but when I woke up 20 minutes later, he finally broke into a sweat and gave up. He should have stuck to the trombone.

I pulled out my old yearbook to see if I could recognize more of those people on my video, since some of them had probably scribbled, “Best of Luck” in it, and told me that I was “Swell.” A few of them might even have spelled my name right. The photos were of young kids. I didn’t want to see even one recent photo or hear about the arrest record that accompanied it.

Our past class president, a really nice man, was suckered into planning the reunion. Mr. Google provides several hints to making this kind of get-together as painless as possible. Here are some of the Google suggestions:

 1.   “Look for memories. Ask people to tell stories about someone that left a mark on you.” This could be very rewarding or cause a lawsuit.

 2.    “Remind people of old friendships.” Just remember that some people choose to forget and some people have no choice.

 3.     “Talk about old songs or sporting events.” It’s easier with a six-pack.

Kurt Vonnegut said it best: “True terror is to wake up one morning and discover that your high school class is running the country.” I prefer keeping sweet memories in my mental museum.

Esther Blumenfeld (I’m not who I used to be, but my earrings still fit.)