ADJUSTING THE REARVIEW MIRROR

Recently, when I stumbled upon my Kindergarten report card from 80 years ago, I remembered how much I had been looking forward  to first grade. That must have been the case because my Kindergarten teacher wrote, “Esther is a bad rester!”

After that, I was always in a hurry for the next years to come.  I was never just 6-years-old.  I was 6 (and-a-half) 7 (and-a-half) or 8 (and-a-half).  Then at 14, I looked forward to 15 and that magical path to freedom called a Driver’s License.  A few years later, my 21st birthday offered legal voting and drinking booze (not necessarily in that order.)

I celebrated my 21st birthday as a student at the University of Michigan. A restaurant called “The Pretzel Bell” offered a free pitcher of beer for the auspicious occasion. Not especially liking beer or being much of a drinker was no excuse not to gather a group of friends, stand up on a table, and chug-a-lug a mug or two.

The problem was that I had a date that night, with a very nice fellow, who had blown a wad of cash on tickets for the opera, “Aida.” He offered to call a cab because of the inclement weather,  but I said, “Oh, No!  Let’s walk.” I sobered up enough to sleep through the opera with my eyes open.

At 22, I was married to a different fellow named Warren, who had been devoutly opposed to blind dates, but his Aunt had said to him, “All you have to do is take the girl out. You don’t have to marry her.” He married me out of spite!  Several birthdays just slipped by as I worked to help my husband pay for graduate school, and then move from place to place as his career flourished. Suddenly, my 31st year arrived, along with motherhood. Then my years were measured by our dear son, Josh’s accomplishments. And, of course, the years slipped by all too quickly.

However, during this time I had managed to establish myself as a free-lance journalist with steady work, including two full time humor columns. My 50th birthday marked the publication of OH LORD I SOUND JUST LIKE MAMA written with my friend, Lynne Alpern.  It made several best seller lists and sold a quarter of a million copies. Our second book came out the same year (that is another story). When our 7th book was published I was 57 years old.

Then, I retired at 58 (and-a-half) and we moved to Tucson, AZ. However, life took a cruel turn when my husband died two months after my 62nd birthday. For a year, my creativity lay dormant until a woman suggested, “Why don’t you write a book on widowhood?  You do it so well.” That snapped me out of my Zombie state. All those years ago at Michigan, Professor Rowe had advised me to continue playwriting. It was time to take his advice.

At 67, my first play, HERE AND THERE had a two month run on the 45th anniversary of the celebrated Detroit Repertory Theatre. At that time, I said to Josh, “I think that’s it.”  He replied, “No, Mom. You have another play in you.” So, when I was 72, my second play, UNDER MIDWESTERN STARS appeared at the Kansas City  Repertory Theatre featuring a Broadway cast, and a Director, and an Emmy Award winning set designer—both from Los Angeles.
When a journalist from the Kansas City Star asked me, “How could you have written a play at your age?” I said, “I’m not too old to dream.”

When I was 76 my third play, FATHER’S ASHES” won two awards and had a staged reading at the Scottsdale Center for the Performing Arts in Phoenix, Arizona.When I was  82-years-old, a staged reading of UNDER MIDWESTERN STARS was finally held in my hometown.

Now, I am no longer 84 (and-a-half ) because on May 3rd, I will celebrate my 85th birthday. Some people live a life with their glass half full. Others live a life with their glass half empty.  Frankly, I am happy just to have a glass—while appreciating every precious moment— of every passing day.

Esther Blumenfeld

IT AIN'T VENUS

The last time I had a physical exam, my Doctor, poked my leg and said, “You have a Vascular Malformation. Doe’s it hurt?” I said, “It didn’t until you poked it.” He told me that I should show it to my Dermatologist. “She’ll zap it with a Laser.” I followed his advice and she said, “I don’t zap. This could cause a serious problem if it bursts. Does it hurt?” I replied, “No, unless a doctor  pokes it.”

My Dermatologist then sent me to a Cardiologist  who specializes in hearts and veins.
When she said he was a “vein” Doctor, I thought, “He must be full of himself,” but it wasn’t that kind of vain.

The Ultrasound Technician told me I had a “Venus  Cluster.”  It sounded so beautiful. I said,” If a man has one, do you call it a Mars Cluster?” He said, “It’s not that kind of Venus.” I still like my Venus better than his Venous. Then, I met with the Doctor (who wasn’t full of himself) and scheduled my surgery.

The receptionist said, “There’s a cancellation in two days.  Do you want it?” Of course, I wanted it. Who wouldn’t want to avoid more Venous poking? The receptionist then told me to get to the surgical office thirty minutes early, if I wanted  to take a Valium. I said, “I don’t take that stuff!  I am loopy enough on my own.”

I arrived on time and took the elevator to the second floor, and was taken in for the procedure. the Ultra sounder, the Doctor and two nurses were ready for me. First the Doctor and the Ultra sounder traced the veins in my legs to see which ones led to the Cluster. Of course, being me, my veins went every which way and more so. Finally, they found a good path.

The Doctor kind of deadened the area when he inserted the needle, but no one warned me that he was going to set my leg on fire. I jerked and almost kicked his face.  He shouted, “Don’t move. You might dislodge the needle.” I froze in place. Everyone seemed so pleased when he was finished—especially me! He said, “It’s working. See, the cluster is turning pink.” Then, of course, he poked it, and said, “It’s getting soft.”  Suddenly, pink became my favorite color.

After he left, the nurse put a long support stocking up my leg, and then wrapped tape around a hard boomerang she had placed above my knee for added compression. I was instructed to keep it there for 48 hours.  I was given directions not to lift anything over 15 pounds, so I won’t buy two gallons of milk  and a box of cookies anytime soon. Also, I was not to exercise or walk up and down hills for two weeks. However, I was encouraged to walk for 30 minutes a day.  Heavy duty Ibuprofen became my best friend.

The first night I wrestled with a pillow trying to put it under my leg. I lost the pillow when it fell on the floor, and then I couldn’t find my leg.

Seven more days and I can remove the compression stocking. I hope that the next time I see the Doctor, he won’t poke around and find Jupiter.

Esther Blumenfeld

LOOK WHO'S TALKING

When I was sequestered in my apartment during the pandemic year, I had many illuminating conversations with myself. The upside is that I tended to win most of the arguments. Even though I was relatively sane, I also talked to inanimate objects. For instance, when I found my misplaced cell phone in the pantry, I said, “What are you doing in here?” However, even though it’s a phone, it didn’t answer me.

I must admit that at times I also shouted at my television set. Not really!  However, I screamed at the news pundits appearing on my television set. They never yelled back at me, but sometimes the TV set did rebel.  On occasion it would go to a black screen and challenge me to go to a different “TV input.” That wasn’t one bit calming!

Now, that I have had my Moderna shots, I am free to don my mask and  get out and about. Happily, I can talk to anyone within listening distance. When I entered Walgreens for the first time I gleefully cried out, “I am back! It’s the first time I have been here in a year.” The clerk hid under the counter and whispered, “We missed you.” I think she was just being kind, because I had never seen her before. The fellow at Ace Hardware was more sincere when he handed me a toilet plunger and said, “Welcome back!”

When I entered the grocery store I felt as if I was entering Tiffany’s. Although I had always appreciated the grocery home delivery service, it felt good not having to tip myself. For a year, once a week, I drove my car for twenty minutes to exercise the battery, but I never went anywhere except back home. I always apologized to my little Saturn. It got even with me by killing the battery.

For several months, until the beauty shop in my residence re-opened, I cut my own hair. When my son Josh saw me on Face Time he said, “Mom, you are looking more and more like the Beatles.” And, I hoped it was more like Paul than John.

During the  pandemic, it was a great consolation to be able to take walks around the beautiful property, and I enjoyed joining some other early bird walkers, but we all wore masks and stayed 6 ft. apart from each other, so most of the conversations were a muffled, “What did you say?”  It was exhausting.  I did enjoy when I walked by myself and  could talk to an occasional deer, rabbit or road runner on the path.  The coyotes never stopped long enough to even look at me as dinner. However, it was disconcerting when two big, long tusked javelina ambled toward me. When I shouted at them, they ignored me and kept on coming until they reached their familiar path, looked at me with great distain, and walked away.

Slowly, things are starting to return to normal and I am able to have dinner with friends who live in the residence.  All of us have had our shots and the atmosphere is relatively normal. The only problem that presents itself is that now my conversations include more people than myself. So, I’d better develop some engaging conversation, and learn not to interrupt myself while talking.

Esther Blumenfeld

HAUTE CONTAMINATION

In case you hear some tramping going on in your neighborhood, not to worry!
It’s not Big Foot. Inspectors from your local Environmental and General Services Department may be checking out your recyclable bins. In Tucson, AZ they will be checking out the bins at 24,000 homes for four weeks looking for prohibited materials. Doesn’t that sound like fun?Imagine finding Grandma’s false teeth in an empty box of Cheerios. If, in four weeks, the inspectors discover more yucky stuff in your discarded newspapers, all those beautiful plastic bins will be removed and sent to recyclable Hell.

China used to take all of our recyclable materials, but in 2018 they got upset about something and will no longer accept our waste. So, we are on our own for millions of tons of waste, and contamination is costing lots of money. It’s pretty obvious that dirty diapers cannot be recycled. Neither can a dead skunk, which if reincarnated, has already been recycled once.

Therefore, it’s probably a good idea to bury a deceased animal—unless it’s a very small goldfish. Perhaps, then, a discrete flush down the commode would be acceptable (depending on the owner’s attachment to “Fred The  Fish.”) Tucson’s fire department will pick up a live rattlesnake and release it into the desert, but not too far from home, so it can find its way back.

When my son, Josh was in 4th grade his class assignment was to collect an assortment of insects. Josh received an award for the best variety of bugs which he had recycled from our swimming pool filter.

It’s not surprising that soon we will see Dolphins jumping out of the ocean wearing masks. Those masks that are now keeping us safe are polluting our waterways. “A mask can take as long as 450 years to break down.” Ah, for the good old days when all we saw tossed off of boats were cigarette butts and beer cans.

I know that recycling plastics, paper, and other discarded approved materials can help preserve our earth for future generations. However, I do resent it when someone takes someone else's work or ideas and recycles them as their own. But, looking at the positive Benjamin Disraeli said, “Plagiarists at least, have the merit of preservation.”

Esther Blumenfeld

UNEXPECTED RETURNS

These Covid-19  months have been extremely difficult for everyone—some people more than others—and finding something to laugh about has been a real challenge. Sometimes, nothing seems funny anymore.  However, I have found that memories that have been well stored, and filed away, tend to pop up unexpectedly when I think about a subject to write about. For instance, how often in life has an unexpected event provided a laugh? Well, given a choice it’s always better to laugh.

Many years ago, my grandmother had forgotten to put away a tube of shoe polish after polishing her shoes in the bathroom. The next morning, my Uncle Harry began to brush his teeth. To paraphrase Gertrude Stein, “A tube is a tube is a tube!” Admittedly, Uncle Harry’s mistake wasn’t as serious as confusing ear-drops and eyedrops (or drinking them), but one should beware of the inappropriate use of medications.

My Mother (the sister of the uncle with black teeth) was told by one of her friends that the cream used to shrink swollen hemorrhoidal tissue, when applied under the eyes, will also shrink those eye-bags. So, standing at the bathroom mirror, she began to apply the cream under her eyes—just as my Father walked past the bathroom. He took one look at what she was doing and said, “Dear, I think you are applying that at the wrong end.”

My brother (the son of these two people) knew that our parents frowned upon his smoking cigarettes. He was a teenager and naturally had to try a cigarette, so, one day, he went into the bathroom, opened a window, took a few drags and blew the smoke out of the window—right over Mother’s head as she was picking flowers. His smoking days were over.  It helped that he threw up.

It is always an unexpected pleasure to run into a friend from home when traveling to a foreign country.  One day, at Heathrow Airport, my Father recognized a man whom he had met somewhere, so  he gave him a heartfelt greeting. Turns out that it was Walter Cronkite, and he had met him on our living room television set.  

When in New York my husband, Warren and I got on an elevator with Isaac Stern.  Warren shook his hand and expressed his admiration for the famous violinist.  After we got off the elevator, I said to Warren, “My, God!  How could you shake hands with Isaac Stern’?  What if you had broken a finger or something?” He looked at his hand, and replied. “ My fingers look okay to me.”

Shortly after that experience, Warren was invited to lecture at the University in Mexico City. My Spanish is halting.  His Spanish was nil. He knew that an interpreter had been assigned to him, but was convinced that no one would show up. So, in Spanish, he titled his presentation, “There’s a Dead Horse in My Bedroom.” Students were lined up around the block.

Uncle Harry talked better than he listened. One afternoon he decided to sun bathe on the back porch of our house.  He had forgotten that Mother was hosting her group of Mahjong playing ladies, until he heard them entering the front of the house. He, and his jock strap, had no choice but to let the chips fall where they may as he streaked past them.  Afterwards, all he could say was, “I hope they noticed my gleaming white teeth!”

Esther Blumenfeld