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

OLD STUFF

Years ago, I attended a lecture on a cruise ship. The speaker said that she was starting to downsize, but in the process of getting rid of things, she said that, for her, it was impossible to dispose of photographs. So, she came down into the audience and gave each of us a picture. She said, “Here’s a snapshot of my thumb on the Eifel Tower.” “Here’s one of Chiggers, the cat.” “Here’s one of crazy Uncle Harry.” She continued until she had given everyone in the audience a photograph. Then she said, “I can’t throw them away…YOU DO IT!”

I’m not a packrat, but I have friends who just can’t get rid of anything. I think they feel comfort in clutter. Why does someone who never cooks need five sets of dishes? Wendell Berry said, “Don’t own so much clutter that you will be relieved to see your house catch fire.”

For me, it was a rude awakening when I found one of my former dresses in a Vintage Store. That was a wake-up call. I realized that it’s time to admit that it’s not coming back into style, and unless I am invited to a costume party, it’s time to just let the old garments hanging in my closet go.

With some people, it’s not the unwearable that’s unbearable to toss---it’s paper---piles and piles of paper. Mountains of paper sometimes offer the misconception that you are accomplishing something. Computers notwithstanding, mistrust of technology finds comfort in paper back-ups.

Newspapers and magazines also tend to accumulate when, “I plan to read that article later.” Often “later” turns into never, and that’s when well-meaning relatives “helpfully” toss, while making some old codger miserable. When that happens, there’s the good chance that neatniks will be written out of the will.

It’s probably a good idea to let one’s heirs know what items are of monetary value and which ones are of sentimental value, because even if your daughter hates that painting that’s been in the family for years, she would be well-advised not to let the Picasso become a dart board for the grandkids.

I am genetically attached to my books, as was my Father. When he moved into a senior residence, he said, “ I don’t mind moving---as long as I have my books. My books are my portable homeland.”

There is comfort in the familiar and those things that conjure sweet memories, but certainly those old broken clay pots in the cellar don’t conjure sentimental memories unless you threw them at your third husband.

It’s good to slowly downsize as one gets older, but on the other hand, for those who are left behind to dispose of a loved ones worldly goods, it’s also important to remember that what is left behind is a sacred trust.  Even if it’s a knitted toilet roll cover, it should be disposed of with respect, and love, and care.

Esther Blumenfeld (You should be the boss of your mess.)

LOOK MA! NO HANDS!

In Tucson, the speed limit on Glen Street is 25m.p.h., and since there’s not much traffic on Glen, it’s tempting to drive faster than the posted limit. That’s when people find out that “the best automobile safety device is a rear-view mirror with a cop in it.” (Dudley Moore). Consequently, Glen is the only place where I ever use my cruise control, and for a couple of miles, my vehicle turns into a driverless car.

Self-driving, robotic cars are on the horizon, and experimental driverless technology is now being tested on public roads in Nevada, Washington, California, Florida, Texas and Arizona. A team of fifteen engineers working for Google developed self-driving cars. Sebastian Thrun former director of the Stanford Artificial Intelligence Laboratory led the team, and in 2005, the robotic vehicle won a $2million prize from the U.S. Department of Defense.

In 2014, Google presented a fully functioning prototype of a robotic car with no steering wheel or pedals. Their plan is to make these cars available to the public in 2020. Right now, we fly in computerized airplanes and sail in computer driven ships. Why not fully computerized, robotic cars?

For me, none of this is as terrifying as teaching a teenager to drive. When my son was 15, he was required to take Driver’s Ed in school. However, those cars all had automatic shifts, whereas, our new car was fashioned with a stick shift. So, for several days, I took my son to a church parking lot, and taught him to drive while manually shifting gears. He was in control.  I was not! After the third lesson, he said, “Mom, I think it’s time for you to let me drive in second gear.”

Since my husband had never manually sifted gears either, I had to teach him about the duties of a floor clutch---Foot on clutch to shift.  Shift will scream without a clutch----and, sometimes, the car will die in traffic when you fail to follow directions. That’s when I found out that a person really never learns to swear until he learns to drive.

As a kid, I learned to drive on the icy roads in South Dakota, the last State in the Union to require drivers’ licenses. It wasn’t unusual in those days to see 12-year-old children driving down a county road. Of course, with those little people driving, automobiles looked like driverless cars.

So far, driverless cars drive sober, so they have excellent safety records except when hit by nitwits. As long as humans are at the wheel, they cause 81% of all car crashes.

One issue still in limbo is the legal ramification of driverless cars.  Who do you sue? Even with a horse and buggy, the guy holding the whip was the driver. But then, there wasn’t any legal protection for the Wright Brothers when they took off on their first flight either.

 If you still are reluctant to own a driverless car, perhaps you might like a Cannabis Car made from hemp. A distant cousin to marijuana, this material is akin to a fiber-glass-like plastic. A photo of the beautiful, red car looked smokin’ hot to me! In 1941, Henry Ford unveiled the Soybean Car, but WWII derailed that car which was also constructed with hemp.

The day of driverless cars is coming.  If only, the inventors could make them fly. I can see it now---a driverless, hemp, drone automobile.

Esther Blumenfeld (“The shortest distance between two points is under construction”) Noelie Altito

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

RING-A-DING

“The bathtub was invented in 1850 and the telephone in 1875. In other words, if you had been living in 1850, you could have sat in the bathtub for 25 years without having to answer the phone.” (Bill Dewitt)

I have always had a love/hate relationship with my telephone, but it does have its advantages.  Fran Lebowitz said, “The telephone is a good way to talk to people without having to offer them a drink.” Happily, Caller I.D. makes it much easier to ignore unfamiliar phone numbers, and I figure if it’s important, the caller will leave a message.

This is generally true, but sometimes the message on my answering machine is not for me, because someone has dialed a wrong number. When that happens, I often feel obligated to call the person and let him or her know that the nurse called the wrong patient, that I haven’t scheduled a plumber, or that someone’s date is probably at the restaurant waiting for her.

I don’t know if I’ve been helpful, but I do know that people who dial wrong numbers have always managed to find mine. Not wanting to be interrupted (no matter what he was doing) my husband religiously refused to answer a ringing telephone. He never bothered to balance a checkbook either, but that’s another story. So before the advent of cell phones and Caller I.D., it was part of my job description to answer the phone.  

When we lived in Atlanta, The Atlanta Constitution was the large daily paper. However, there also were several small weekly newspapers. One of these weekly publications had an advertising section for alternative life styles, and also included phone numbers for Gay bathhouses.

Somehow, instead of the appropriate phone number, our home number was printed in one of these ads. So, naturally, I informed the editor of their mistake and he promised to rectify it in the next edition. In the meantime, I received lots of calls from prospective customers. The minute the men heard my voice, they knew they had the wrong number and were always polite and apologetic---but pleased when I gave them the correct number.

The next week, the number was put right in the paper, and all was quiet on the home front, until I received a call from the bathhouse proprietor who thanked me profusely for all the referrals.

Some of you will be pleased and some heartily disillusioned to learn that I volunteer every Tuesday morning at Democratic Headquarters, but it is a fact of life, so live with it!  Since I sit at the front desk, one of my duties is to answer the phone.

Last week, I answered the phone and a man said, “I have a strange request.” I said, “I have worked here for a long time. Believe me I’m used to some strange requests.  How can I help you?” He said, “I’m a Republican, and I can’t find the phone number of Republican Headquarters. By any chance, do you have that number?”  “Sure,” I replied. “Hang on, I’ll get it for you.” And, I gave him the number.

Ten minutes later, the phone rang again. It was the same man. He said, “They are so rude!” I can’t believe how rude they were to me.” “And,” he added. “You were so nice.” I said, “I’m sorry you had such a bad experience, but I hope you learned that Democrats are really nice people.”

In a previous column I mentioned that a woman called and wanted to talk to my husband, “the urologist” because her doctor had given her our number.  I told her that my husband was not a urologist, but she insisted that he was.  Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore and said, “Lady, my husband can’t even fix a leaking faucet.” She hung up.

Another lady, dialed my number several times, and she finally believed me that    no one named Gladys lived at my house. However, she called one more time to tell me, “You are the nicest wrong number I have ever called.”

Happily, because of modern technology, obscene phone calls are a thing of the past---unless you count political pollsters. 

Esther Blumenfeld (“How come wrong numbers are never busy?”) anonymous