UNFORGETTABLE (Part One)

My Father, Rabbi Karl Richter died ten years ago at 95 years of age, but his kindness, indomitable spirit and keen wit are still woven into the memories of so many people whose lives he touched.

In 1939, as refugees from Nazi Germany, my Father, my Mother and their toddler daughter (me), settled in the foothills of the Ozark Mountain, where he became the Rabbi (teacher) of a small congregation in Springfield, Missouri. Being proficient in six languages, he had also studied a bit of English in high school. Luckily, he also had the gift of a photographic memory, and memorized the English Dictionary aboard the ship that brought us to the United States. However, none of that helped with the pronunciation of English words, and I am sure that his congregants depended more on faith than lucidity to get them through some of Dad’s first sermons.

After his first eulogy, at the funeral of a Mr. Goldberg, the President of the congregation told Dad that, “For future reference, Mr. Goldberg was deceased, not diseased.” Oh, that English language!

When invited to the home of a synagogue member, the lady asked my Dad, “Rabbi, would you like a piece of the store bought cake or the home made?” And Dad replied, “Thank you.  I think I’d prefer the house made.” Dad knew he had to improve, but didn’t know where to turn until he discovered the American motion picture.  For thirty-five-cents he could improve his vocabulary. However, one day the President of the congregation took him aside and said, “Rabbi, why do you snarl like the gangster actor, Edward G. Robinson?

On December 7, 1941, at 7:55 a.m, on a bright, peaceful sunny morning in the beautiful Hawaiian Islands, Japanese planes sank or damaged nineteen American ships, and 2,300 human beings were dead. The United States declared war on Japan on December 8^th, and on December 11^th, Germany and Italy declared war on the United States of America. That morning the phone rang at our home and the chief of police informed us that we were enemy aliens, and had to come to his office to register.  As soon as my Father hung up the phone, it rang again.  It was the Mayor, who was calling an emergency meeting and asked Dad to serve with him on the Civil Defense Committee. Dad explained, “I’ve just been classified as an enemy alien.” The Mayor said, “Hogwash! In Missouri, we know our friends.”  Dad became an air-raid warden, and when the siren blew for “Black-Out,” he put on his helmet and patrolled his assigned area.  He had to make sure that there were no lights turned on in the cemetery.

We left Missouri, when Dad was offered a pulpit in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. That, too, was a small congregation and my Father was the only rabbi in the entire State. Adjustments were to be made. The President of the congregation wore a cowboy hat and boots, and when pheasant season coincided with the High Holy Days, men left their shotguns outside the Synagogue door.

Esther Blumenfeld—(To be continued)

ROCK AND ROLL (Part Two)

Before we left the party, we wanted to thank our host. We found him sitting on the steps with a screen door lying across his lap. W.S. couldn’t resist saying, “I hope you didn’t strain yourself,” but it didn’t matter because I got the feeling that Walker didn’t recognize us anyway.

We found our car and W.S. slid into the passenger seat.  “I think you’d better drive,” he said.  “I really don’t feel very well. I’m never going to dance again!” “You don’t think that maybe you drank too much of that Tijuana Tequila?” I said. “Just get me home,” he moaned.

“Okay,” I said. “Point me in the right direction.” I pulled off the gravel road and onto the expressway. There wasn’t much traffic, so I kept saying to myself, “I can do this. I can do this.” And W.S. kept burping.  Then I spotted the light behind me. “If I didn’t know better,” I said to W.S., “I’d think that car is following us.”

“Slow down and let them pass,” he groaned. I slowed down. The car slowed down. ”They aren’t passing,” I said, and observed, “It isn’t a police car.” I was driving the speed limit, and although we still had an Indiana license plate on our car, I knew we were well within the time limit to obtain a California plate.

“Pull off!” W.S. shouted, “I’m going to barf!” I drove down the next exit off the expressway, and the car followed us. By now, my hands were glued to the steering wheel. My husband was going to toss his cookies, and the only weapon in our car was an umbrella.

I stopped. The car pulled up beside us. I grabbed the umbrella, and W.S. threw open the door. A sailor rolled down the window in the other car, and shouted, “Hey, where are you from in Indiana?” W.S. stumbled toward them, and let go with a green stream of vomit all over the side of their car.

I could imagine the guy mumbling, “Oh, Yeah, that place,” as they sped off. Miraculously, 30 minutes later, I pulled into our garage that we shared with our neighbor. Very considerately, W.S. missed their car when he let go one more time. He knew that he’d have to get up very early to clean up the mess before they woke up. After all, we had just moved in and this was not a good way to meet the neighbors.

I helped him up the stairs and left him sitting on the bathroom floor. Three hours later, I handed him a bucket of soapy water and a mop. Chastened, he slunk down the stairs toward the garage.

Later, when we met our neighbor for the first time, he said, “I can’t believe it. I have never had neighbors who wash a garage floor. My side of the garage looks even better than yours. Thanks a lot. Do you wash cars?”

“Nope,” answered W.S. “We don’t mind dirty cars. Just can’t stand a filthy floor.”

Esther Blumenfeld, CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld, c. 2006

                                   The end

                                  EPILOGUE

I was happy to share CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT with you.  It has not been published, but now has been read.  If I learned anything from writing this book, it’s the certainty that people who value their lives no longer ask me to bake a pie for the potluck. Now they realize that my expertise is limited to mixed nuts.

ROCK AND ROLL (Part One)

Our furniture arrived four days after the scheduled delivery time. After much bumping and scraping and dropping, we were left with our damaged goods, and the name of a local fellow who would come to our apartment to repair the cracks, scratches and dings.  

His name was Walker, a retired jockey from Chicago, who looked as if he’d been thrown one time too many. When he finished the touchup job, he invited us to a party at his home in the desert area of Escondido. We had only just arrived and were already invited to a California party. What fun!

W.S. drove and I played navigator, which got us there one hour late. The party was already in full swing. We could hear the music as we turned down the gravel path. Walker galloped toward us sweating, shirtless and astride a very large horse. “Aloha,” he bellowed, as he escorted us to his house that was ablaze with lights and jam-packed with partygoers. Spying the suckling pig on a spit, I realized that we had stumbled onto a luau in the middle of the desert. A bearded stranger tossed a garland of flowers over my head and led us to the bar. I later learned that he was “Izzy, the journalist.”

Dr. Katz, the veterinarian, handed each of us a tall glass of a sweet green concoction, and said, “Welcome to tequila from Tijuana.” W.S. downed his drink quickly and asking for a refill, said, “This is delicious. I can hardly taste the alcohol.” I took one sip, put down the glass, and said, “Go easy with this stuff, you could end up with the worm.” W.S. wandered off toward the buffet table and promised to bring me something to eat if I would save him a seat.

The band was set up near the swimming pool. Stuffing my ears with Kleenex, I sat on a sofa as far from the music as possible. Izzy brought me a soda and sat down next to me. I could see his lips moving, so I removed the Kleenex, “Sorry.” I said, “Could you please repeat that.” “You just moved to California, right?” he asked. “Yes,” I replied. “You want to know my theory about people who move to California?” he said. Before I could say, “No,” he continued---“People come here to die. It’s the end of the road. They can go no further.”

Wishing that I had left the Kleenex in my ears, I replied, “People can always catch a plane to Hawaii.” Since W.S. hadn’t returned, I left morose Izzy slumped on the sofa and headed toward the buffet table. By now, the drinks were flowing and the noise level had gone up several decibels, so I stuffed my ears again.

Finding the food, I piled up my plate and headed toward the patio to watch the dancing. It was out of character for W.S. to miss a meal, so I wondered what had happened to him. It didn’t take long to find out! There on the dance floor, was my non-dancing husband doing “The Twist” with a curvaceous South American beauty, whose pony tail hung down past her southern hemisphere. Then I spied an extremely muscular man flexing his abs while shooting visual daggers at the gyrating couple. I didn’t know if he was upset because she was his girlfriend, or because he was a dance aficionado and W.S. was dancing like a pretzel.

When the band took a merciful break, Juanita and W.S. lurched over and she said, “I grabbed this handsome man because I just knew he’d rock my socks.” Removing the Kleenex from my ears, I looked at her bare legs and four-inch- high heels and said, “He’s a sock rocker all right.” She bid us, “Adios,” and joined the seething big guy.

“See that man over there?” I asked W.S. “Yes,” he replied. “You are lucky he didn’t kill you,” I said. “As a matter of fact, I’m lucky he didn’t kill you because I’d never find my way home.” And I added, “You might want to stop drinking that stuff, because you are turning greener than the punch.”

He claimed it was the dancing, but admitted that he was starting to feel a bit queasy, and we decided to go home. By now, Izzy had jumped into the swimming pool with his clothes on, and I hoped he wasn’t planning on drowning himself before we left. Dr. Katz was laying spread out on top of his car. He was sick as a dog----(To be continued.)

Esther Blumenfeld, (CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT) Blumenfeld c. 2006

MOVING ON

After much consideration, W.S. decided to accept a civilian job working for the Navy. I didn’t care where we moved, as long as being downsized didn’t involve a firing squad. The job was located at the Naval Base in San Diego, California, one of the most beautiful cities in the United States. They were paying our moving expenses, so we purchased new furniture to go along with our new life, and recycled our college furniture back to the Salvation Army.

All of our friends were packing and looking forward to actual lives in the real world. Professor Seltzer donated his entire library to the university. He had read those books, and was on his way to Florida, where he planned to spend the rest of his days fishing off a boat named, “The Criterion.”

We hired the, “Get You There In One Piece Moving Company,” and the salesman assured us that their movers would treat our worldly belongings as lovingly as if they were moving their very own families. A week later, as soon as the truck was loaded, we began the 5-day drive across the U.S. in our 12-year-old Volkswagen Beetle.

W.S. assured me that the apartment he found for us was nicer than anything we had ever lived in before. “It’s airy and bright. The rooms are large, and it’s close to my office.” What he failed to tell me was that after looking at several apartments around town, the brakes on his rental car had failed. He would have gone over a cliff, but instead he had hit a dumpster at this particular apartment complex. It was then that he decided that, since he couldn’t go any further, this was the place we were going to call home.

After the first day of driving, eating catch-as-catch-can food, and experiencing gas station washrooms, I started whining, “Are we there yet?” W.S. told me that if I didn’t stop complaining, he’d turn around, go back to the university and enroll in law school.  I stopped!

We made pretty good time in our little Volkswagen, until we got to Texas. As soon as we crossed the border, we got stuck behind a rickety truck on a no-passing-zone stretch of highway. The driver was obviously in no hurry, because you can’t hit a fence post with a beer bottle while driving fast.

His cheering section, six, inbred, toothless progeny of first cousins, were sitting in the open bed of the truck, and they were facing us. For miles and miles, they stared at us, with the same familial expressionless expression. Unless W.S. wanted an encounter with the Texas Highway Patrol, he couldn’t pass that truck. Fortunately, I could look at the sky, but he had to keep his eyes on the winding road and stay alert for beer-toss slow downs.

The driver finally drove off the highway onto a dirt road. The fellows in the back of the truck belched their “goodbyes,” and two days later we arrived in San Diego. I was very happy that the brakes on W.S.’s rental car had failed at this particular apartment complex, because the grounds were beautiful and our apartment was bright and breezy. Since W.S. was now a Ph.D., I proudly taped, “Dr. W.S.” on our mailbox. Life was going to be conventional. W.S. had a nine-to-five job, which paid enough so I could finally concentrate on my writing. Now, all we had to do was to wait for the arrival of our furniture. Life was changing. “Normalcy” was the operative word.

There was a knock at the door. I opened it, and a young man said, “Is the doctor in? I have boils!”

Esther Blumenfeld, CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld, c. 2006

THE CITY OF GOOD HERBS (Part Two)

As I crossed the street, I suddenly felt a vice-like grip on my right elbow. “Help me across the street, Girlie,” croaked an old woman. She wore a long black dress, woolen fingerless gloves and a man’s felt hat. She was coated with bird poop. It was the infamous, “Pigeon Lady.”

Everyone in San Francisco knew about her. Devoted to the pigeons in Union Square, she fed them breadcrumbs, and then stood as silent as a statue, as they perched and decorated her with their droppings.

First the weird egg guy, then the fallen man/woman, and now the “Pigeon Lady,” who smelled like a fowl potty.  Halfway across the street, we saw a policeman directing traffic. When I heard her yell, “Hey, Joe,” and loosen her grip on my arm, I shook her off and sprinted away.

After I returned to the hotel, W.S. informed me that we had been invited to a reception and private showing of the works of Salvador Dali.  I had just enough time to comb my hair and sponge off the right sleeve of my jacket, before we hurried out of the hotel to hail a taxi.

It was beginning to drizzle, and we felt very fortunate when a cab pulled up. W.S. shouted the address at the driver, who didn’t turn around to acknowledge our presence, but since he started driving, we assumed he knew we were there. His photo said that his name was, “Youssef,” and his scowl announced, “Don’t mess with me!”

After Youssef ran his second red light, W.S. noticed that his emergency light was blinking. “Your emergency blinker is on,” said W.S. Without a reply, Youssef’s head suddenly disappeared into his lap. “Where are you going? I screamed. “Looking for the switch,” Youssef replied. “Well, come back up here to do it,” I said.

By this time, Youssef was driving 50 miles and hour, up and down San Francisco’s hilly streets with his head in his lap. W.S. calmly said, “Youssef, why don’t you wait until you drop us off to find the problem?” “Okay,” said Youssef, lifting his head.

By now, other drivers noticed the blinking light, so every time a car passed us, a helpful driver would yell, “Your emergency light is on.” Whereupon, Youssef would shout something back about spitting camels or mother/son relationships. All we wanted to do was to get out of that cab. Finally, we arrived at our destination with a screeching halt. Youseff’s head disappeared toward his clutch, W.S. threw a $20 bill onto the front seat, and we stumbled out of the cab whooping, “Hello Dali!”

Passersby merely shrugged and assumed that we were a couple of loony locals just enjoying Yerba Buena.

Esther Blumenfeld, CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006