LOWER THE MOAT---WE'RE HOME (Part One)

The dreaded day arrived when our clogging neighbor’s back healed, and she returned to her nightly overhead thumping. Our lease was up for renewal, and the landlord had decided to raise our rent beyond what we could afford. Although we dreaded the thought, we knew it was time to pack up and move again.

The apartment situation had gotten worse. The places we looked at were either too expensive or too dreadful to contemplate. Everyday after work, I packed a few boxes of our meager belongings, but had no idea where we were going to live. We had to give a one month vacate notice, and our situation was getting desperate.

One day, W.S. announced, “This is ridiculous. I am going to drive around and find us a place to live. If an old lady can live in a shoe, certainly I can find us someplace.” “I’m not living in footwear,” I shouted as he drove away. Three hours later, my hero returned and announced triumphantly, “I found us a place!”

So began our adventure at the Princess Garden Apartments on Kingdom Drive. The Princess Garden Apartments didn’t start out as apartments. The owner built the 20-unit strip as a motel, but when the neighbors in the residential neighborhood took him to court because of a zoning violation, he transformed the motel into apartments. Fortunately, W.S. arrived the day an end unit became available, and he grabbed it.

Kingdom Drive was a short street that dead-ended at the Princess Garden Apartments. Each apartment had a little walkway that led to the front door. W.S. warned me, “The rooms are kind of small, but it’s cozy,” as we stepped into the apartment. On the left was a living room big enough for two chairs and a coffee table; on the right was a kitchen that contained a very small bar sink, an even smaller stove, and a baby refrigerator. The bathroom had a toilet, a shower and a Lilliputian sink.

“Wait until you see the bedroom and study,” said, W.S. Actually, the bedroom was big enough for a double bed---assuming whomever slept next to the wall didn’t mind crawling over the person sleeping next to the entrance. And, technically, it wasn’t two rooms. It was one small room separated by a louvered wall, so when the light was on in the “study,” it gave the illusion of sleeping in a room with bars---kind of like being in a cozy prison cell. We squeezed a desk, a card table chair, a small television set and a battered Salvation Army sofa into that room.

“It’s stuffy in here,” I said. “Please open the window.” “Can’t, W.S. replied. “What do you mean, by ‘Can’t’” I asked. “They don’t open,” he replied. “But we can open the doors.” Turns out that our former motel-now-apartment had long-lasting, sturdy, inoperative Thermo pane windows, but it did have a front door and a back door. With all that said, it was, however, a cute little place and very quiet. Our neighbors were all graduate students whose main objective was to finish their course work, graduate, and escape.

The landlord never came around, not even to cut the grass, which grew as tall as a field of wheat. Occasionally, he’d send someone around to hack it down with a scythe. W.S. loved to sit amidst the stalks of grass, book in hand, waving at passing cars shouting, “Turista! Turista!”

One day when the scythe man arrived, our neighbor began screaming, “Stop him! Stop him! Don’t let him start chopping the grass. I’ve lost my toddler.”

Esther Blumenfeld (To be continued---)

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld, c. 2006

JOINED AT THE HIP

Brenda and Barry wore matching navy-blue windbreakers with detachable hoods. If he had his hood up, you could be sure that hers would be up on her head and firmly tied under her chin. They held hands and walked lockstep wherever they went. As a matter of fact, Brenda told me, “We do everything together.” I didn’t care that she insisted on sitting next to him at my dinner table, or that they answered questions in unison, but it was her tone of superiority that irritated me, because W.S. and I knew we’d go nuts if we had to do “everything” together.

After dinner, she joined me in the kitchen as I was making coffee, and I spilled some grounds on the floor. “Don’t you hate it when that happens?” I asked, wiping up the spill. “Oh, that never happens to us when we make coffee,” she replied. “You make coffee together?” I said. “We do everything together,” she smirked. Then she began the mantra of togetherness; “We do dishes together. We do laundry together. We clean house together. We grocery shop together. We bank and post office together. We pay bills together.” I interrupted, “You don’t go to classes with him, do you?” “No,” she replied, “but I bring him his lunch and we eat together.

“Come on, Brenda,” I teased, “surely, there’s something you do on your own.” “Not really,” she said, “but,” she whispered, “He is going to do something without me.” Relieved, I asked, “And what’s that?” “You can’t tell anyone,” she said. “Promise, and I’ll tell you.” “Okay,” I won’t tell anyone except W.S., because I don’t keep any secrets from him, but you don’t have to worry because it’s exams week and he never listens to me during exams week.” “Well, you know,” she began hesitatingly, “that Barry’s father is a rabbi.” “Yes,” I replied wondering what this has to do with anything.

“Is Barry going home to visit his parents without you?” I prodded. “No.” she replied, “He wouldn’t do that!” “Then what is it?” I asked, running out of patience. “He’s going to be Santa Claus.” I looked at her. “We need the money. The department store is hiring for Christmas. Barry will have time between semesters, so he’s going to be Santa Claus.” “And you couldn’t do this with him.” I said. “I tried.” she sadly replied, “but they weren’t hiring any more elves.” She brightened when I said; “You can always go sit on his lap if you miss him.”

A few weeks later, we spotted Brenda and Barry strolling across campus. They were still wearing those windbreakers, but it was a nice day so their hoods were down. “So,” I said, conveniently forgetting my promise, “how was the Santa gig?” Brenda gave me a dirty look, but Barry just laughed and said, “It was fun. The kids were cute. I only got spit-up on twice. I did have one unusual experience.”

W.S. perked up, “What was that?” “A mother brought her little boy for a photo-op with Santa. He sat on my lap, and I gave him the usual, ‘Ho, Ho, Ho, and how old are you?’ and he said, ‘I am five years old.’ ‘And have you been a good little boy this year?’ I asked. He looked at me and hesitatingly said, ‘Yes.’ And then I asked him what he wanted me to bring him, and he listed a dump truck, a football and some game I had never heard of---and some books. ‘His mother kept saying, ‘Morris, smile for the picture,’ but the kid wouldn’t smile, so I whispered, ‘Is there something you’d like to tell Santa. You know you an tell me anything.’ The kid hesitated, looked at his mother and whispered into my beard, ‘Santa, I’m Jewish.’ ‘That’s okay, kid, I replied, so am I.”’ Barry told us that the kid had a big grin on his face, his Mama was happy, and Santa had earned enough money to buy a couple of matching parkas for winter.

I wondered, years later, when Brenda was in labor giving birth to her third child, what she really thought of all that “togetherness.”

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006

STRANGERS IN A STRANGE LAND

June and Bubba were from Mississippi. Bubba wasn’t his real name. I think he was the third Richard in his family, but he didn’t want to be known in graduate school, as “Richard the Third,” so everyone called him Bubba. He was the quintessential Southern gentleman, who loved his “bourbon and branch”--- and having a good time--- in equal doses. But anyone who mistook his easy manner for slow thinking was sorely mistaken.

As many a New Yorker has found out to his chagrin, the attorney or businessperson with a Southern drawl is nobody’s fool. As a matter of fact, Southerners, who want to lay it on thick before cinching a big deal, have been known to whisper to one another, “There’s room for only one Good-Ole-Boy at this party.”

Whenever we’d scrape together enough money to go to a restaurant, June was the person we’d ask to make reservations. Her honeysuckle voice, and that charming accent, always got us the best table in the house.

There’s a Southern tradition that every home should have a gun and a dog. I don’t know if they owned a gun, but they possessed one heck of a dog. As a matter of fact, Caballero was the biggest dog W.S. or I had ever seen. When we would go to their apartment, Caba would bark, fog up all of the windows, and then wag his tail. W.S. would always say, “I don’t know which end to trust. You go in first.”

Caba was too much dog for a mansion, let alone a small apartment; but he was considered a member of the family, so he had the run of the place. His playthings were everywhere, and June thought he had an ample supply of toys. However, she found out that she was mistaken on the day that Caba brought home a policeman. He had knocked him off his motorcycle. She had to repeat over and over, “No, darlin’ dog, you can’t keep him.”

None of us had the luxury of two cars, so usually Bubba dropped June off at work before going to campus. However, one day he had to drive to the other side of town early, so she volunteered to take the bus.

 It quickly turned into a blustery, rainy day. After waiting for 30 minutes, struggling with an umbrella (which had blown inside out) June was visibly relieved when the bus finally arrived. The door opened, and she shouted, “Are y’all going south?” And the bus driver replied, “Obviously, not as far as you want to go, Honey.”

It isn’t easy being a stranger in a strange land.

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006

THERE'S SOMETHING FISHY GOING ON (Part Two)

As the old saying goes, “Good Things Come in Threes.” W.S’s and Dick’s research presentation in Savannah, W.S’s birthday, and the NCAA final four all converged on the same day. Dick and W.S.’s presentation had gone well. So, the three of us scheduled dinner at a beautiful restaurant to celebrate.

I hadn’t had time to go shopping for a gift, so I asked W.S. “What would you like for your birthday?” He took a deep breath and said, “Do you know what I’d really like? I’d really like it if you and Dick would go out for dinner so I could order room service, stay in, and watch the basketball game on television.”

“Okay,” I said. “It’s your birthday.” Dick and I went to one of the priciest restaurants in town. “It’s on W.S.” I said, as we toasted the absent birthday boy. We had a fine time. Dick had never eaten soft-shell crab. He had eaten crab, but never soft-shell crab. Is there a difference? You betcha!

When we returned to the hotel, W.S. thanked us profusely. His team had won, he had gorged himself with Southern Fried Chicken, and gushed, “This was the best birthday I have ever had in my whole life!”

After a bit of chitchat (mostly about the game), Dick bid us adieu. As we were preparing to turn in, we received a frantic call from him. “My head is swelling and my face is really red. No, I think it may be turning purple.”

We rushed across the hall to his room, and sure enough, our friend had a red pumpkin head and was now itching---really itching---as hives started popping out all over his body. “I think you are allergic to something,” said W.S. “What did you eat?” “Soft-shell crab,” cried Dick and I in unison. Actually, I said it. By now, Dick had trouble moving his lips.

“I think we should call a doctor,” I said. But Dick was adamant: “NO DOCTORS!” “Okay,” I responded, “Let’s try some Benadryl and baking soda. I have some in my suitcase.” As I was leaving, I heard Dick mumble, “She carries baking soda in her suitcase? “She works at a high school,” said, W.S. “It’s part of her tool kit.” Actually, baking soda is cheaper than bubble bath and good for the skin.

I made Dick promise to take the Benadryl, soak in a tub filled with water and baking soda, and if that didn’t help, to please call a doctor. He promised he would. I didn’t sleep all night, and neither did W.S. because I kept poking him and saying, “Do you think he’s all right? Shall we call him? Do you think he’s dead? What do you think? “I think,” said W.S. “I think that I am very glad we delivered our paper before dinner,” and then he rolled over and fell asleep---one more time.

The next morning Dick was a good as new. He said that the Benadryl had knocked him out and after a short period of scratching, he had a marvelous night’s rest. “You had better stay away from soft-shell crab,” I said. “But I really liked it,” he replied. “How do we know it was the crab?” I replied, “We know, because you turned into a mutant, and if you ever eat that dish again, and it doesn’t kill you---I will!”

Little did I know then, that the creatures of the deep weren’t quite finished with the three of us, so oblivious to what the future would bring, we returned to Cow-town, Indiana undaunted and unafraid.

 Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006

THERE'S SOMETHING FISHY GOING ON (Part One)

Dick England owned a mountain in North Carolina. It had been in the family for generations, but he hadn’t been there since he was a toddler. “It isn’t much of a mountain,” was all he could remember his mother saying about the place, but he had a yearning to see it. So, a week between classes, he flew to North Carolina, rented a car, and drove to England Mountain.

Dick and W.S. were working together on a scientific paper concerning some research they were conducting, and it had been accepted for presentation at a professional meeting in Savannah. The day Dick returned from his trip, he came to our apartment for a study session. Naturally, I was eager to hear about his adventure, so I ran to the door when he knocked.

“Don’t ask!” he said. Undeterred, I said, “No way! I want to know what happened.” “Well, my Mother was right. It isn’t much of a mountain, but when I got half way up the hill, someone started shooting at me.” “You’re kidding!” said W.S. “I would not joke about bullets whizzing past my head.” “What did you do?” I asked. “I hid behind a tree and yelled, Stop shooting. It’s Richard England. This is my mountain. Dammit!”’

He then told us that the shooting stopped as abruptly as it had begun. “But, I stayed behind that tree until I saw a little old lady walking down the road flanked by two of the biggest, meanest looking men I have ever seen in my life, and all three of them were smoking pipes and carrying shotguns. As they got closer, I stepped out from behind the tree, and the old lady said, ‘Why, if it isn’t little Dickey England. You certainly have growed. We thought you was the revenoorers.’”

That was when Dick found out that his mountain was a haven for bootleggers, and he had almost stumbled onto one of the many stills in the area. Not wanting to go blind, he turned down a swig of rot gut, and when the old woman told him that “the young’uns are growin’ a crop down the road a spell,” he decided not to ask what they were growing, and bid them a forever fare-the-well. England Mountain was obviously a bastion of free enterprise, but “Little Dickey” didn’t want any part of it.

Since the scientific paper had been accepted for presentation, a few months later, W.S. and Dick were off to Savannah to report on their research. Naturally, I tagged along.

As the old saying goes, “Good things come in threes.” Their research presentation, W.S.’s birthday, and the NCAA final four all converged on the same day. Dick and W.S. got their presentation out of the way quickly because their session was right before dinner and all the scientists were too thirsty for cocktails to ask too many questions. The three of us had scheduled dinner at a beautiful restaurant to celebrate. (To be continued---)

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006