A Laborious Labor Day--1952

I finally got my MA from Columbia's Teachers' College in June of '52, and so now with a family with two babes, it was time to go to work. I applied to many schools before graduating, and I finally settled on Cranford H.S. in New Jersey where I was hired to teach 9th grade English at a salary of $3000 a year. Not even close to my lifelong goal of making at least $100 a week. I always thought $100 a week would be the "ultimate". I'd be rich. I was wrong. Actually, I'd be poor...very poor. Well, poor may not be the right word for 2007. Destitute or homeless would be more accurate. It shows that you should be careful of what you wish for. It might turn out to be a very bad genie.

I was due to start teaching right after Labor Day, so the wife and I got the babes into the car during the summer and drove to New Jersey in order to find a place to live. We did find something we could afford in South Orange. It was an attic apartment that was at the top of a very long flight of crooked and rickety stairs. When we finally arrived up there without the benefit of oxygen, we found that the floor in the living room was somewhat tilted toward the kitchen, and that if you weren't careful, you could slip and slide all across the room into the kitchen stove. It would help if you wore golf shoes with spikes. But this was the best place we could find on our limited budget.

When the time came in September we had to hire a van to ship our furniture and other belongings from the Bronx to our new home in Jersey. And so it was on Labor Day that we left the Bronx forever. The bad news on that day was that there was a driving rainstorm for most of the day, and driving was quite hazardous. But we arrived safely and we each carried a kid up the stairs after we said a "barucha". And while I was climbing this long flight with Robin, age 2, in my arms, I kept thinking of the myth of Sisyphus, a character in Greek mythology who, because of his wicked deeds, was sentenced to perpetually roll a large boulder up a mountain peak, only to have it inevitably roll back down into a valley. And that's how long and terrifying this climb into our apartment seemed to be; and how my life seemed to be up until that moment. I vowed never to let Robin roll back down those stairs. Y'all have a Happy Labor Day.

How Old or How Young?

Today two people in our family had birthdays: Jeffrey Cohen, and Sabrina Ross. Jeff is Rhoda's son-in-law, and Sabrina is Bobby's wife--my daughter-in-law. Now Jeff is 40 something and Sabrina is...well I can't say. It wouldn't be gentlemanly. The question is if you ever want to ask someone's age, shall we say, "How old are you" or "How young are you"? I never heard anyone say the latter, but perhaps we ought to start doing that. If someone would ask me how old I am, I'm afraid I would wince. I would prefer to have been asked how young I was. However, if my answer were 83...for example...it would appear to be ludicrous. Also, I often wonder how many people actually have a happy birthday after they've been wished that. Take one of my own sons; he shoots pool every Friday night. It so happens that his wife had a birthday on a Friday night, so being the good wife that she is, told him to go shoot pool as usual. Which he did. When I spoke to him on the phone, I asked why he didn't take her out to dinner, at least. This was about 10:30 pm. He relieved my angst by saying he was on his way home and was going to take her out to IHOP for a late night birthday. I guess the best thing to have done, had I known , would have been to wish her a Happy Birthnight. How happy it would turn out would be up to her to say.

Now, Jeff didn't go anywhere today or tonight. He and Renee, Rho's daughter, stayed at home with the two girls, Allyson and Ilana. Now I believe Jeff still had a "happy" birthday because he was all lit up with the thought that Ilana might make the Varsity Soccer team at the high school. Ilana just started the 9th grade. I'm kind of leary to have her play at the varsity level as a freshwoman; I've been involved in soccer as player, spectator, and coach for 67 years and I don't think she should play at that level. Jeff is not really aware of the kind of play involved at the varsity in high school. If Ilana does not succeed in playing against girls older than she is, she may lose interest and lose confidence. That's been my experience with ninth graders on the varsity; but of course, all of my experience has been with the boys.

To Be Perfectly Honest

Hi Friends, neighbors, relatives, and whoever...sorry I could not enter a blog for yesterday; I tried playing golf for the first time in several weeks. It was my usual Wednesday "Dogfight" whereby each golfer in the tournament shells out five dollars for the pot and then has to make a certain number of points above his handicap in order to win some money. Birdies are 4 pts., pars are 2 pts., and bogeys are 1pt. If you score two strokes above par on any hole you get no points. So the guy who scores the most points above his handicap can win $$$. So, happens that I was "Plus 6" over my handicap and I got $15 for second place. The winner was +7. If you don't understand golf, I'm sorry you had to read this paragraph. Start over with the next one.

So, on with my apology; I said I "tried" to play, meaning that I wanted to see if I could finish 18 holes without pain in my legs and shortness of breath. The last time I played, I had to quit after 8 holes because of those problems. But this time it was much cooler weather and I gutted it out. However, I did not have the requisite energy to sit down and write a blog. So Rho and I went to a movie at the clubhouse. It was a foreign film set in East Germany titled "The Lives of Others," telling the story of how the Stasi (secret police) kept records and spied on any of its citizens it suspected of having sympathy or ties with the West. The good thing about it was that it had English subtitles so I did not have to wear any hearing aid devices.
It was so easy to follow the action that I have considered the possibility of only going to see foreign films for the rest of my life.

When I got back to the apartment and tuned into my e-mail I was startled by my daughter, Robin's news that she had teamed up with her lifelong friend, Riza, to buy a 325 acre ranch in Montana. Attached to this email were about 25 pictures of the place. I did not see any sheep, cows, chickens, horses, goats, pigs, or buffalo on the spread. So, I don't know how money is to be made in this investment unless they secretly discovered oil on the place. And besides, I don't know how two Jewish girls from Long Island can wind up being ranch hands in the wild, wild West. So, in spite of my reservations (no pun intended), I wish them the best of luck. I know I'm not the one who's going to be mowing 325 acres or shoveling up cow dung. While I was at my cardiologist's office today for a pacemaker check I saw on the TV they had a commercial that said there were 40 acres in Wyoming selling for $2000 an acre. I thought about the cost of 325 acres and decided I couldn't afford it.

Along with Robin's news, another email from a literary agency to whom I sent a sample of one of my poems, asked me to send them 3 more so their editors could judge whether a book of my poems could sell in the marketplace. Of course I already published my poems, but I was the "publisher". Lulu was a very convenient online place for someone to get their work published without having to pay money up front. To be perfectly honest, I just paid the printing costs for each book I ordered. Since those costs were expensive I only ordered copies for my children and a couple of other relatives. My primary aim was to get 13 months of hard work trying to remember as many events as I could (at my age) onto book form. I always wanted to write a book, but was not satisfied to have it come out of my PC printer and into a 3 hole notebook. And the book that I received was just unbelievably rewarding just to hold it in my hand and know that I accomplished something for my family and future great grandkids...if any! To continue being perfectly honest, I still own all the rights to my work and if an agent wants to put some of it out there in the market, it's OK by me, but I'm not going to pay them a dime. And now off to Costco to buy some gefilte fish for Rosh Hashanah and 7 guests.

Balls of Fury?

Balls of Fury? Huh?

Today is Tuesday and on Tuesday afternoons there is always a film to be shown in our Theater of the Performing Arts. (A little too pretentious, don't you think? I don't believe too many of our performances have been artsy, so to speak.) At any rate the film for today is "The Lives of Others". I never heard of it, but since Rhoda is going out to play cards, and I'm alone, I thought it would be a good idea for me to get out of the house to see a movie but I had misgivings about that one. So, I went to our old reliable internet movie review site, "Rotten Tomatoes" and found that the film had 95% great revues, and that's where I'll be this pm. It's a foreign film made in Germany with English subtitles, and since I read better than I can hear, I don't have to wear my hearing aids for this one. Wonderful.

But the funny thing I discovered on "Rotten Tomatoes" was a new film called "Balls of Fury". It's listed as a "huge comedy" with "tiny balls"! Of course, this piqued my curiosity and upon further investigation I learned it was a movie about PING PONG! Ping Pong?? I can't believe there is finally a movie on ping pong after all these many years of waiting for a tiny ball movie. Now, I'm not really an avid maven on that table game, but it just so happens that my downstairs neighbors, fairly new to Huntington Lakes, Bill and Bev Berger are nuts about playing a game with tiny balls. They usually play in a tiny ballroom in the tiny clubhouse.

They probably don't know that the movie is coming out this week because they are in San Diego on hiatus, most likely to recover from the strenuous sweaty activity acquired in that "sport". At any rate, I have sent them an email about it, and I'm certain they will be so thrilled, they'll rush out to celebrate with martinis, another activity they relish indulging in. When they return, Rho and I will be happy to join them at a movie featuring tiny balls. After all, ...it's only fair...for many years, we've been bombarded with movies about big balls.

Happy Birthday Kids

Thursday,August 25, 1955: We visit the doctor, whose name I cannot remember, and whose whereabouts are now shrouded in the misty past; he had us in so he could examine Thelma and could, like Merlin of Camelot, predict when the baby would be born. His ever-to-be-remembered statement that on this Thursday was his day to "look for twins" culminated in his peroration that "No; just one big baby". We thanked him for his delusions and gleefully suggested to each other on the way home names of boys and girls. There was no way back then to tell ahead of time the sex of the fetus. At least I don't remember there being a device that could do that. I suggested Cleopatra for a she, and Marc Antony for a he. However, Cleopatra Ross didn't seem to work too well, and Marc Antony Ross came out much better as Marc Antony Rossi...or Rossetti. My ex suggested Ambrosia for her and Meritritious for him. And so on and on with our naming game until the moon went down.

Saturday, August 27, 1955: I'm at home taking care of 5 year old, Robin and 3 year old Joel. Thelma is in the hospital with labor pains. And I'm very busy trying to find the most effective TV program that would entertain the kids for a few hours while I trod back and forth in the hall waiting for a call from the doctor. Finally, after what was an interminable wait--similar to waiting for your PC to boot up--the phone rang and this is the conversation as it truly happened: Me: "Hello"...MD: "Hello, Norman?"....Me: "Yup, what's new?"...MD: "Well, your wife gave birth, and she's OK."...Me: "So what have we got--blue or pink?"...MD: "Guess what."....Me: "Boy?"... MD: "Yes...and what else?"

After that bit of dialogue, complete silence. I found it difficult to breathe. And "What else?" This was worse than the briefing before a combat mission. And what else? What else could it be but another baby...or two...or three. Of course we had baby stuff left over from the first two kids, but now only one crib and one carriage, and one stroller. (No car seat). I could not visualize how we were going to fit five cribs into one small room for quintuplets. Even before I answered the doctor's "what else" question, I vowed right there and then to get a vasectomy on Sunday. With much misgivings I uttered, "Twins?" The doctor announced proudly that we did indeed have fraternal twins. Now, we really had a problem naming the babies. I decided that they had to rhyme so without any further discussion they were called Bobby Lou and Bonny Sue. And what's what they are today.

The "kids" are 52 years old now and both have had successful careers. I am so very proud of them. Bonny's son, Sean is now twenty-four and Bobby's daughter, Katrina is twenty. Bonny is the entrepreneur of a dog grooming business, Bobby is a crack Harley Davidson sales agent, Sean is an accomplished surfer and artist, and Katrina is a motorcycle mechanic. The one glitch in this story is that the twins are separated. Bonny is in California and Bobby is in Virginia. I wish them both a very, very Happy Birthday. And it just so happens that the stars and planets are honoring their birth today. Mars will be as close to Earth tonight than it will be again in umpteen thousands of years. Who could ask for anything more?

Bad Dog! Bad Dog!

I've come to the conclusion that having a computer is like having a bad dog in the house. I can't recall when I first summoned up the courage to go out and purchase one. I really got tired of hearing this dot com and that dot com on TV commercials, wondering if this world were passing me by; something like my getting off the train and watching it disappear in the distance. I had no clue as to what dot coms meant, and I thought a web site was something that a spider cooked up, if you don't mind the mixed metaphor. Anyway, I got my first computer from Gateway. The sales clerk was very helpful in answering all my questions and I had a knowledgeable friend and neighbor help me set it up. Let me say that the experience was totally nerve wracking. Opening the cartons, taking out the instructions half of which were in Japanese; half of which were in Spanish; and the rest in English. Untangling the wires, finding a place for the computer, the monitor, the printer, the microphone, the mouse, the speakers. If it were not for the good auspices of my neighbor I would have flagellated myself, pounded my chest, and screamed like Tarzan.

After awhile, I became somewhat good at turning it on, and gradually advanced my computer skills from that point. Now, in the past few years I've gone through three computers. The first one died from electric shock, and the second passed away during Hurricane Wilma. Now I'm on my third and I'm getting quite adept at fighting back all the glitches, error messages, and strange behaviours that keep popping up inspite of popup blockers. A computer is like a pet in the house...a dog...but a bad dog who often doesn't do what you tell it to do. Of course, it won't sit up and roll over, but very often will play dead. Just when you get rolling on writing an email or surfing the net...(See, I know the jargon!)...it "crashes". Then you have to figure a way to wake it up. Control; Alt; Delete.... Restart. Restore point to last week. You're a bad dog, but we love you.

One of the most delightful of features on the computer is the one where you "chat" with some techie to see if he/she can help you to navigate some web page or correct some problem or other. I've chatted so often with techies from LULU, my book publisher, that we've gotten to know each other and we've sort of bonded. I was curious as to where the chatterboxes were, and was amazed to find they were from Oregon, N.Dakota, N. Carolina, Australia, and Pakistan...for a few. I cannot figure out how they were all hired from so many disparate locations, and how they were able to respond to my questions and problems. Could it be from computers in their homes?

I'm only kidding. My computer is a "good" dog, without whose company, I could not be writing books and blogs.