GETTING OLDER SUCKS

 

 

I'm really getting angry at Nature? God? Since I got off the last cruise ship I've been attacked by a bout of pneumonia, urinary tract infection, and now COPD--one after another. And since I have been cabined, cribbed, and confined, I've decided to return to Red Baron's blog as an attempt to relieve my frustrations and depression.  I realize, of course, that I may have lost all my readers and comment tators, but perhaps I'll get them back. There's more to come, but now I think I'll go watch THE MENTALIST.



"I am not a teacher: Only a fellow traveller of whom you asked the way" (George Bernard Shaw)

When I was coaching track and field at North Shore H.S. I had a young man on my team who ran the 100 and 220 yd. dashes, and the last leg on our championship mile relay team. His father was my doctor, but that fact in no way affected the magic of my relationship with Bob Marsden, a champion in every possible way and in any arena. And recently we have been in touch through e-mails. After Bob graduated in 1968, I don't remember ever seeing him again. Among other messages, the following is one that gave me the great satisfaction as a former teacher and athletic coach. Bob has been reading my "Memoirs of a Tail Gunner" and apparently has reached the description of my 80th birthday celebration. However, it was not at my birthday that I received remembrances from former colleagues and students. It was at a "tribute" part;y held in Glen Cove some time later that had been arranged by Debbie (Benson) French, a student I always loved. And I copy Bob's e-mail to me:

"Reading "Memoirs" today and it is winding down...the 80th birthday celebration, February 27, 2004 which I was not able to attend due to (another)financial melt-down that was all too common in the Marsden-Randall household as we too, were winding down. I recall the event as Debbie (Benson) French (daughter-in-law of Principal John French) sent out letters of petition to those dear to Doc to please send in some accolades of remembrance. That I did. As I'm reading these tributes from a booklet at that party from colleagues and from "real" students who actually had the tracked-intelligence and privilege to be in Doc's classes. I had a fleeting moment of thought that perhaps I just might make the cut. And then, there it was. Quite an honor to be among the roll-call of those closest to Doc's heart...to find that perhaps in one small way I am part of his legions in memory, and of merit lending worth to one's life. Damn...humbled am i, Doc--"

Speaking of being humbled, I simply cannot avoid that emotion myself in light of the fact that "Flash" (as I like to call him) can still remember the bond we established in several track seasons, and that he still feels the way he does about his old mentor and coach. I have no shame in admitting that I relish these kinds of letters that I receive from former students who now are in their 50s or 60s and who remember me as they do, and feel for me as they do. After all, as a perk to the kind of salaries teachers receive, there remains the satisfaction that somehow you have set a spark in the lives of your students. That's what teaching is all about. And that's the truth.

"I am not a teacher: Only a fellow traveller of whom you asked the way." (George Bernard Shaw)

When I was coaching track and field at North Shore H.S. I had a young man on my time who ran the 100 and 220 yard dashes, and the last leg on our championship mile relay team. His father was my doctor, but that fact in no way affected the magic of my relationship with Bob Marsden, a champion in every possible way or arena. And recently we have been in touch through e-mails. After Bob graduated in 1968, I don't remember ever seeing him again. Among others, the following is one that gave me the most satisfaction as a former teacher and athletic coach, and also as a writer. Bob has been reading my "Memoirs of a Tail Gunner" and apparently has reached the description of my 80th Birthday celebration. However, it was not at my 80th Birthday that I received remembrances from former colleagues and students. It was at a Tribute party held in Glen Cove some time later that had been arranged by Debbie (Benson) French, a student I always adore.

Reading “Memoirs of a…Tailgunner” today and it is winding down…the 80th birthday celebration, February 27, 2004 which I was not able to attend due to (another) financial melt-down that was all too common in the Marsden-Randall household as we too, were winding down. I recall the event as Debbie (French) Benson (I think, daughter of Dr. French, our Principal) sent out letters of petition to those dear to Doc to please send in some accolades of remembrance. That I did and ironically, I think I just sent it out to you all. As I’m reading these tributes from colleagues of faculty…from “real” students who actually had the tracked-intelligence and privilege to be in Docs’ classes I had a fleeting moment of thought that perhaps I just might make the cut. And then, there it was. Quite an honor to be among the roll-call of those closest to Docs’ heart…to find that perhaps in one small way I am part of his legions in memory, and of merit lending worth to ones’ life. Damn…humbled am I Doc -

Speaking of being humbled, I simply cannot avoid that emotion myself in light of the fact that "Flash" (as I like to call him) can still remember the bond we established in several track seasons and that he still feels the way he does about his old mentor and coach. I have no shame in admitting that I relish these kinds of letters I receive from former students who now are in their 50s or 60s and who remember me as they do, and feel for me as they do. After all, as a perk to the kind of salaries teachers receive, there remains the satisfaction that somehow you have set a spark in the lives of your students. That's what teaching is all about. And that's the truth.

Son Joel sent me an e-mail today of three videos I never saw before. I must have been out to dinner or somewhere not in front of the TV set. They are attachments to youtube where you can watch the videos. I copied the links and I'll paste them here hoping you can succeed in accessing them!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yJ8M_Vglbw0

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fHbWyCBBkC4

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DvpMRMSUIGs

"Put money in thy purse." (Iago in "Othello")

February 8, 2009

In June, 1982, I was told by--I don't remember whom...several people--that I would need less money to live on when I retired than I would while working. Not only that, but the "Bored" of Education offered me $10,000 dollars to get rid of me and the high salary I was costing them so they could hire someone to replace me for about half the amount I was earning. Just as it happens in baseball these days. A team trades a player making $20,000,000,000 a year so they can replace him for someone they contract for $100,000 a year. I was gullible because I never heard of $10,000 before, let alone owning that much cash at one clip. I could use it to get rid of my debts, sell the house, get out of town, and live on my pension of $21,000 a year for the rest of my life. $10,000 was beyond my comprehension and wildest dreams. Consequently, I didn't hesitate, and informed the Bored that I would retire--and I, therefore, collected my ten grand, and while salivating I wondered if it would pay for me to go to Roosevelt Field and run it up at the trotting races? Well, I, wise beyond my years, decided against that because if I lost any of it, I would take hemlock without hesitation. Anyway, to get on with this too long story, the person or persons who told me that I would have a ball in retirement living on practically nothing were out of their minds. They were blatant prevaricators, or else they were idiots. Not idiot savants--but just plain ordinary idiots. You really need at least twice as much retired as you do when you are working and bringing up the family.

And why is this? You might ask. Well, first of all, when you leave town for Florida, let's say, you have to take out a 30 year mortgage to buy your condo which by this time costs you five times as much as it did to buy your big house on Dogwood Ave. in 1956. When the salesman told me how much the down payment was, I broke out in a hot sweat (remember, this was Florida), but succumbed to his sales pitch because the community had a clubhouse with all the amenities I could possibly enjoy--a weight room, a ballroom, a poolroom, tennis courts, a golf course, an indoor swimming pool, a 600 seat theatre, an outdoor pool near my building, a sauna, a jacuzzi, a hot tub, racquet ball courts, and etc. How could I resist such a mesmerizing opportunity? Instead of retirement, I thought I had somehow died and went to heaven. So, I bought the condo. Since it was a very new community, (only four buildings existed,) very few people had moved in--but still the lure was the clubhouse. I went there almost every day to swim all alone 80 laps in the pool. I pumped iron, I played golf, I played raquet ball (alone), I shot pool. All this in my very own clubhouse! No one else appeared there until several months later.

Let me continue with this story about the falsification foisted on a foolish fellow. In retirement, you need more cash than you do while working because you go out to dinner at least three or four times a week. If you are married and the spouse is also retired, the oven becomes a place for potted plants. Then of course there are the vacations--to Europe, to Asia, to China, to Australia, to Hawaii and wherever there is money to be ripped from your wallet. Each December often is the time to go on Caribbean cruises to enrich Carnival, Holland American, Royal Caribbean, and various other cruise lines. Now, lately, there has been a plethora of casinos opening up in Condoland. Several are run by Seminoles and several by the state. Each, however, has the lure of gambling--poker, black jack, Texas Hold'em, and slot machines galore. Of course, you don't want to lose your pension on these things, so you opt for your social security check instead--which means that at the end of the month you eat in Wendy's.

The lesson to be learned from all of this if you are still in the work force is as Romeo pleads with the apothecary, "Hold, there is forty ducats, let me have a dram of poison."

"Gone--glimmering through the dream of things that were." (Lord Byron)

I just got back from teaching the fifth session of my "Fun With Shakespeare" class where we are reading and discussing Hamlet. The class is being held in our clubhouse on Fridays from 3pm to 4:30pm. I believe it will take two or three more sessions to finish the play. Yes, I did retire--from North Shore H.S.--but not from teaching. I few years ago I stopped teaching this class after have read several plays over the years since I've been here--Pater Noster in Condoland--but I haven't held a class for several years until now. Just had the urge to teach Hamlet since we're so much alike. But after our last class, I'm really going to retire from teaching because I'm exhausted for hours after coming back to the apartment. I certainly didn't expect this reaction to happen. I used to teach five classes in school with no sweat. Now, after an hour and a half I am sweating as though I've taken some laps in the pool! I've discovered that teaching is damn hard. I'm not going to do it anymore.

My teaching ability is not the only thing that's changed in twenty-five years. I used to be lean and trim, and running 26 miles was a piece of cake. When I was 57, I weighed about 157 pounds and swam 80 laps (one mile) in the pool every day. Now I'm terrified about standing on a scale. At the doctor's office, when the nurse asks me to stand on the scale, I feel like giving her a whack aside the head--of course, I don't put that into action because I'm civilized. Because I don't get a whole lot of exercise these days, when I observe my body that once was "lean and trim", my gorge rises at it. I will probably never go to the pool or ocean again. I haven't been there for twenty years, anyway. Besides my teaching career being over, so is my acting career. I don't get around much anymore. (Sounds like the song I once knew in my heyday..."Missed the Saturday dance; might have gone but what for...awfully different without you...etc.) Whose song was that, anyway? Lena Horne? Billie Holliday? Groucho Marx?

A President who admits a mistake? Isn't there a rule against that? Is it an impeachable offense? Henny Penny, the sky is falling!

"Arguments out of a pretty mouth are unanswerable." (Addison)

Well, Rhoda's two birthday "parties" are over for this year, anyway. Last Friday we went to dinner with the "East Meadow" gang (our neighbors from the year 1) at Sal's Ristorante. I had made reservations for 9 at a round table; seven people showed up and we had to look at two empty chairs and settings for the rest of the night because one couple never showed up. Rho tried to reach them on their home phone and their cell phone without success. So, it kind of put a slight damper on the evening. Ultimately, contact was made with them, and part of their excuse was that "we forgot," along with other matter that was not acceptable. I was embarrassed by their absence because we didn't need the table we were given as it turned out. Then on Groundhog Day, Mon. Feb. 2, Rhoda's actual birthday, we had dinner with the "building+gang" at Snapper's sea food culinary extravaganza with a table of twelve. A grand evening was had by all (Dutch treat and no gifts). So much for the birthday (which generally comes around once a year).

Now for our condo which currently is non-sterile owing to the fact that we are having both our main bath and the guest bath gutted and "modernized". The modernization operation is Rhoda's idea. I felt perfectly at home with the bathrooms as they have been for upwards of 25 years--I had just gotten used to the height of the commodes, and finally figured out the best means of getting off of them. Now, there are two humongous cartons in our living room containing two new toilets--one for each bathroom. We don't have room for a his and hers in our bedroom bath. But, the weird story is that we at first had gone with the contractor to Home Depot and picked out two white toilets, but when the day rolled around, the lady of the house decided that we needed to have two biscs? (beige) ones. So, we went to Lowe's and bought two beige ones that were about $200 cheaper than the ones from Home Depot. So, that night, Tom--the worker--brought the white ones back and then picked up the bisc ones at Loew's and deposited them in our living room! The main bathroom is just about finished with new tiles for the shower wall, the shower floor, and the bathroom floor. There is also a new cabinet and the wallpaper has been scraped from the wall, and just about ready to be painted. Rhoda doesn't like wallpaper. I do. I may secretly get up one night and shmear the walls with paper. Next job? The guest bathroom. Hopefully, the toilets will find an appropriate location. I really wanted to try them out in the stores, but was told it wasn't allowed. I couldn't understand that. You're allowed to test drive a car before you buy it. What's the difference?

"What millions died--that Caesar might be great!"

A student from Sea Cliff High School's class of '57, Wallace Kaufman, has gotten in touch with me through an e-mail. Wallace informed me that he was doing a history of his class, and asked if I would respond to some questions. Of course I told him that I would be delighted to answer some questions as long as they were not too difficult. I imagined that he would want to inform members of his graduating class that Dr. Ross was still alive, living in Florida and spending his hours writing gazillions of blogs once I found out what they were. I did send him an attachment of a Boca Raton News article that spoke of the military awards I received belatedly from the Navy...mainly the 10 Air Medals and the two Distinguished Flying Crosses. Part of his response follows:

"Thanks, Doc. I will make good use of the article. And congratulations. We are both old enough now to be frank. First, I admit that I'm given too excess sentimentality at times. Which leads to the next sentiment--that I am sad that we knew nothing of your pre-Sea Cliff life when you stormed into Sea Cliff School and became part of it in the mid 50s. One class member I sent to your blog has asked why not, why didn't we know? Some reasons are obvious, but the fact is we knew almost nothing about any of our teacher's prior lives or personal lives other than where they went to college. Was it school policy that there be a wall between students and teachers' personal lives? ... I know that many veterans feel it is akin to boasting to talk of their service, and others would rather not remember the dangers, the fears, the others who suffered and died. In any case, knowing more about the service given by our teachers might have had some small but important influence on our understanding of military service as well as the character of our teachers. Whatever the case, a very belated and sincere thanks for what you did."

Now, I will not speak for every veteran or teacher, but I think it was a mistake not to discuss the war experience with our classes. Out of such discussions I believe would have come more first hand knowledge of what the war was like and about, accompanied by more respect for the teacher. I don't believe a veteran's discussing his experience would be boasting; and I'm sure it was not the reason for failure to communicate that experience to the kids. I think Wallace was right when he said perhaps it was the case that their teacher would rather not remember his (or her) fears and horrors by dredging it up in the classroom. In my own case, the war was still too close in my memory. I tried with great difficulty to forget it and to press on with my life. My brain was still littered with scorpions...and to this day I still mourn for my buddies who did not return. This failure to reveal one's war experiences in the classroom was not due to any "school policy" nor was there any real "wall". It was just the way it was and will always be.