Archives for category: Uncategorized

Bucket Lists

August 9, 2012 //

BUCKET LISTS

     A recent visit to Madison, Wisconsin afforded me a host of new experiences. “Look at how many bucket list items you checked off,” enthused my wife, Katie, upon our return.
     “But none of those experiences were on my bucket list,” I responded.
     “They still count,” she insisted.
     “Do they? Can a bucket list be vicarious?”
     Katie’s brother, Harry, worked for several decades developing a commercial real estate business. Though he derived satisfaction from his job, his real dream was to live on a farm. Finally, with his children grown and his rental properties functioning smoothly, Harry bought a one hundred acre farm forty minutes outside of Madison. For better or worse, the property included a house with an award-winning rodent collection, a barn that was falling down, and a well that did not work.
     Harry spent several months between closing and our visit to ameliorate the more odious manifestations of the rodent condition. (We saw nothing larger than a mouse). He fixed the well and developed plans for a major barn reconstruction.
     The first thing we noticed upon entering the property was a spectacular vista of wildflowers. These sprung from seeds sown by Harry and his wife, Jane, on both sides of their mile-long, gravel driveway. When we reached the house, we saw that Jane had also planted a profusion of sunflowers and flower-pots to festoon a shaky, but beautifully situated, wooden patio. Monet would have felt at ease. I was just starting to relax and anticipate a barbecue when Jane proudly announced that we would be the first to share something that she had always wanted to do: lunch would consist entirely of items she had grown or found in her gardens.
     I had forgotten that Jane is beyond vegetarian in the culinary arts. She could aptly be described as a “peculiarian.” Thus, the first unique experience of our visit, a meal made of homegrown vegetables along with a variety of leaves, roots, seeds and weeds. There were some berries, too, but only a bird or a botanist could have identified them.
     The main afternoon activity was to tour the property. Harry was bursting with pride to show off his toys. He had a big green tractor, a small red tractor, and a variety of splitters, grinders and winches. None of these items are exceptional, or even notable, if one has spent time on a farm, but for a Philadelphia boy like me, this was serious machinery. The pinnacle of my previous automotive mastery consisted of attaining semi-competence, one summer, driving a VW Beetle with a stick-shift. I vowed, twenty-five years ago, to never do that again.
     But here I was, taking my turn behind not only the steering wheel, but also more sticks, clutches, buttons and gauges than I had ever seen in one place, guiding several tons of tractor down a furrow (if that is the right word). Thanks to the expert tutelage of the man recently escaped from commercial real estate, there were no calamities.
     The next bucket list experience of the day involved trying to fall asleep on an air mattress in the loft of the barn, surrounded by tools, ropes, cans and countless smells indicative of rural life. It was windy that night and the building groaned like a ship at sea. When I stopped worrying about whether the barn would fall over, I heard my first lifetime coyote howls somewhere disturbingly nearby. I contemplated, for what seemed like hours, whether such animals know how to open doors.
     After what could not have been more than two hours of sleep, I was awakened for the first time in my life by the sound of actual roosters. As the sun finally appeared on the horizon, I segued, as in the finale of a fireworks show, immediately into another new experience – the cold, outdoor shower.
     In sum, the new experiences were interesting and memorable. But, as I learned in an earlier stage of life, when I insanely agreed to co-train for four months to run a marathon, in order to further a friend’s most ardent goal, it could be ill-advised to participate in the completion of other peoples’ bucket lists.

Categories Reflections, Uncategorized

CLOSE TO THE STARS

July 27, 2012 //

CLOSE TO THE STARS

Long before unpaid interns became the backbone of the American economy, I served in that capacity. It was 1979, and I had just completed the first year of law school. I had a vague sense of being interested in entertainment law and a vaguer sense of being interested in writing. I had a factual sense of having arranged no summer employment whatsoever.
I do not know exactly how it came to pass, but my brother lived in Beverly Hills and he knew somebody who knew somebody, and I was offered the opportunity to read scripts for a small company on the far periphery of the Hollywood dream machine.
In those pre-internet and cellphone days it was possible to complete such arrangements in a couple of hurried, long-distance phone calls, followed by a one-sentence postcard from the story editor saying: “Hope to see you at the end of June.”
It was not entirely surprising, therefore, that the day of my arrival seemed to have been entirely forgotten by my “boss.” Apparently, she was accustomed to the West Coast movie industry mentality, not the East Coast law student mentality. Thus, she had no expectation that I would actually show up.
Sharon was a pixie-like blonde, bubbling with energy. After being reminded of who I was and why I was there, she gave me a brief tour of Tony Bill Productions at 73 Market Street in Venice Beach. The facility consisted of a set of ten rooms on the second floor of a squat building, accessed by a steep stairway. The ground floor of the building contained the more-than-a-little-seedy Venice mix of that era: a used book store, a vitamin and supplement store, a liquor store, a pornographic video store, and several empty spaces.
The only notable office belonged to the owner, Tony Bill. He was an actor in the early 1960’s who had become a director in the 1970’s. His best-known directorial success was the 1978 movie, “My Bodyguard.” A huge, larger-than-king-sized bed took up much of his space, though Sharon was quick to address my unspoken, but obvious, supposition about the purpose of that bed.
“Tony’s separated from his wife. He sleeps at the office most nights.”
Finally, she brought me to my “office.” It was a corner of a windowless store-room that contained a small desk piled high with scripts. Few publishers or movie studios are now willing to read unsolicited manuscripts, whether type-written or electronic. To the extent that a few are still willing to read a paper manuscript, however, the process likely approximates Tony Bill’s procedure in 1979, namely: a lowly intern skims through as much of the “slush pile” as possible and notes the general theme of each submission on a 3 X 5 card which may or may not be skimmed at some point by the story editor. The peon then places the manuscript on an out-going mail pile. Before the out-going mail is taken to the post office, he inserts a pre-printed card that indicates something along the lines of: “Thank you so much for submitting your work. I’m afraid, however, that I am going to have to pass on it. I do wish you the best of luck.”
Just as the present-day culture is inundated with tales of vampires and the super-natural, the ubiquitous theme in 1979 was talking mannequins. It seems that every department store clerk in the English-speaking world was spending his or her evenings imagining what happens in the store after closing time. Some imagined lifeless, brainless figures with impossibly perfect bodies and cheekbones leading their peers in worldwide dominance and other fantastic feats. There may be no connection whatsoever, but in 1980, Ronald Reagan was elected president.
My days passed uneventfully, with Sharon displaying no particular interest in my tiny corner of the operation. I would peruse and summarize a few scripts, often after just a few pages, then take a stroll around the hallway or outside at Venice Beach. After lunch, I would return and review several more.
I rarely saw Tony, and never exchanged words with him, but there was occasionally a buzz in the hallway when a known Hollywood luminary was visiting him in his office. One day, I gathered he was talking with an actress and her agent about a possible project but I did not think anything of it. I had promised to take my young nephew to a ballgame, so when the end of the day arrived, I headed out to the parking lot. I found my rented Corolla hemmed in by a double-parked, white Jaguar. It was not unusual to see a luxury automobile in Los Angeles. Until the introduction of the Prius, it seemed that everyone who had ever acted in a movie, or even ATTENDED a movie, drove one.
When I went back upstairs to find out whose car it was, no one was around. The only muffled voices I heard came from behind Tony’s closed door. I paced in the hallway for several minutes trying to decide whether to knock. Various thoughts ran through my head. “What if the car does not belong to Tony’s visitors? What if I am interrupting a crucial meeting? What if I am interrupting ANYTHING pertaining to that monster-sized bed?”
”This is silly,” I finally told myself. “No one else is here. The car has to belong to Tony’s visitor. And whoever owns that car should actually be apologizing to me. They are at fault, not me. They are just another person, nothing special. There is no point in being intimidated just because someone might have appeared in a commercial or a sitcom. My nephew is waiting. I’ve worked all day, for no pay. I am entitled to leave.”
Duly fortified, I knocked decisively on the door. The voices inside stilled and I heard footsteps. The door opened, and peering out at me, was a very familiar-looking face; it was the girl from “Love Story,”(see note at end) only about ten years older.
“Yes?” she asked.
“Ummm,” I responded. “Ummm,” I repeated, even more assertively.
“Oh,” she said. “Did I block your car?”
I was so relieved she guessed my purpose that I was able to form an intelligible word. “Yes,” I said. But seeing Tony Bill and the agent sitting at his desk in the background, I hastened to add: “I can wait. It’s no problem at all.” In the face of actual fame, my resolve melted like an ice cream cone in the Mojave Desert.
“Oh, no,” she said, cheerfully. “I’ll come out and move it.”
The familiar and quite splendid-looking woman strode out, carrying her keys.
“I’m Ali McGraw,” she said, extending her hand.
“Yes, you are,” I replied, nonsensically.
We walked together down to the parking lot. I failed completely to think of anything intelligent to say. I suppose, in retrospect, that she was used to tongue-tied reactions, but I certainly felt like an idiot.
When we arrived at our cars, she flashed the most luminous smile I had ever seen in person, hopped into her Jaguar, and backed up. I climbed into my Toyota, thanked her again, and nearly drove forward into a pole. Finally, I composed myself, and eased out of the parking lot.
You know how people are sometimes described as having “movie star” looks? Yet, in reality, they are really an overweight insurance agent with a good head of hair, or a five-foot-three lifeguard with a nice smile? I can attest, without hesitation, that Ali McGraw really had “movie-star” looks.

Explanatory note for readers under 40: “Love Story” was the Oscar-nominated sensation of the 1970 movie year. It featured Ali McGraw and Ryan O’Neal. Both were expected to become Hollywood royalty as a result. While neither was launched to the extent of lasting cinematic fame, both were still solid movie stars throughout the 1970’s and into the 1980’s. Ali McGraw is now an animal-rights activist but was still appearing in “Top 50 Most Beautiful Women Lists” into the 1990’s. According to Wikipedia, she was treated for sex addiction following her divorce from Steve McQueen. Little did I know this could have become such a more interesting story!

Tags Coming of Age, Movie Stars

Categories Uncategorized

TRAJECTORY

July 23, 2012 //

TRAJECTORY

Never had a commercial event in our small town generated more anticipation than the opening of an ice cream shop known as Scoupe de Ville.

For months, after the “Coming Soon” sign was posted, the former nail salon at the corner of Central and Main was under renovation. First, the nondescript exterior gave way to vivid streamers of pink and blue bunting. Next, the parking lot was repaved from pitted concrete to smooth asphalt with stripes painted like candy canes. Excitement reached a fever pitch when a half-sized replica of an electric blue Cadillac appeared. It hung from a crane in the parking lot for two days awaiting installation, long enough for everyone in town to see it. Finally, after we tired of telling the children: “Soon, soon, it will be open soon,” balloons and banners announcing “Grand Opening” were hung around the building.
Children were not the only ones who were excited. Adults viewed the store as a sign of class, of local distinction.

     “Who needs Baskin-Robbins or Haagen Dazs?” we asked each other. We will have an authentic ice cream parlor. We speculated that it would not be long before a cheese shop and an art gallery would open.
     Needless to say, the first week of business was spectacular. The parking lot was full. People waited in line around the block. Families strategized that it was necessary to have ice cream at four in the afternoon, before dinner, just so that they could sit at a table. Following the decorating theme, sundaes were served in cardboard containers shaped like Cadillac convertibles.
     It was a week or two before the first hints of disappointment seeped out.
     “The service was slow,” said some.
     “My ice cream was melted,” said others.
     “Mine was lumpy,” said one.
      “The prices, my God, can you believe the prices?” commiserated several adults.
       At the end of the first month, there were spaces available in the parking lot and several empty tables in the parlor. The jovial owner, a jowly Floridian, who had beamed in the first week, now appeared sullen. He raised himself slowly from a corner stool to supervise the teen-aged employees.
T     he model Cadillac still gleamed in the center of the dining room but the juke box now had an “out of order” sign. The tables were sometimes dirty. When a dish dropped, the now-quiet room heard it break, clatter several feet, and finally spin into agonizing silence.
     After two months, there appeared a sign in the window: “Check out our new, lower-priced menu.” However, the children had moved on – prices were not their issue.
     “Let’s go to Baskin-Robbins,” they begged. “It’s faster.”
     “Let’s go to Haagen-Dazs, their cones are bigger.”
     After three months, Scoupe de Ville was a ghostly scene. The owner served the few customers himself, since business was so slow. No one was fired, he assured a concerned customer, since most of the teen-aged staff, dependent upon tips, simply quit showing up.
     A “Business for Sale” sign marked the fourth-month anniversary. Hardly anyone noticed when an “Out of Business” sign appeared several months later. By the sixth month, weeds grew in the parking lot; the brilliant colors were faded. Someone said the owner had skipped out on his lease and gone back to Florida.
     “What do you think will go in there?” people asked, eventually.
     “We need a bagel shop,” said one.
     “How ‘bout a Thai restaurant?” asked another.
     “Maybe a nail salon,” one woman said. “We could really use one.”
     “Yes,” nodded the others.

Tags Human Nature, Ice Cream

Categories Modern Society, Parenting, Reflections, Uncategorized

THE POST-MORTEM

July 17, 2012 //

THE POST-MORTEM

The men recount their exploits like warriors returned from a campaign at Carthage. Each competes to be heard pertaining to their role in the heroic battles, the glorious victories and the ignominious defeats. The enemy, after all, does not play by the rules of man. No, the enemy is not reluctant to employ the diabolical: the seemingly invisible limb that hangs out over the fairway on number eight, or its kin, the root that sends a ball skittering into the woods, from whence it will never emerge. There is also the creek at twelve that is hidden from the tee box and the sand-trap at six designed to capture even the best-struck ball.
Occasionally, there is a triumph to relive. There was a putt that rimmed the hole at number seven and then fell in. There was the shot sent screaming off-line that was destined to end wetly but somehow skimmed the top of the pond and bounced out the other side, then rolled between two traps to the green. Mostly, however, the purpose of the discussion over post-play refreshment is to wallow – to wallow in the heat and to wallow in the struggle, to grudgingly concede to the wind and to the landscape and to the sun-drenched (or rain-slowed) speed of the greens, that somehow never fails to surprise.
What vestige of the hunter-gatherer mentality drives the urge to play golf? Did hunter-gatherers wear argyle socks and funny sweaters? In an average round in which one shoots 100, there are typically five shots that truly delight, thirty shots that are satisfying (though one always notes: “it could have rolled another ten yards,” or “it ended up on a bit of an incline”) and sixty-five that are somewhere on the spectrum between bad and horrendous. The activity is lengthy, costly and often sweaty. Based upon the foregoing, one might reasonably ask if golf is a sane activity.
A friend of mine named Steve recently turned to golf as his latest obsession. For him, this follows such temporarily passionate pursuits as piano tuning and platform tennis. Golf is an improbable choice, inasmuch as Steve’s approach to life is decidedly un-country club-like. He works as a mid-level technician in the field of water management. Considering that Steve has an MBA, he could be ensconced in the business side of things, as an executive. Yet, approaching his mid-forties, Steve has a deficit in the area of ambition, except for an unconventional desire to master golf. He favors knee socks to argyle and rock band tee-shirts to sweaters. With his red hair and fair skin, Steve wears headgear more reminiscent of Lawrence of Arabia than Phil Mickelson.
Steve joined the local university course, as an alumnus, for $3,000. That is a meaningful sum, though minor in the world of private golf club memberships. He is a rare member who stops in at least once a day to play several holes on his way to or from the office. He is also known to drop in at lunchtime just to practice putting or hit at the driving range.
Though Steve is athletic, proficiency at golf is coming slowly. Considering the relatively manageable challenges of hitting a moving tennis ball or softball, he marvels at how difficult it can be to hit a stationary golf ball. Some shots go far, but not straight. Others go straight, but not far. Some go straight to the ground. Others pop into the air. Lessons are expensive and confusing and Steve often finds that he is worse for having tried new grips, stances, clubs, follow-throughs, or any of the myriad variables. For the amateur, or the person new to the game, consecutive successful shots are rare. Says Steve: “I used to always miss to the right. But after my lesson, I miss in all directions.”
In Don Quixote, it is repeatedly asked of Sancho Panza, concerning his relationship to the insane Man of La Mancha: “But what do you get out of it?” The question inevitably is posed to Steve in regard to golf. And, just like the squire, he is apt to respond: “Oh, I’ve got…” long pause. “I’ve got….” Finally, “I just like it. I really like it.”
I played a round with Steve the other day. He was excited I was willing to join him, knowing as he does that I retired from golf for life, for approximately the fifth time, several months ago. Though it was to be a friendly match, being male, it still seemed necessary for us to have some sort of financial incentive. We chose to play for a dollar each hole, plus lunch afterwards, and, as his handicap, he played from the championship tees (farther away from the hole, for the uninitiated) so that our match would be competitive. After all, he practices every single day whereas I had to wipe cobwebs off my clubs.
My approach was to remain calm, to refrain from imprecations, at least loud ones, and to further refrain from flinging my clubs in despair. This would be a new approach for me, inasmuch as my previous experience was contrary on all fronts, hence the retirement(s). I turned down Steve’s gracious offer of practice time at the driving range or putting green before we played. I felt I should accumulate as many excuses as possible for my likely defeat.
The first hole presented a fortuitous omen, however. My drive lurched far down the left side of the fairway, took several lucky bounces amidst some trees, and finally landed in a wonderful location. On the contrary, Steve’s first shot barely landed in play, and he was never able to recover. Play at the second and third holes continued in this vein and, by the end of the first nine, my victory was nearly assured.
Steve retained good humor throughout this ordeal, certain as he was that my play would implode at any moment. I expected that my overall score would eventually become worse than his, but as I accumulated victories and ties on a hole-by-hole basis, my newfound equanimity only increased. Lunch for the winner of the match was mine. Only in the last five holes, after I could not resist asking if he was planning to sue his coach for malpractice, did Steve put together a winning streak. But it was too little, too late. Final score: ten holes for me, six for Steve, two holes tied. Ninety-four strokes for me, ninety-six for Steve.
We retired to Jersey Mike’s sub-shop for what Steve cheerfully called the “post-mortem.” He showed himself to have a nearly-photographic recollection of nearly all of our 190 shots. While I consumed the winner’s tuna, he offered a monologue:
“I couldn’t believe that tee-shot you hit on seven that was nearly a hole-in-one.”
“That putt on sixteen was so lucky.”
“What were you thinking when you went between those trees on eleven?”
“My drive on eight was the best I hit all day, until it bounced into that gully.”
“I nearly caught you on the back-nine.”
“I may get some new irons for my birthday, or maybe a putter, or maybe a driver.”
I munched contentedly and marveled at his enthusiasm. His sandwich remained almost untouched while he pivoted from recounting our match to lining up the next one.
“Will you give me a rematch tomorrow?”
“How about next week?”
“This was so much fun!”
I had to admit that the day had been better than usual. I did not injure any body parts, I won four dollars, plus lunch, not taking into account that I paid nearly seventy dollars to play. I’d scored respectably, improving upon my usual ratio of decent-to-awful shots, and I never boiled over in frustration. Yet, in the face of Steve’s relentless good cheer, I could only muster the following concession:
“Yes, I will play again. No, I will not play tomorrow or next week. I want to savor this victory, this gift from the gods of golf for a while. In a month, perhaps, you may be able to convince me to play again.”
I did not mean to begrudge Steve his enthusiasm. In fact, I was envious that he derived so much delight from an activity so potentially dismal. I was afraid, for a moment, that I had hurt his feelings, or that he was disappointed the game he had shared so graciously with me was accepted so tepidly. But I did not worry for long; with my reluctant concession in hand, Steve resumed the post-mortem with relish:
“I just needed a little more spin on number twelve.”
“That putt on fifteen was really something, up and down and all around.”
“You were pretty lucky with that bounce off the rock at fourteen”
“I’m going to beat you next time. I’ll be calling. Yes sir, I’ll be calling you.”

Tags Golf, Sports

Categories Golf passion, Uncategorized

Playing Cards

July 11, 2012 //

PLAYING CARDS

     An early memory, hazy, emerges like the sun through morning fog. There is a small row-house, a tiny patio in front, and white-haired Pop-Pop shuffling the deck.
     “Ve’re going to play casino,” he said, with a European accent. “You vill be good at dis,” he assured me.
     I was focused, for some reason, on the letter “W” and why it was so difficult for some people to pronounce. My father, who came from the same general part of the world as Pop-Pop, could pronounce “W” but could not pronounce a “V.” He called Vietnam “Wietnam.” I digress.
     Traffic rolled along the street in front of us in a working-class section of Philadelphia. The roof of a huge warehouse dominated the view across the street for as far as the eye could see.
     Pop-Pop was kindly. He patiently wrote down the particular scoring and rules of casino. There were fourteen points to be won in each deck. There was some “building” of hands and some “trumping.” Basically, it was a sort of unambitious pinochle. Whenever my step-grandmother emerged from the house, Pop-Pop boasted of my prodigious abilities at the game.
     On reflection, I am aware that it is highly unlikely that my combination of cards was always better than my grandfather’s. However, from the ages of 5-7, I was the undefeated champion of our games.
     Death arrived abruptly for Pop-Pop. In an antiquated way, he simply went to bed one night and did not wake up. No illness, no hospital, no ICU. No one officially informed me – I eaves-dropped from my upstairs bedroom while my mother and aunts cried one morning, downstairs in the kitchen.
     What to make of this event? I was sad, but detached, at the time. My mother seemed grief-stricken enough for the whole family, and I felt it was best to just stay out of the way.
     But there is a lot to miss when someone who is totally, one-hundred-percent benevolent leaves your life. How many people does one encounter, including friends and closest relatives, with whom one never experiences a single, solitary disagreement or argument, or even difference of opinion?
     Pop-Pop was probably just a normal, nicer-than-average immigrant who managed to escape Europe during some preliminary horrors, so as to miss the main event that arose several years later. He ran a series of small food-stands and then, finally, a small restaurant. He never made more than a minimal living, but raised four children who loved him. One could say that he played the cards he was dealt. And, based upon the benevolence and fond memories he bestowed upon his children and grandchildren, he played them well.

Tags Card-playing, Coming of Age

Categories Uncategorized

July 11, 2012 //

stuartsandersblog

BIG JOHN

Big John barely fit his belly through the opening as he emerged from the manhole in the middle of Ridgewood Avenue. In his bright orange jumpsuit he resembled the sun rising out of a dark-hued sea.
“Hey, Stu,” he shouted in a surprisingly high-pitched tone. “Ya gonna play some ball tonight?”
It struck people in Ridgewood as incongruous when a suit-clad attorney was seemingly accosted on the street by the most conspicuous representative of the sewer department. But after fifteen years of playing softball on Big John’s team, I was not alarmed.
It all began in the summer of ’83 when I was new to town. I took a walk in the municipal park one weekend, tidy in my white alligator shirt and tennis shoes. A bear of a man dressed insanely in black, given the heat, shouted in my direction from the middle of a softball diamond.

View original post 955 more words

Categories Uncategorized

Gifted and Talented

July 6, 2012 //

GIFTED and TALENTED

Gifted and talented, that’s what the school promised. Not even gifted or talented, but gifted and talented. Sounded redundant to us but you know how parents think – they will pursue anything that provides their child the best opportunity.
Our son, Sam, was approaching the end of eighth grade at the public middle school in town. My wife and I were guilty of snobbery, no sense in denying it. We looked at his classmates, and thought: “Well, that one will be delivering pizzas. That one will enlist in the military. That one will rise to management someday, at the local gas station.” We were not impressed with what we perceived as the school’s “striving for mediocrity” curriculum.
That is why we were in the lobby of the Engle School, wearing suits, waiting for Sam’s final interview to be over. The obstacles against choosing a private high school were considerable. Attendance would involve a sixty minute commute for our son instead of five. It would entail an expenditure of $26,000 each year instead of zero. And, possibly worst of all, it would involve dressing our son in khakis and polo shirts instead of the jeans and tee shirts to which he was accustomed.
Sam was to spend the entire day at the Engle School. When we arrived in the morning, a girl worthy of the cover of Teen Vogue escorted him out of our car. I thought she winked at him as she guided him into the main building. Or, perhaps, I just dreamed it, caught up as I was in the midst of gardens and fountains and gothic buildings, all presided over by the founders’ statues.
Our son was nervous about leaving his home town for a private school. But he also loved to learn, especially in the sciences. He was aware that the State Science Award was usually won by students from Engle. He was aware that half their graduates were accepted by Ivy universities. He had gone on-line to see the chemistry lab modeled on Princeton’s. When we arrived at the campus, he also saw the twelve new tennis courts that were incomparable to the pitted five at our high school and Engle’s new gymnasium and turf field.
While Sam was spending the day visiting classes with kids resembling a movie cast, we were meeting with the guidance counselor and several administrators. They had seen Sam’s scores and talked to us as though he were already accepted. One after the other, they hammered home their point:
“We believe our curriculum will blah, blah, blah and we believe the program will yada, yada, yada in order to maximize Sam’s potential and abilities and help him to achieve, attain, etc. etc. etc.” They would develop his “whole person.” We would be “entrusting” them with our “child” and they would return to us, at the end of four years, a “man.” Basically, there would be an assembly-line to take our awkward and undeveloped, but intelligent, son and shape him into a finely oiled learning and social machine. When we inquired about such issues as the likelihood of future tuition increases, or the cost of books, they responded with the irrefutable: “You cannot place a dollar limit on your son’s aspirations.”
When we were finished meeting with the counselors and administrators, we met with Engle’s “capital plan” representative. She told us about the annual fundraising event that often included performances by famous Engle parents and alumni who were lions of the New York cultural establishment. We suddenly understood that we would be expected to contribute several thousand more dollars each year, beyond the tuition, books and transportation.
In the weeks leading up to Sam’s visit, we had been hesitant about this disruption and cost to our lives. However, after seeing the facilities and hearing about the coordinated teaching approach, and contemplating the necessity that our son’s opportunities in life not be stunted by our penury or shortsightedness, we ended the day resolved that Engle was “the right thing to do.”
We waited in the lobby for several minutes, contemplating our new status as parents of an Engle student. Finally, it was three o’clock, and Sam was discharged by his Teen Vogue model hostess back to what now seemed our minimally adequate care. We walked together to the car quietly, taking in, I imagine, the enormity of the change that had taken place.
Once we were in the car, I turned to Sam and asked: “Well, are you ready to raise your game?”
He did not respond. My wife and I looked at each other.
“Sam?” she asked. “Are you okay?”
After a long pause, he finally spoke: “These kids may be gifted and talented…” he paused, “…but they’re kind of spoiled. I really want to go to the public high school. And that,” he concluded, “is what I’ve decided.”
We were not used to such assertiveness from our son. But it sounded terrific. It seemed he had grown up years in just one day. We breathed out in relief, happily concluding that the Engle School did, indeed, help Sam to realize his potential.

Tags parenting

Categories Uncategorized

SHINGLES

June 29, 2012 //

SHINGLES

My mother hung up the phone and turned to my father. “Bernie Levin has shingles again.”
He looked up thoughtfully from his newspaper and shook his head. “Why can’t they cure him?”
“I’m not sure it’s curable,” said my mother. “They can only manage it.”
Being about eight years-old, I was having a hard time following this conversation. I knew that shingles were something on a roof, but my father acted as though they were an illness.
“Cynthia says he’s really in pain,” added my mother.
This sounded worse and worse. Mr. Levin was in pain from an incurable condition found on a roof. I thought it best not to interrupt, but I felt badly for Mr. Levin. He was my father’s oldest and, in my opinion, nicest friend. On reflection, he was probably only around sixty at this time, like my father, but if you had told me he was ninety, I would have believed you.
Bernie Levin was a wholesale clothing salesman of the sort rarely seen since the 1960’s. He represented the Haggar Pants Company and my father, who owned a menswear shop, had been his customer since the 1930’s. Their conversations were based largely upon reminiscing about companies and salesmen they had known over the decades. Many of the men were dead or had moved away; likewise, many of the companies were no longer in business. Perhaps, having survived made my father and Mr. Levin feel good.
Mr. Levin seemed so old because he was overweight and had several chins. It was as though the Michelin Tire man resided below his mouth. He also wore corrective shoes that would have resembled a clown’s if they were any color other than black. To top it off, his voice was a high-pitched warble.
It was his decency, however, that shined through. Mr. Levin would discuss baseball and football with me. He always seemed delighted to talk to a little kid, which was unusual among my parents’ friends. Mr. Levin and his wife had only one child, a girl, named Sondra. Unfortunately, Sondra inherited her father’s chin and, while there may have been no connection whatsoever, she never married. She became a well-known architect when she grew up, but I think Mr. Levin would have been really happy with a son.
“Should we go visit?” asked my father.
“We could,” said my mother.
This interested me, because every time we visited, Mrs. Levin had available a fresh chocolate cake covered with confectionary sugar. It resided on a cake plate in the middle of their kitchen table. And, like her husband, Mrs. Levin was always nice to me, though I had overheard my mother refer to her as a “dingbat” on more than one occasion.
Thinking back over several decades, I do not know how Mrs. Levin managed the cake thing. Did she bake a cake every day? Did she bake anything else? Could she bake anything else? None of these considerations were important at the time, since the basic chocolate cake that she made was fan-tas-tic.
I was happy that my parents chose to go and that they decided to take me. No doubt, there would be that cake. Plus, I would see how the roofing problem was affecting Mr. Levin. I sat in the backseat of the Buick in cheerful anticipation. When we arrived at their apartment, however, Mrs. Levin greeted us at the door and appeared upset.
“Bernie’s in the bedroom,” she said. “He can’t get up.”
My parents looked concerned and entered the small bedroom off the living room. I could barely make out a round figure under the covers. The adults spoke in hushed voices and Mr. Levin’s voice sounded distressed.
I looked around at the kitchen table. No cake. I was disappointed. For the first time in memory, Mrs. Levin had failed to come through. I realized that what I thought was a roof problem was, somehow, a serious illness. Mr. Levin recovered from that bout of shingles and I enjoyed Mrs. Levin’s chocolate cake well into adulthood. But since that day, I have never failed to respect the illness known as shingles.

Categories Uncategorized

A Challenging Client

June 27, 2012 //

A CHALLINGING CLIENT
     Arvind Daya was one of my first clients. He managed the Indian restaurant in town called “Bombay.” It was renowned for its $5.50 all-you-can-eat buffet that combined numerous elements of South Asian cuisine. The dishes were known to be colorful and tasteful, spicy and zesty, textured and piquant, sweet and savory. Sometimes, all of these potentially positive elements resulted in unfortunate results. But I digress.
     Arvind was interested in purchasing a local house. His idea was to put his own restaurant on the ground floor and live upstairs with his family. For that reason, he did not want the other employees at Bombay to overhear our conversations. Thus we held clandestine meetings over the curried lamb that sounded like this, in urgently whispered tones:
     “Meeester Stuart, did you talk to dee lawyer for dee owner?”
     “Yes,” I replied. “They want $250,000.”
     Arvind looked stricken.
     “Offer dem $95,000.”
     I raised my eyebrow. “Did you say ninety-five? Their price is two-hundred-and-fifty. They will be insulted.”
     Arvind looked around to be sure we were still alone. He leaned closer, and whispered: “Okay, offer dem ninety-six.”
     From his tone, I determined that he was serious.
     Arvind had chosen me as his lawyer because I was young and inexpensive. I represented him because, due to the young part of that description, I was, indeed, inexpensive. Plus, I did not have too many other clients. I told him that I would charge only $500 as the fee for the closing.
     My dialogue with the seller’s attorney continued for several months. He sympathized with my plight, and we were eventually able to strike a deal somewhere between our original positions. Arvind was so distraught at the final price that I felt terrible. I knew that I had done as well as possible, but there was scant satisfaction. Negotiating for Arvind was exhausting.
     “Meeester Stuart,” he finally declared. I may have this restaurant, but I will be unable to afford to feed my family. Surely, you will not charge me more than $100.”
     “Arvind,” I said. “Every other lawyer in town would charge thousands of dollars for three months of negotiating. My fee of $500 is a bargain.”
     “Oh,” he clutched his heart like an elderly man. “I will pay you $200.”
     I was so relieved to be near the finish line of this transaction that I might have agreed to $200. Yet, I was determined to maintain some dignity. I declared to Arvind:
     “I’ll make the fee $400, plus lunch every Friday at the restaurant for a year.”

     I smiled, trying to convey that I was only joking about the lunch, but he was already calculating.
     “Dat would be very expensive. Make it $200 plus one lunch.”
     I gave up. I would not discuss it anymore.
     The day of the closing finally came. Arvind and his shy wife solemnly signed the mound of documents. He trembled visibly when he handed me his check. I showed him my final fee of $350 on the closing statement, naively thinking he might thankfully acknowledge the discount. The seller’s attorney shuddered, slyly showing me the $2,500 bill he was presenting to his client.
     Yet, after the farewells were said, I was happy to be done. Arvind Daya was out of my life, unless I chose to seek indigestion. I considered not cashing the $350 check and framing it instead, a remembrance of this early stage of my career.
     Only thirty minutes after everyone had gone, the phone rang. It was Arvind.
     “Meeester Stuart!”
     “Arvind. What’s wrong?”
     “ Dey took dee furniture!” he shouted.
     I was speechless. Of course they took the furniture. For a moment, I started to doubt myself. But I regrouped and began to explain patiently into the phone that, in America, a house is always sold without the furniture. It is supposed to be empty. I thought I heard sobbing on the other end of the line.
     “Meeester Stuart,” Arvind said. “You know what would help me fix dis most unfortunate situation?”
     “What?” I asked, exasperated.
     “I tink about $350 would do it….”

Tags Lawyer/Client relationship

Categories Uncategorized

My Star Player

June 17, 2012 //

MY STAR PLAYER

     She looked as though she could barely walk – the only girl who could possibly pierce the defense of the Pequannock Panthers soccer juggernaut.
     “Emily,” I said. “What happened to you?”
     “Sorry, Coach,” she said, her voice husky. “I haven’t slept for the last two nights.”
     “Didn’t we agree that no one on the team would have a sleepover the night before a game?”
     “Yeah, Coach, but Tina’s my best friend, and it was her birthday on Thursday, so I HAD to go. And last night, I was at my cousin’s, so it wasn’t really, technically a sleepover. We just never went to sleep.”
     I must have appeared dumbstruck, because I was. In fact, I was so stunned that I barely reacted when Emily pitched forward onto the ball bag, put her arm under her head to cushion herself, and immediately fell asleep, thus rendering our dozen warm-up balls inaccessible.
     Coaching youth soccer was not a particular goal of mine. I managed to avoid it with my oldest child. She was independent and would have rebelled at the prospect of having her dad at every practice and game. However, my second daughter signed up CONDITIONED on me as an essential component part, as the coach.
     “Is this healthy?” I asked my wife.
     “Maybe not,” she said, “but if you are not the coach, she won’t play.”
     We paused to reminisce about the time when Sarah was five and did a sit-down strike in the middle of the field at her first Kiddie-Kicker practice. I still remember the embarrassment of walking to collect her amidst a roiling sea of happily engaged children, under the silently gloating gaze of twenty parents whose children were, somehow, better adjusted.
Now she was ten and willing to try soccer again. She’d quit the Brownies, she’d quit ballet, she’d refused to consider cheer leading (I was proud of her for that), she’d quit the flute/violin/piano trifecta. Sarah NEEDED an extracurricular activity.
     So here I was, not a leader of men, but a beggar of girls.
     “Please, girls, listen. Come on in to a circle.”
     There was no response as my minions continued to giggle and point at Emily. Sarah, at least, was sympathetic to Emily, or loyal to me, and stood quietly by my side. I whistled loudly and, finally, the chatter faded like an old record.
     “Girls,” I said. “We play Pequannock today. They are really good.” I paused for effect, the silence broken only by Marley’s bubble gum exploding on her face. It took several moments to quiet the giggling again.
     Once I was able to send eleven players out to the field and the game began, I coaxed Emily awake and she stumbled over to the bench to resume her nap. I took a moment to contemplate the positive aspects of this experience. My shy and retiring daughter was participating, sort of. I noted that her efforts to reach the ball resembled a person sticking a toe into the water to check the temperature. Nonetheless, there she was, adorable in her uniform, a member of the team.
     Not only that, but she wanted ME to be there. How many more years would that last? The teenage years loomed ahead. The intense years of parenting young children were rushing to an end. For a few moments, I was hardly aware of what was happening on the field. My reverie was broken by the referee’s whistle. Pequannock had scored again. I felt a tug at my shirt.
     “Coach?” It was Emily, roused from her nap.
     “Yes?”
     “I think I could go in now.”
     “Really, you want to play?”
     “Well, my parents said if I don’t play today I’ll be grounded for a month, so, yeah, I guess I want to play.”
     I inserted the exhausted Emily who, even beset with the ten-year-old equivalent of a terrible hangover, had more talent than anyone else on my team.
     “Go, Emily!” shouted some parents, when she ran down the field.
     “Pass it to Emily,” shouted others.
     My team developed some vicarious verve from Emily’s presence. Now, we had one player who could compete with the Panthers. Eventually, of all people, Sarah passed a ball up to Emily who blasted a shot past the goaltender and the deficit was only 5-1. Everyone cheered. The girls exchanged high-fives.
     As usual, within five minutes of the completion of the game, no one on my team seemed to care who had won. The girls attacked the post-game cookies like locusts. If only they expended that much energy during the games! I was happy to see Sarah eating, chatting and laughing with the rest. This was a rare instance in my sporting career when I concluded that the girls had the right philosophy; it really didn’t matter if we had won or lost the game.

Tags parenting

Categories Uncategorized