HONESTY

March 18, 2013 //

HONESTY

“You can’t handle the truth!” is a movie line, delivered with gusto, by Jack Nicholson. Is it relevant to everyday life? To the extent that job interviews are a part of life, for some people, the handling of truth is a major consideration.

The subject recently arose when my daughter participated in a series of interviews that resulted in a new position. Her performance was doubtless on the up-and-up, and she approached the meetings with confidence bordering on swagger. Perhaps, that is because she was a marketing major, with a focus on “packaging,” both literal and figurative. How different from my first series of job interviews several decades earlier.

I spent the year after law school in California as an aspiring screenwriter, playing tennis by day and skimming scripts for low pay at night. Occasionally, I sat at my typewriter where I experienced writers’ block so complete as to approach paralysis. I stared at the typewriter and concluded, with a strong dose of self-pity, that my blockage stemmed from having completed law school and taken the bar exam. It was constantly on my mind that if I passed, I had a paying profession, just waiting for me to “buckle down.”

In reality, I did not have enough life experience and/or film knowledge to produce viable screenplays. One typically pristine Hollywood morning, I paused between games to examine my tennis group. Besides me, a 24-year-old aspiring writer was a 34-year-old aspiring actor, a 44-year-old aspiring director, and a 54-year-old aspiring producer. In a “Eureka” moment, I realized one could aspire one’s entire life where the sun shines and courts are available.

As far as I knew, none of my fellow aspirers had a profession available to him and none had outstanding student loans. Once I learned I had passed the bar exam, it was only a few days before I packed up the Toyota and returned east. Though I never desired to practice law, after my epiphany, the ability to earn money and proceed with life was compelling.

I sent letters with resumes to firms throughout the Philadelphia area offering them the opportunity to employ me. I was naively confident when several prospective employers contacted me for interviews. Unfortunately, the parable of “lambs to the slaughter” soon came to mind. The first interview, in Downingtown, went like this:

Partner: “I see you were not on law review.”

Me: “I played on their softball team. Those guys really liked to study, so they always needed me.”

Partner: “Were you near the top of the class?”

Me: “Not at all, but I did better than some of the kids from foreign countries who didn’t speak much English.”

I did not get the job.

My next interview was with the District Attorney’s office in City Hall, and proceeded, as follows:

DA: “Do you have a prosecutorial temperament?”

Me: “Hunh?”

DA: “Do you feel the bad guys should be put behind bars?”

Me: “Oh, yes, definitely, but only if they are guilty beyond any doubt. I worked in a clinic in law school and tried to get prisoners released if the prosecutors took short cuts.”

I did not get the job.

My third interview was with a small firm downtown. I thought I was “in” since the lawyer meeting me was a Dickinson College trustee, where I had gone to college. Things deteriorated quickly:

Attorney: “What fraternity were you in? I’m Phi Delt.”

Me: “I’m Kappa Wu.”

Attorney, raising an eyebrow: “Kappa Wu?”

Me, knowing enough to have a sinking feeling, but not sure what to say: “It wasn’t a real fraternity. It was just what my friends, um created to, um, sort of, um, make a little fun of fraternities.” I scrunched my face as one would when expecting a loud crash. The interview concluded shortly thereafter.

My fourth interview was with another suburban firm. I was ready for the law review question and the fraternity question. The goal, as I now understood it, was to answer honestly, but not amuse or offend. Two lawyers met with me in the library. After initial pleasantries:

Lawyer #1: “I understand you graduated a year ago but have not been employed. Did you fail the bar exam?”

Me, with bravado: “No, I passed the first time.”

Lawyer #2: “So, what have you been doing since graduation?”

Me: “I really wanted to be a screen-writer so I went to Hollywood to try.”

Lawyer #1: “Didn’t you want to be a lawyer?”

Me, recognizing a patch of quicksand ahead, and trying to avoid it: “I thought it would be good to ‘get the writing thing out of my system.’”

Lawyer #2: “What if the ‘writing thing’ had worked out?”

Me, sensing danger, but certain that honesty was the best policy: “I would have loved that. I mean, who wouldn’t want to be a writer?”

Lawyer #1: “I’ve always only wanted to be a lawyer.”

Lawyer #2: “Me, too.”

The interviewing process was not going well. I belatedly admitted I needed help. I called my brother, a prominent attorney in Los Angeles. Much to his amusement, I recounted my experiences. You have to “frame” your answers, he said. He suggested I explain my year away, as follows: “I know that practicing law will be my passion for the next forty years and I want to devote all of my efforts to it. Therefore, I thought that traveling the country for a year would be a mind-broadening experience and prepare me to focus thereafter exclusively on my career.”

He suggested I explain not being at the top of the class, as follows: ‘I felt it was important to have a well-rounded law school experience, so I focused on clinical work and also on taking a variety of classes, no matter how difficult. That is why my grades were not as high as they could have been, but I am well-prepared to practice law.’”

“But what if the truth is that my grades were actually terrible?” I asked. “If it weren’t for the kids from Vietnam and Mongolia I might have finished at the bottom.”

He paused for a long moment. “I hate to say this, but if you tell the truth, you will probably not get hired.”

“What if I lie and they check?”

“You will definitely not get hired.”

“Are you suggesting I lie and hope they do not check?”

A long silence: “I could never suggest that you lie, but — just hope they don’t ask specifically about class rank.”

I received another interview and approached it with a different perspective: less open, perhaps, but more prepared. So long as they did not ask directly about my grades, I told as compelling a story of an ardent young attorney as anyone could want. The law was my love, my focus, my lifelong passion.

Like magic, I appeared to be a wonderful prospect. The interviewer at the classy New Jersey firm was so impressed that he called in two other partners to meet me. No one mentioned grades, so delighted were they with my visionary, year-long trek across the country.

“I wish I’d done that,” said one.

“What a wonderful idea,” said another.

“You must have seen so much,” said the third.

“Oh, yes,” I said. “You can hardly imagine.”

I neglected to say my cross-country trip was completed in less than four days and the only sights I saw were three Hotel 6’s with entrances off Routes 40 and 70. A job offer ensued and, for better or worse, I was firmly ensconced in the life of a young associate within days.

Is there a lesson here? Is honesty always the best policy? What would I say if one of my children asked for advice before an interview? As my brother said, I could never tell them to lie, exactly, but, sometimes, the truth may need a little finesse.

Tags honesty and morality, job interviews, law firms

Categories Coming of Age, Modern Society

YOUTH WILL NOT BE SERVED

March 11, 2013 //

YOUTH WILL NOT BE SERVED

The morning loomed cloudy and cold which might have darkened my mood if the day’s activity was scheduled outdoors. Luckily, I was entered in a ping pong tournament (what serious players call “table tennis”) inside a local sporting goods store. Though there were only ten participants, an impressive cross-section of the population was represented, from age ten to seventy, with players born in, or derived from Korea, China, Japan, Russia, Egypt and Nigeria.

Ping pong has been an interest of mine since childhood when my older brothers taught me the game in a densely-packed basement. The limited space helped me develop a style steeped in spins and angles rather than power. I spent more time working on my game during college and law school than on several academic subjects. Fortunately, except for the recurring nightmare that I am playing a match when I realize that a final exam has taken place without me, passion for ping pong no longer adversely affects my life.

Most of my ping pong existence continues to take place in the basement of my home. My son, Sam, can now beat me, but my subterranean record against non-family members is dominant. It is a mixed blessing to have a talented child — a source of pride but, also, a source of defeats. Since Sam was out of town on the day of this tournament, the chance to play for prize money without him was appealing.

Unfortunately, this being ping pong, the prizes were not provided by a corporate sponsor or a wealthy benefactor. Each player put $20 into a pot with the winner slated to take $100 and the second, third and fourth place finishers receiving lesser amounts. As they warmed up and stretched, I observed the competition: there was Moustapha, a teenaged lefty; Scott, a forty-year-old dentist, who I learned was the defending champion; two retirees best described as old and older; a ten-year-old from China and his older brother; and, three middle-aged men who I learned work in various scientific labs at local universities. The youngsters, in particular, were of concern. It was clear their classic, smooth strokes were honed by professional instruction, not from merely avoiding the washer and dryer.

My first round match was against Jin, a post-doc at Duke, recently arrived from Seoul. He said he hadn’t played competitively in twenty years, as subsequently verified by his shaky performance. Next up was the older guy, a crafty player, but he, too, succumbed to my twists and turns. The third round was against the older Chinese youngster, who turned out to be surprisingly weak. After three comfortable victories, the dentist loomed. Can I say that playing him was like having root canal?

Scott could spin and Scott could slam. Scott could serve and Scott could trash-talk. Who would have thought? He looked like an ordinary, mild-mannered guy, but he hooted and hollered with each triumphant swing, and asked if I wanted to concede after warm-ups, before we played. Somehow, his delivery of such lines with a smile was disarming. It was apparent that it was “all in good fun.” Yet, there can be a value in placing doubt in an opponent’s mind, especially in a sport that requires deft touch and fast decision-making.

I stayed close to Scott, and even won one game in the best-of-five match, but Scott’s victory was never in doubt. He was simply better than I was in every aspect of the game, and I despaired of ever beating him. On the strength of my 3-1 match record, however, I finished second in my flight and qualified for the semi-finals. I expected that, if I could beat the first-place finisher from the other flight, I would lose honorably to Scott in the final. It did not occur to me that someone else could beat him.

We played our semi-final matches on side-by-side tables, Scott against Moustapha, and me against the ten-year-old named Xiao. How was it that a person barely taller than the table had finished in first place in the other flight? Apparently, he earned his spot by surprising Moustapha in his first match, when Moustapha was over-confident, then clobbering three grown men with superior strokes. I gazed at him with confidence – I can hit the corners well, and his reach is minimal – but, still, I was concerned. Xiao was TEN, and losing to him would make quite a story (though I cannot promise I would write it).

As the match proceeded, I was increasingly impressed with the youngster. Not only was he “cute” in his little red tee-shirt and glasses, but his strokes were pure. His attitude was positive, even when the tide turned against him. I realized Xiao was more mature than I when it came to adversity and I was ashamed of my comparative churlishness. I decided to emulate him. If I missed a shot, instead of grumbling and groaning or mumbling a barely contained profanity, as is my tendency, I tried to remain calm and to look forward to the next point. Xiao was an inspiration.

Gradually, I confirmed that, despite his talent, Xiao was not able to reach short shots. Also, he preferred to hit hard and straight. Accordingly, I offered him diagonal spins and hit slower and slower. I won three games in a row despite of a cohort of eight-year-old fans that gathered to watch and root loudly for “the little kid.” I rationalized my victory as a learning experience for him and, for a while, I did not feel badly. After all, he will have many decades of victories – he didn’t need one against me. When the match ended, he graciously reached up to shake my hand and appeared to have accepted defeat with composure. A few minutes later, when I saw him being consoled in his mother’s lap, I felt a pang of remorse, but turned my attention to the neighboring table.

Somehow, Moustapha was polishing off a victory against my nemesis, Scott. I wish I had seen how he did it, but regardless, I was relieved. Opportunity was knocking! I was going to play another youngster, albeit a full-sized one, who hit hard and liked speed. “No problem,” I told myself. Having learned from playing Xiao, I suspected that Moustapha might not like maddeningly slow shots. I am not afraid to admit that junk shots are a major part of my repertoire. Add in a few head-fakes and mid-point hand-changes, both rarely seen in ping pong, and Moustapha was mine.

The match was not as easy as implied above, but I prevailed in five games. I am delighted to report I have forfeited my amateur status. $100 will buy a lot of ping pong balls. Thank you, Sam, for being away; thank you, Moustapha, for beating Scott; and, thank you, Xiao, for showing me how to behave.

Tags improving behavior, ping pong tourney, prize winning

Categories Sports

HOW ABOUT ETHIOPIAN?

March 4, 2013 //

HOW ABOUT ETHIOPIAN?

A recent visit to our daughter’s new home in Brooklyn presented a welcome opportunity for us residents of a relatively non-ethnic enclave to enjoy some of the foods we have missed. For three days, we ate bagels for breakfast, consumed exotic soups and salads for lunch, and gorged on all-things-Italian for dinner. Finally, as our last evening approached, we had satisfied our need for pasta and pesto, and any food ending in “ini.” It was time to sample the wide variety of choices for which Brooklyn is renowned.

“Do you like Thai?” asked our daughter, Kelly.

“We can find that in North Carolina,” said my wife.

“Okay, how do you feel about sushi?”

“No,” I said. “I prefer my fish cooked.”

“Asian fusion?”

“Isn’t that passé?” I asked. I didn’t really have any basis for the snarky question; I just wanted to sound like I was on top of the food scene.

The conversation proceeded to hit several more of the usual suspects of a gentrifying neighborhood. I define that as a place where people in their thirties line up for at least an hour (baby carriage optional) in order to squeeze into as small and noisy a restaurant as possible, to pay as much money as possible, for as small a portion as possible, so that they can tell their friends they have “been there.”

Finally, Kelly must have sensed that she needed to stretch the bounds of culinary experience. We may live in the hinterlands, after all, but we take pride in projecting some degree of sophistication when it comes to restaurants, even if that sophistication is largely manufactured.

“I bet you haven’t had Ethiopian cuisine,” she proclaimed.

“That sounds interesting,” said my wife.

Because Kelly’s fiancé was present, I did not mention that the first two words I considered when I heard “Ethiopian cuisine” were “famine” and “starvation.” I am glad I did not, since such a comment would be crass; it is only for the sake of authorial integrity that I acknowledge the thought crossed my mind. For some reason, everyone looked at me.

“I’m up for it,” I said, somewhat defensively. “What is it like?”

“Well,” Kelly said, “it can resemble baby food…”

I involuntarily raised an eyebrow.

“…but it’s really tasty.”

“Okay,” I said. “Sounds great.” I battened down both eyebrows and any other facial expression.

“We have to get there by five-thirty,” she warned.

“Dinner at five-thirty?”

“Otherwise, the line will be too long,” she explained. “They don’t take reservations.”

It struck me as wildly improbable there would be a long line for pureed dinner but, as any parent knows, it is best to defer to one’s adult child on most subjects. One has to save being disagreeable for important issues. (Doubtless there are some stories there….)

After some hurried preparations, we walked several blocks to the small Ethiopian establishment. I was impressed to see only one of its twelve tables was available. Kelly was right; it was popular. The other patrons represented the melting pot of Brooklyn society. They were nearly shouting to be heard. Snippets of heartfelt opinions on organic farmers markets, nursery school waiting lists, art exhibitions and real estate prices were in the air.

“Everyone is so earnest,” said my wife. “They look like diverse and interesting people.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “but they probably don’t know a thing about ACC basketball.”

We were seated in a relatively quiet corner, and there were no dishes or silverware on our table.

“We don’t have any…” I began, but then noticed that every table was devoid of utensils.

“You eat with your fingers,” said Kelly.

“Do we get plates?” I asked, undaunted, but trying to recall everything I had touched in the last half hour.

“No,” she said. “They will put all the food on one board in the middle of the table and we sop it up.”

“Sop? I’ve never been much of a sopper.”

“Yes,” she said. “They give you a big piece of pancake-like bread. It’s sort of spongy and you break off pieces and… you grab the food with it. It’s called injera.”

I looked down at the menu. It would not be good to be born a goat in Ethiopia. After a bit of debate among the ladies, we chose four items that approximated lentils with goat, spices with goat, beans with goat and a vegetarian amalgam of lentils, spices and beans. I looked at the people communally pushing and smushing their food at the neighboring table and was relieved that all of us were healthy.

The waiter brought our drinks and we talked about the highlights of the visit, so far. We’d walked across the Brooklyn Bridge and we’d seen the new sports arena. We’d enjoyed Kelly and Laura’s new brownstone and its garden. The waiter emerged from the kitchen with one large board, as Kelly had explained, and placed it in the middle of our table. It carried a round portion of injera for each of us and our four entrees represented by four mounds of brown-red, food-related mush. It was as though Jackson Pollack had taken over the kitchen.

Any resemblance to baby food, however, was dispelled with the first taste. I expected, at some point, to request extra napkins due my inexpertness in mastering sopping. But I did not entirely foresee the sweat that emerged from every pore on my body as a result of the spices. Much hilarity ensued as I appeared to have just emerged from a shower.

“This is quite a business model,” I noted. “No table cloth, no silverware, no plates, just lots of napkins. I’d like to open a franchise. I’ll call it ‘Splat.’”

“Do you like it?” they all asked me.

“It’s definitely flavorful,” I said. And I was not lying. The tastes were stimulating and far different from anything else I had eaten.

“Would you eat Ethiopian again?” asked my wife.

I looked down at my dirty fingers and felt my sweating forehead. Was this the sort of experience I would want to repeat?

“I’m not sure,” I replied, “but I admit the choice was good. I am far more likely to remember my Ethiopian meal for the rest of my life than any other restaurant we might have chosen.”

Tags Brooklyn gentrification, Ethiopian restaurant, injera

Categories Uncategorized

EYES

February 26, 2013 //

EYES

Until he backed the Oldsmobile into a tree outside a restaurant, we did not know the extent of my father’s inability to see. According to my mother, it was still twilight when he failed to notice the sycamore, and the tree trunk was enormous. The car was only mildly dented, but my father had banged his head on the steering wheel.

“Did he have too much to drink?” I asked my mother the next morning, with a mixture of doubt (he rarely drank to excess) and, ironically, hope (it was a possible explanation).

“No,” she whispered. “He just didn’t see it.”

We heard his footsteps in the hallway, and my mother put her finger to her lips.

“Good morning,” said my father, without conviction, as he entered the kitchen. He held an ice pack against the side of his head where an ugly lump protruded.

“Does it hurt?” I asked, feeling stupid immediately. Obviously, it must have hurt. My question revealed my discomfort with the situation.

“It doesn’t feel good,” he replied.

I did not want to stare at the purple and blue bruise, but I could hardly keep my eyes away. I had never seen my father look so vulnerable.

My father was seventy-seven but rarely wore his glasses. He insisted that he did not need them, except to read. The family had referred to him as “Magoo” for years, but never within his hearing. Along with his hair darkening and comb-over, it was clear his appearance was vitally important to him.

“Lou,” said my mother. “I made you an appointment at the eye doctor this afternoon.”

“Why?” he asked, appalled. His response struck me as funny, though not in a “ha-ha” sort of way.

“You might have done some real damage to your eye. A doctor has to see it,” she said.

“Accchhh, doctors don’t know anything,” he scoffed, repeating a line I had heard all my life.

“You can’t just ignore it,” she stated. Looking at me, she said: “You should come along. It will be good for you to get out of the house.”

She was right about that. Since returning home after college graduation, I had spent hours each day in my childhood bedroom studying for the bar exam. However, accompanying them on a trip to the eye doctor was not exactly an excursion. The mission potentially teemed with tension. I would act as a combination chauffeur and kidnapper. Most importantly, perhaps, I would be nearby when the doctor brought up the sensitive issue of my father’s continued driving.

I drove the three of us in my father’s Oldsmobile to Wills’ Eye Institute in Philadelphia. It is a prestigious institution located in a massive stone building. When we arrived, I let my parents out of the car at the entrance while I parked. I planned to meet them in the waiting room. When I arrived, my parents were engaged in an animated discussion, whispering loudly to be heard over a television talk show ironically featuring a collection of bickering spouses.

“I am going in with you,” said my mother.

“Not necessary,” said my father, his tone angry. “I am not a child.”

She persisted. “It will do some good if one of us asks some questions. And you never do.”

“I’ve come here for decades and handled this myself,” he said.

“That’s the problem!” she proclaimed.

The debate would have continued if the nurse had not interrupted, addressing my father: “The doctor is ready for you. He’d like your wife to come in, too.”

My father startled as my mother rose and strode in ahead of him. I noticed for the first time that there were other patients in the waiting room. They looked at me sympathetically, like I was one of the participants in the talk show. I tried to distract myself with a People magazine.

My parents re-emerged after thirty minutes which seemed like hours. Both appeared stone-faced. My mother simply whispered to me: “I’ll tell you later.” We traveled home in suspenseful near-silence with my father in the front passenger seat and my mother in the back.

Once home, I hovered near my mother in the kitchen as my father went silently upstairs. He acted deflated.

“Well?” I asked.

My mother seemed to be choosing her words carefully. “He’s basically blind in his left eye,” she said. “And he’s not so good in the right eye.”

“He blinded his eye bumping his head?” I asked, shocked.

“No, the bump is not the problem,” she said.

“What do you mean it’s ‘not the problem?’”

“The doctor said he’s been blind in that eye for forty years.”

“Hunh?”

“The doctor said he has been blind in the left eye for forty years, and now he has a cataract in the right eye. Basically, he has about twenty percent vision in one eye.”

The reality dawned that my father had concealed his poor vision his entire adult life, from his wife, from his family, and from any official at the DMV, if any ever checked. Surely, he had learned to compensate in earlier years so that he could function with only one eye.

My mother concluded: “The doctor said he told him years ago to stop driving, certainly at night, but he never shared that information at home.”

It was hard to process all the thoughts and memories that went through my mind. My father was loving and devoted. However, he had knowingly driven me and other family members, day and night, countless times over the years. I thought of our harrowing trips ten years earlier to my trumpet lessons along the winding Wissahickon Drive, a challenge even for able-sighted drivers. I was so tense during the rides that it is not surprising I was so tense when I played!

After the cataract was removed and my father’s right eye returned to normal vision for a seventy-seven-year-old man, he refrained from driving after dark. He never expressed appreciation for my mother’s ability and willingness to drive, but he did accept his place was in the passenger’s seat. He still insisted he was able to drive during the day, however. No one would be his passenger, but he occasionally drove himself to a haircut or lunch with a friend. He never told any of his friends that it would be better if they picked him up.

As my father passed eighty, my mother wrestled with how to end his driving. We all knew it would be difficult. Sometimes, he just sat in his car in the driveway. What was he thinking?

The dilemma was surprisingly solved one day. My mother told me matter-of-factly on the telephone his car had disappeared.

“Was it stolen?” I asked.

“Seems like it,” she replied, cryptically.

“Who would steal a sixteen-year-old powder blue Oldsmobile Cutlass?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said, unconvincingly. “I really don’t know.”

“Did you call the police?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “There’s no point.”

“Insurance?”

“Not worth it,” she said.

“That’s it?” I asked. “That’s the whole story?”

“That’s the end of the story.”

Tags elderly driving, ending driving, vanity

Categories Coming of Age, Modern Society, Parenting, Retirement

VACATION REVIEWS

February 18, 2013 //

VACATION REVIEWS

Magazines and websites frequently tout lists of “Five Best Vacation Experiences” or “Ten Great Getaways” or “Seven Sights You Have to See.” Under-represented in the literature are “Worst Vacations” or “Most Horrific Weekends.” I aim to address this deficiency. Sadly, the five tales recounted below were pulled from an Olympic-sized pool; if it does not make me too depressed, this post may be the first in a series!

1. CAPE COD

If my children were asked to blurt their first thought upon hearing the words “bad vacation,” I am confident they would say “the nasty house.” Unlike today, when one selects a vacation home from the internet after slavishly examining hundreds of photos and reviews (or, preferably, having one’s spouse do so) in the early 1990’s we relied upon an unknown realtor to find us a rental in Cape Cod.

We dutifully loaded up the mini-van and drove the nation’s most horrendous traffic corridor from New Jersey to alight upon a dwelling developed by Edgar Allen Poe. A gravel driveway disappeared among untamed shrubs and led to a large white house with peeling paint. Several dark window shutters were missing and those that remained swayed and banged against the side of the house as a result of constant wind. Clouds skittered above hinting of the churning sea just a few hundred yards away.

Our hopes for a Normal Rockwell interior were dashed immediately when our footsteps left prints on the dusty floors. Several of the light-bulbs in the kitchen were burned out. The furniture was stained and mismatched (what a realtor might call “eclectic”) and the window panes were smeared. Chill belied the mid-August date on the calendar. My wife’s first call was to the realtor to demand a change, but he insisted the entire island was full. He unapologetically offered neither a cleaner nor a refund.

As a confirmed believer in the philosophy of “If at first you do not succeed, quit,” I offered to drive back down to New Jersey immediately. My wife, however, is admirably stout in the realm of persistence and took the “let’s make the best of it” track. The children, too, were of a mind to enjoy a special week at the beach.

Unfortunately, after a night of fitful and highly allergic sleep, we awoke to discover that the house was actually the least of our worries. If eskimoes have 240 words for snow, people who live on the Cape need a similar number to express rain. It drizzled, it poured, it fell windblown and it fell straight. For seven days and seven nights it never stopped. Trying to find a positive in all the precipitation, I recall that it prevented several attempts at miniature golf that could only have led to family discord. The trip to Cape Cod is remembered in family lore as the worst ever, until….

2. THE POCONOS

Is it redundant to have a “worst vacation” story include the Poconos? Only a few years after the Cape Cod calamity we chose to rent a house there; the theory was that it was close enough for me to work during the week and join the family for a long weekend. Once again, however, the weather and an unseen realtor conspired against us.

Our first house in the Poconos was a typical cedar-shake A-frame. In spite of my wife’s specific instruction to the realtor that several family members were allergic and could not stay in a rental that had harbored cats, the house featured a cheerful “Beware of Cat” sign in the driveway. The front porch contained various cat-shaped carvings and the carpeting contained cat-created stains. Sneezing started before we could finish unloading our luggage.

The immediate dress-down of the realtor resulted in movement to another house. “It has never had a pet,” he guaranteed, but had also, apparently, never had a broom. Once again, we were beset with dust and cobwebs, darkness and gloom.

The house was several unpaved streets from the nearest community pool. On the one day that it did not rain, the children gathered up their toys and floats and headed over. Though the pool area was nearly empty, the acne-pocked attendant refused access since our passes were for the community’s “other” pool. He “helpfully” suggested a shortcut through the woods. Besides mud, this walk also featured the mainstay of the Poconos, poison ivy. I would like to say that the family grew closer as a result of shared suffering, but alas….

3. SEA GIRT

With the earlier lack of success in mind, we thought hard about our summer vacation options. We concluded that we had been too frugal. Surely, if we threw more money at the problem, a fun and memorable (for the right reasons) vacation could be achieved. This brought us to the part of the Jersey shore known as the Gold Coast. The town of Sea Girt has stately mansions, beautiful gardens and a pristine beach. Reality television had not yet been invented in the late 1990’s but, if it had, Snooki would not have been allowed in Sea Girt. It was a town of paisley ties, dark green Bermuda shorts and dock-siders without socks.

We rented a week in a beautiful beach-block house for multiple thousands of dollars. When we arrived, we were delighted to see that it was well-appointed and professionally decorated, clean and large, bright and airy. You could hear the surf from the deck. A couple waved at us from the carriage house at the end of the driveway as we finished unpacking the car. Our realtor, named Babs or Mibs or Muffy, told us: “Oh, that’s just Mr. and Mrs. McCormick. They are the owners. I’m sure you will not see them during the week.”

Less accurate words were never spoken. Mr. and Mrs. McCormick apparently took shifts to monitor our every move. At least one was watching each time we ventured outside. We were certain that they entered the house when we were gone to see if we were misbehaving. We also discovered, during week-days, that the State Police training center was only a block away, and that training camp for new recruits coincided with our week of vacation. In addition to the surf, we could hear men counting calisthenics each afternoon, as well as the sound of constant target practice. Their shooting would have been useful, perhaps, if it scared away the black flies that rendered the beautiful beach uninhabitable. Apparently, when the wind is from a particular direction, the scourge of biting insects does not discriminate between the splendor of Sea Girt and the relative squalor of Seaside Heights.

What we really remember from Sea Girt, however, is that we learned that our youngest child is allergic to seafood. Amidst great enthusiasm, we prepared a meal of local shrimp and then watched, horrified, as our five-year-old turned beet red from head to toe. This started another family vacation tradition known as “the trip to the emergency room.” The same child required such visits due to sand in the eye and stitches in the forehead on separate Florida vacations. Menopause, a herniated disc and an injured elbow brought other family members to emergency rooms in such locales as South Carolina and Central America.

It was with relief that we left the McCormicks’ mansion. Ironically, although their constant presence intimidated us into more cleaning than we did at home, they became the only lessors in our lives who withheld money from our security deposit, claiming that we had broken a mirror that we thought was already defective.

4. CAMPING

It has always been my considered opinion that people are meant to sleep under something constructed of wood or cement. The other members of my family, however, feel that canvas or nylon can also form a suitable cover. For years, I curmudgeonly found excuses not to attend the semi-annual weekend in the woods of western New Jersey. One year, however, I relented. The children, not having their mother’s knowledge of my detestation of all things camping, thought it might be fun if I came.

They were wrong. Within moments of my arrival I noticed a dark object in the creek adjacent to our tent.

“That’s a snake,” I said.

“No way,” everyone scoffed. “We’ve never seen a snake in these woods. That’s a stick.”

Moments later, as the “stick” slithered into a hole in the bank, I had the dubious thrill of vindication. For dinner, everyone looked forward to cooking over a flame. We heated baked beans as though we were in a John Wayne movie (or Blazing Saddles, I thought) and prepared burgers and hot dogs. We skewered marshmallows for dessert. But I did wish someone had told me to remove the plastic from my hot dog before I roasted it. It still tasted surprisingly good, but I’m sure my error was not healthy.

At night, although I was assured that sleeping bags would be comfortable, that did not take into account their placement over tree roots. Also, there was no stopping the drunken singing emanating from the occupants of the neighboring campsite. Between the roots, the noise, the beans and plastic in my stomach, and the contemplation of our serpentine neighbor, sleep was impossible. I withdrew to a Hotel 6 the next morning and the rest of the family was relieved.

5. THE CRUISE

We were not doing very well on land so, in 2003, we tried our first cruise. By then, the children ranged in age from high school to post-college. We flew to New Orleans, bringing a deluge with us, and slogged onto an impressively large boat. We were to cruise for ten days with stops in Mexico, Guatamala, Belize and Honduras.

Moments after we were underway, the Norwegian Line advised that one of the four engines was not functioning properly. Accordingly, the ship would be moving more slowly than usual and the Guatamala stop would be scrubbed. They offered a $250 refund from the $10,000 total cost.

“How does $250 correspond to missing one fourth of the stops? Aren’t you missing a digit?” asked my wife. Though her campaign was waged throughout the cruise and through letter-writing upon return, no more equitable offer was ever made.

Within four or five hours, the novelty of unbridled gluttony had already worn off, and all three children were asking: “What else is there to do?” At that time, I was completing my thirtieth lap of the top deck walking path and wondering the same thing. In our room that evening, which we instantly referred to as the “cubby-hole,” I could not help asking what crime I had committed to be sentenced to so small a space.

Cozumel, Mexico was the first stop. Unfortunately, they had recently suffered an intense storm and there was no sand on the beach. That allowed for an afternoon of browsing hundreds of shops with identical tee-shirts, shot glasses and mugs.

After two more days of tag-team eating and bingo and a ping pong tournament where my family members were the only participants, we alighted upon Roatan Island, Honduras. We knew we were there because the local equivalent of a Mariachi band commenced playing music at seven in the morning. One had to walk through the performers and their tip jar on the way to the town which turned out to be a terrifying place.

“Do not leave the main street,” warned the ship’s representatives. “Do not lose track of your camera and wallet. Do not get into a taxi. Do not drink the water. Do not eat anything sold on the street,” etc.

“Marijuana? Viagara?” offered a group of young men stationed on each corner. The children wanted to return to the boat immediately and we agreed. I obtained a replica Honduras soccer jersey as a souvenir and was happy to return early to one more several-thousand-calorie buffet lunch.

Our last stop was Belize. The day there was interesting in that it was totally un-commercial. As our bus tour guide noted, there are only three working stop-lights in the entire country; not much is happening there. I am aware that there are beautiful lodges and rain forests in Belize, but we were part of a one-day cruise visit and that only allowed time to visit an iguana zoo, a few Mayan ruins and the National Park. There, we learned that the former British Honduras contributed thirteen unfortunate souls to the Second World War. They are memorialized in a statue that had fallen over due to a foundation undermined by rodents. We were assured that the statue would be repaired within the next decade.

Following our return to New Orleans, where it was raining just as it had been ten days earlier, we flew home and nearly kissed the ground at Newark Airport. Through the most elaborate and expensive family vacation up to that point, we had gained a greater love of New Jersey. Now that is an unintended consequence.

In sum, when literature includes tales like the above, after the initial disappointment, there is usually improvement and an eventual, if grudging, fondness for the experience. In our case, endurance only confirmed initial bad impressions and, in each instance, things remained the same or became worse. In any event, I have shared enough misery for one posting. If another installment is desired, however, I will doubtless start with our visit to the Hasidic Dude Ranch.

Tags Cape Cod Vacation, cruises, Jersey Shore, Pocono Vacation

Categories Parenting

VICARIOUS APPLICATIONS

February 11, 2013 //

VICARIOUS APPLICATIONS

A long train of parenting milestones has reached its caboose. The “baby” is applying to graduate school and we may never again live vicariously through the application process. While we are asked for opinions and impressions and our input is sometimes considered even when it has not been requested, our preferences are not critical. It is bittersweet to recognize our youngest child is an adult and will ultimately make the final choice himself.

It seems only months ago that we were hanging on his college choices. The eight schools to which Sam applied, and their responses, could easily be dredged from my memory cells. At that time, he was still under our roof, sharing our meals. Correspondence arrived by mail and, thus, we were usually ahead of him when news was imminent. We could place the envelope on the dinner table and watch as he opened it. Or, on occasion, we would obtain his permission to open the envelope before he arrived. Now, four years later, the process is handled exclusively by him on-line. If a physical piece of mail does arrive, it is only to confirm or repeat what he has already learned and told us several days before.

The one constant in the application process is that I pay. When I whined to my wife that I’d probably spent $500 on graduate school applications, I thought I was picking a number so high as to be ridiculous. I expected her to say: “Don’t be silly, they only cost $300.” Instead, she said: “It was more like $1,200.”

Once you get into a good PhD program in chemistry, however, it’s free. I did not learn this wonderful fact until Sam was well into his third year of undergraduate studies. A friend who is a chemist explained that the schools provide education and living expenses in exchange for the student’s work as an indentured servant/researcher for approximately five years. It’s almost like enlisting in the army except without the fresh air and bullets.

I also learned that graduate schools are ranked as though they were basketball teams. Lists inform if a school is “top ten” or “top twenty” or even “top-half.” Unlike a basketball team, however, the metrics for these rankings do not shed light on the young participants. Instead, placement is derived from some combination of reputation, facilities, publishing history, and all-around money-making prowess of the faculty and the institution. The players remain anonymous while the managers and administrators soak up the glory.

The first time we vicariously applied to college was twelve years ago. At that time, my wife and I were both working full-time, had two younger, parent-intensive (meaning, a lot of driving) children at home, and the subject child, our oldest daughter, was consumed with soccer. We did not focus as much on the academic merits of a school as on the soccer coach and facilities. For a few weeks, she was inclined towards a school where the coach appeared interested in her. When she visited, however, she detected a distinct chill. Though she still had several options, the spring-of-senior-year weeks flew quickly, and anxiety arose accordingly. Thus, when Binghamton University’s coach expressed interest, and was heartily endorsed by her soccer club trainer, the quest was over.

The next child was singularly uninterested in the process. While I expressed enthusiasm and acquired tee shirts from each school she was forced to visit, we sometimes were unable to get her out of the car. There was no fun, no anticipation, just the drudgery of heavily editing insincere essays. Though she was not of a scientific bent, she nearly agreed to attend a six-year pharmacy program just to end the search. Fortunately, a glance at a chemistry text-book and the recognition that most of the coursework was in that realm made her agree that finding a suitable school required some share of her attention. When we alighted upon the University of North Carolina at Wilmington, and the chance to tell her classmates that it was only five minutes from the beach, a happy ending was at hand.

In Sam, a confluence of factors made his college search more meaningful for those of us who were sharing it. First, he was our only child at home for his senior year, so there was plenty of focus. Second, he was an excellent student with stunning SAT scores, so the schools on his list were exciting. Finally, he was relatively interested in his college choice. By that, I mean that he was willing to look at several of the schools that he applied to and he was willing to write his own essays. Yet, he was not interested in following up. Much to our frustration, he was not willing to contact a professor, or meet with an alumnus, or engage in speculation. Rather, he submitted his applications like one threw darts at a dart-board, and hoped for the best. As a vicarious experience, it was not satisfying; though Sam was happy to enter UNC, we had a nagging feeling that he had left some chips on the table.

What a difference four years makes! Vindicated by his stellar performance and the excellence of the UNC chemistry department, neither of which was certain four years earlier, Sam could apply to the top tier of graduate programs. This circumstance provided no end of speculative enjoyment to us. After all, any of the eight schools to which he applied would allow for an excellent sticker on the back window of the car. In addition, if anything, Sam’s desire to consider, discuss, wonder, ponder, contemplate, etc. the pros and cons of each school on his list became almost excessive. Though I admit to also having the schools and their characteristics memorized and prioritized in accord with Sam’s daily assessments, his mother has been enjoying a virtual full-time avocation.

The important thing, of course, is that he makes the right choice and is happy with it. Yet, there is an undeniable parental thrill with each acceptance; we add another notch to our belts, another tribute to our parenting. As January dawned, the month of responses, first one came in, then two more. There were three the next week, and one the following week. Seven acceptances out of eight schools with only one more to go!

Does he want to be near or far? How important is the weather? Is the program large or small? How much is the stipend? What is the housing situation? All of these questions were weighed daily. How could he choose between three schools all ranked number one? (Don’t blame me; I don’t create the lists). The considerations became all-consuming.

The excitement of seven acceptances overhung everything else, as did a crucial question; to which parent could it be attributed? In the end, we decided it must be a mysterious combination. After all, even though I do not have one molecule of chemistry aptitude, I know he was not adopted. Pride grew each day as the acceptances were disseminated to friends and relatives across phone lines and cyberspace. Probably, several people are refusing to accept Facebook posts anymore. Finally, we looked at each other and concluded, as we should, the accomplishment is really all Sam’s. We are just overly interested bystanders, who need to let it go. Let him make his choice.

When MIT ultimately provided the only rejection, we tried to respond with equanimity. “It’s just as well,” we said. “He doesn’t need another place to visit.” “All of the schools are excellent.” “It would have been too much for his ego if he had been accepted everywhere.”

Do we believe that? Hmmmmmmm. When I’m sitting in the audience to vicariously accept Sam’s Nobel Prize, his speech will definitely include the line I will insert: “MIT should rue the day they rejected me, and my parents!”

Tags college applications, parental pride

Categories Modern Society, Parenting

BEWILDERED BY BEST BUY

February 4, 2013 //

BEWILDERED BY BEST BUY

Waiting for the Best Buy’s Geek Squad to arrive affords ample time for writing. When he says “between eight and noon” one can settle in until at least 11:45 before the first phone call advises that he is “running a little late” and will arrive before two. The second call, at 1:50, advises that he is lost because his GPS does not work. By 2:45, when he arrives, one could have made a good start on a historical novel.

Our recent experience was instructive. One day, the picture on our three-year-old television suddenly appeared psychedelic. After the novelty of green tongues, purple skin and red trees subsided, we considered our options. Uncharacteristically, we had not only chosen to purchase a warranty with this television but also knew where to find it, taped to its back-side. The warranty extended to a date several months in the future. So far, so good; in fact, merging on miraculous.

Upon arrival, our Geek proved to be enigmatic. He turned on the television, made several diagnostic noises, like “hmmmm” and “ahem,” and advised: “I see what the problem is.”

“Yes?” I said, anticipating a wise solution.

“The colors are messed up,” he concluded.

“Yes, that is why we called,” I said, after determining that he was not being ironic.

Wordlessly, he walked past us and back out the front door. My wife and I looked at each other.

“Did I say something wrong?” I asked.

“I don’t think so,” she said.

We craned our necks to look out the front window where we saw that he was standing beside his van making a phone call. After ten minutes, he was still outside and I tired of waiting in the living room. I walked out behind him, just as he was asking: “Then what happens?”

“Is everything okay?” I whispered, to get his attention.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, as though he had forgotten me completely. “I’m just making a phone call.”

Again, the lack of irony surprised me. I went back inside and resumed waiting. Finally, he came back in, and said: “I’m ordering the part. It’s a common problem. I can install it on…” he consulted a note pad, “… January 18.”

“That is two weeks from now,” I replied, showing that I, too, could state the obvious.

“Yes,” he said. “We are busy installing everyone’s Christmas purchases this time of year. It’s tough to schedule repairs.”

“Two weeks is kind of long, isn’t it?” I said, hoping for a reprieve.

“Fourteen days,” he said, without affect, showing that he, too, could calculate.

We have a second television, so this was not a major deprivation for us. Still, I wondered aloud why a whole van would not contain a part that was a “common problem.”

“Don’t be so logical,” wheedled my wife. “It’s always like this in the real world.”

She likes to point out how the “real world” operates, from time to time, so that I acutely appreciate how often she handles repairs, warranties, service calls, etc. by herself.

The two weeks proceeded uneventfully. On January 17, I received a phone message from the Geek Squad: “Please call us with regard to your repair appointment.” I called the number provided and heard the following announcement: “You have reached a non-operating number at Best Buy.” I checked the number on the message and tried again, with the same result. I concluded they were calling to confirm the appointment for the next day.

As the following morning turned to afternoon, the phone rang. I raced to answer it since the caller i.d. indicated “Best Buy.”

“Mr. Sanders?” said a woman. “I left a message yesterday, but didn’t hear back from you.”

“That’s because the number you left is ‘non-operating,’” I said.

“Oh, really?” she said, sounding skeptical.

“That’s okay,” I said. “What time shall I expect the, ah, repairman?” I hesitated to say “geek.”

“Maybe next week, ‘cause the part wasn’t shipped.”

“Why is that?”

“It just wasn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” she stated conclusively.

I felt that I was like an eight-year-old asking why I could not have candy for breakfast.

Several days later, a phone message from Best Buy advised of a new and exciting twist. The part that was “ordered” turned out to “no longer be manufactured.” As a result, said the voice, we should go to our local Best Buy with our warranty in hand and obtain a replacement television! This development sounded too good to be true, but we dutifully drove to the store and a twenty-something-year-old salesperson cheerily confirmed, after a feverish session at his keyboard, that we were entitled to a new, “equivalent” television.

“You can buy anything up to $799 which is what you paid the last time,” he said.

First, however, he wanted to show us potential upgrades.

“You won’t believe what you can have now,” he declared, sounding like Robert Preston in The Music Man. “By golly, in the three years since your last purchase, televisions have undergone a technological revolution! For instance, DVD players have given way to streaming; HD has been eclipsed (or did he say ‘augmented?’) by 3-D; and, your computers and games can run through the television.”

I nearly said: “I’ve never played a computer game,” but I did not wish to appear totally hopeless. “Can we balance our check-book on the television?” I asked, combining actual curiosity with facetiousness.

“Check-book?” he asked, looking confused. That effectively answered my question.

Much to the salesperson’s embarrassment, however, each attempt to demonstrate a feature ended in failure. On the first two sets, the controller would not access 3-D; at the third, he could not change stations; at the fourth, he had no volume control. If this man, who is surrounded by the technology all day, every day, and whose enthusiasm knew no bounds, could not access basic applications (I’ve always wanted to use that word in the flow of a sentence) how could we access the evening news?

Inevitably, we chose the same LG 42-inch television that we had, now priced at $1,199 thanks to all its “features,” but fortuitously on sale for $799. “Even exchange,” our helper touted, as he pointed us to “check-out.” According to the cashier, a dead ringer for Steve Erkel, however, the “system” showed that our old television was only worth $649.

“How can that be?” I asked. “My receipt shows that we paid $799?”

“The equivalent television is only valued at $649 now.”

“But this is the same television,” I said. “It is simply updated. You do not even have a stripped-down $649 version now.”

“That’s true,” he conceded. “But you owe $150.”

“The salesperson said we were making an even exchange.”

“He doesn’t know how this works. He is just there to sell products. Here is where the business is done,” said the cashier, with impressive self-assurance, especially considering his modest position.

I shrugged to express regret to the people now accumulating behind me in line. With the impatient eye-roll of a parent dealing with a six-year-old having a tantrum, the cashier offered to call the manager.

“Please do,” I said.

He slipped away from the counter to speak furtively in the telephone. He nodded, frowned, shrugged, glanced at me, nodded and whispered some more. I could not tell how the conversation was going but he returned to say: “Sorry, but you have to pay the $150.”

I was feeling helpless with anger and exasperation, but my wife, so experienced in this realm, calmly said: “Let us talk to the manager.”

The cashier looked jumpy as a tall, skinny man emerged from an office with a name-tag indicating that he was the manager. My wife launched pre-emptively into a presentation about the “warranty” and the “equal exchange” and “what the salesperson said” when the manager, baffled, held up his hand and said to the cashier: “I told you to put it through at no cost.”

Erkel looked abashed and said, unconvincingly: “Oh, ah, I didn’t understand.”

Finally, we had a happy ending. But I was still baffled by the entire experience. Why was speaking to Best Buy’s “geek” so unsatisfactory? Why was their telephone number inoperative? Why did their demonstration models fail to work? And, what’s with the cashier? Did he have a need to put down his co-worker? Did he want to impress his boss by getting a better deal for Best Buy? Did he have some scam going, or was he just incompetent?

Thanks to the warranty, we now have a brand new television with numerous capabilities that we may someday use and appreciate. Even the remote controller is space age compared to the ancient version of three years ago. Imagine, our previous controller did not double as a Wii wand, whatever that is. As we were leaving, I thanked the manager for helping.

“My pleasure,” he said. “If you have any trouble setting it up, just call the Geek Squad. It can’t be any simpler!”

Tags Best Buy, Geek Squad, television technology

Categories Modern Society

DROP-OUT

January 28, 2013 //

DROP-OUT

It is neither a source of pride nor shame, but I was a Hebrew school drop-out. Well, okay, I admit, it’s mostly a source of pride.

Born ten years after my closest sibling, I missed the comparatively devout stage of my family’s life, when they “belonged” to Har Zion Temple in our West Philadelphia neighborhood of Wynnefield. It is my understanding that membership did not require religious devotion but did require enrollment and sporadic attendance by my brothers at classes. It also required appearances at services by the entire family on “High Holy Days,” the annual weeklong paroxysm of piety, when even the least observant self-consciously communed with the righteous.

By the time I was old enough to commence Hebrew school, which is essentially a five year training program leading to a Bar Mitzvah at thirteen, Har Zion was already reincarnated as a Baptist Church. Hence, I was enrolled in the “Suburban Jewish School,” a casual institution based in an old house on the other side of City Line Avenue from West Philadelphia. The teachers were from a branch of Judaism so reformed that it may have approached Presbyterianism.

The faculty was among the first adults in my experience who insisted on being called by their first names. Instruction focused on culture, food and folk singing more than on theology. In language class, much was made of the fact that they taught Yiddish instead of formal Hebrew. The emphasis on learning the spoken language of Eastern Europe did not bother me, determined as I was to learn as little as possible of either language; however, it did occur to my nine-year-old self that Yiddish would not prepare me for my Bar Mitzvah which was, I thought, the raison d’etre of this entire project.

I could not express my perceived need for Hebrew instruction explicitly, I realized, without possibly causing my parents to remove me from the School and place me, instead, into a “real” Hebrew school. In terms of torture, that would be leaving the frying pan for the fire. Instead, I chose a course of civil disobedience. I was supposed to walk straight from elementary school to the School one afternoon a week, for instance, but I was not required to go if it was raining. (No Abraham Lincoln was I). Several times, I walked through lawn sprinklers in order to present myself at home, soaked, on perfectly sunny days. Sunday mornings, predictably, saw more than their share of exceedingly sore throats of sudden provenance. I am certain my mother was neither convinced nor amused.

My classmates struck me as inexplicably complicit in the cause of the School. They sang songs with gusto. They decorated flags and played games; they competed to parse the meaning of bible stories, as though they were already the lawyers that many would doubtless become. “Doesn’t anyone just want to go out and play ball?” I marveled to myself.

There are certainly studies analyzing whether a later child can get away with more than earlier siblings might have. My personal experience as a fourth child argues this theory is true, because it did not take long before my mother (I do not recall my father having a role in this arena) gave in to my obstinacy. At age eleven, I was offered terms for parole, namely: if I would prepare for my Bar Mitzvah privately, I could cease attending religious school. I agreed readily. After all, how could one hour a week with a tutor be worse than three hours a week in class? Plus, from a pragmatic standpoint, the School’s focus on Yiddish instruction would have required the addition of a Hebrew tutor anyway. I was ahead of the game!

Enter Mr. Schichtman, my instructor. Mr. Schictman appeared to have come directly from the set of Yentl. He wore a full-length black coat, a grey beard, ear-locks and a fur hat. He spoke English as though he had arrived from Poland that morning, though I suspect he had been in Philadelphia since shortly after World War II.

With the benefit of four decades of hindsight, I can only picture with horror the depredations Mr. Schictman experienced in Europe. How awful to add the burden of trying to press his centuries-old knowledge and wisdom into a vessel as leaky as myself. Yet, he presented himself with patience and good cheer. In describing his bearing and dignity now, it is clear that Mr. Schictman was, in a word, a “mensch.”

At the time, however, I was twelve, and the word that describes what I thought of Mr. Schictman then, is “halitosis.” Mr. Schichtman’s breath smelled like milk that had been left out for two weeks. A Bar Mitzvah involves speaking (mortification) and singing (mortification multiplied exponentially) in a foreign language, solo, in front of one’s closest friends and relatives. Since I could not read or understand Hebrew, Mr. Schictman had to help me memorize my hour-long presentation.

It was challenging to remember so much material, particularly when I tried to do so without breathing. He leaned in close so that I could hear the nuances of pronunciation. He insisted that I watch his mouth carefully so that I could mimic his words. Oy vey.

The morning of the event, I rode with my brother to pick up Mr. Schictman. I sat in the back seat on the way to the Community Center stifling laughter as Barry’s expression turned to horror when Mr. Schictman sat beside him. He opened his window several times even though it was a frigid January day, each time saying something about “how nice and fresh the winter air was.” Mr. Schictman did not seem to notice.

Once we arrived and I took the podium, the Bar Mitzvah seemed anti-climactic. After the ordeal of preparation, it was easy. Collecting cash-filled envelopes from the guests was also easy. At the reception, everyone focused on eating and drinking and my performance, the culmination of so much stress, was instantly forgotten. I never saw Mr. Schictman again, but I hope he had students more satisfying than I.

Tags Bar Mitzvah preparation, religious schooling, Yiddish

Categories Bar Mitzvah preparation, Coming of Age, Parenting

LATIN LOVER

January 21, 2013 //

LATIN LOVER

Attending law school and becoming a lawyer were never aspirations of mine. However, with graduation looming and the prospect of teaching MacBeth to seventh graders completely unappealing, I became just another Dickinson English major signing up to take the LSAT’s.

In some ways, 1977 was a period not unlike the present. We wore similar clothing, though more colorful than now. Hair styles were scruffy, but not as different from now as those of the Founding Fathers’, for instance. We traveled by car and plane, and we rooted for most of the same teams.

In other ways, however, the late 1970’s were positively paleo-lithic. There were no personal computers, cellphones or test-taking preparation courses. My LSAT preparation consisted of gathering two pencils and walking to the designated classroom. I may have had a cup of coffee in the expectation that it would increase my alertness and stamina for the three hour test. Red Bull did not yet exist.

The LSAT was not even the most important event of the day; we had a soccer game scheduled only one hour after the conclusion of the test against our main rival, F & M, and I took the test dressed in my uniform. Any sweaty palms or pounding heartbeats that I experienced that morning were more attributable to the game than to the LSAT.

Nine months later, I found myself enrolled in law school at George Washington University. The run-up for me had less to do with preparing for a profession than the logistics of moving and finding an apartment. When I finally focused on what lay ahead, only three or four days remained before the first class. My brother had kindly given me an old law dictionary as a “good luck” gift, and I opened it for the first time. It consisted primarily of Latin phrases. “Can’t hurt to memorize these,” I convinced myself.

So it came to pass that I was conversant in the style of legal argument last prevalent around 1700. I learned that res ipsa loquitor is a great phrase to accompany throwing up one’s arms to indicate: “What else can I say?” Quid pro quo is a succinct formulation for “if you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.” And, my favorite, post hoc ergo proptor hoc, means, roughly, “because it happened after that doesn’t mean it happened because of that.” Along with about twenty other such nuggets, I headed to my first class.

As soon as I arrived in the back row of Contracts, I realized I was in trouble. No one else was speaking in Latin. And my cavalier attitude about law school, though shared by a fair number of refugees from the liberal arts, was not shared by everyone. When I noted to the girl alphabetically placed beside me, that there were only 1,090 days until graduation, she looked appalled and informed me, icily: “I’ve wanted to be a lawyer since I was five years old and no one with a bad attitude is going to ruin it for me.” I was persona non grata for the remainder of the semester.

The following weekend, our class was invited by the law school to a picnic at a park in Northern Virginia. This event formed the totality of the social orientation program. I looked forward to an informal afternoon of hot dogs and volleyball until I saw that several of my classmates arrived in suits. It was 93 degrees!

Because I apparently failed to give off the right “Do Not Approach” vibe, a long-standing problem for me, one of the suited attendees strode right up to me and offered a firm handshake. He told me his name in a strong Boston accent, and demanded: “What was yaw bawd skaw?”

“What?” I asked, uncomprehending.

“What was yaw bawd skaw? Mine was six-fawty,” he said.

I realized he was asking what I scored on the LSAT. I had the presence of mind to add one hundred points to reality before responding, which effectively shocked him. But I still found myself stunned by yet another early encounter with a law school classmate. The first year of law school was destined to be my annus horribilis.

Tags Latin phrases, law school experience

Categories Uncategorized

DESIGNING WOMEN

January 14, 2013 //

DESIGNING WOMEN

Our previous house of eighteen years was a woodsy contemporary. Soaring, exposed-beam construction was clad in brown cedar shakes. Windows in every angular geometric shape, from the rhombus to the parallelogram, provided views of the surrounding trees, along with insurmountable challenges when replacement was necessary.

We moved in with young children so we were too busy to focus on the prevailing decoration. However, 1991 was only several years removed from the vividly colored era of the mid-1980’s. In spite of our work-and-child-rearing-caused obliviousness, we sensed that there can be such a thing as “too much” when it comes to the shade of purple known as mauve. The house had mauve walls and mauve shades, mauve carpeting and mauve tiles. If there were a tree that grew mauve wood, it would be certain that our kitchen cabinets would have been mauve; however, they were actually composite materials clothed in bright white.

The seller of the house was genuinely kind. We liked her and she liked us. The fact that she was a hard-working, long-commuting and uncomplaining person made her admirable; the fact that she was also blind made us indisposed to hold her responsible for the pervasive purple. Surely, some decorator took advantage of her situation and a close-out price on mauve paint and materials.

We chipped away at the mauve unsystematically for several years. The master bathroom gave way to blue and white tile; the entrance floor covering was replaced by stone; and, the living room carpet was ripped out to reveal beautiful hardwood floors underneath. The re-finishing of those floors, however, was such a horrendous experience, in terms of dust and disruption that we needed two or three years to recover. When it came time to resume the re-making of the house, my wife had an idea:

“Why don’t we hire a decorator?” she said.

“What would that do for us?” I asked.

“It would provide someone with expertise who could look at the overall situation and bring a decorating scheme together. We would not be doing rooms impulsively, one at a time, without a comprehensive plan,” she said.

That all sounded so reasonable that I failed to see the yellow lights flashing as we approached the intersection of momentum and expense.

“Do they charge to provide an estimate?” I asked.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “I will make a call.”

So it came about that NS entered our lives, the Martha Stewart of our county. She swept out of her white Jaguar one day and into the house with a white cape flowing behind her. I could not see anything behind her designer dark glasses, but I could not fail to notice the massive rings on her fingers. It was as though she had won the Super Bowl eight times.

“Ohhhhh,” she said in a vaguely British accent, as she surveyed the scene. “Ohhhh, this won’t do a’tall.”

“Is she really from England? Or is she from Long Island?” I whispered to my wife.

“Shhhhh,” she said, following NS on her self-directed tour.

“She’s wearing a cape,” I pointed out, quietly. “I bet we pay extra for someone who wears a cape.”

“Shhhhh,” said my wife, giving me a look that showed she meant it.

NS and my wife communicated for several weeks until, one day, I was informed that the project was scheduled for installation.

“I’ve seen the plan,” said my wife. “The colors are dramatic. The material is luscious.”

“Are we going to look at it or eat it?” I asked.

“We are going to enjoy it,” she said, with confidence and pride. “No one in this town will have a living area like ours.”

I pulled out of the driveway on the way to work the next morning as several small vans arrived. They disgorged what appeared to be an entire Eastern European soccer team. One man nodded at me, and I was sure I detected an enigmatic smile. “What does he know that I do not know?” I wondered. I concluded I was paranoid.

The office was busy that day and I did not think about the project again until I was nearly home. The last van pulled away as I arrived. I noted that my wife’s car was not there; she was picking up the kids on her way home from work. Prepared to be blown away by what I saw, I strode with great anticipation into the foyer and beheld our high-ceilinged living room-dining room area, and the adjacent family room.

I was definitely blown away. Instead of mauve the walls were now an overwhelming mint green. It was like being immersed in a tub of pistachio sorbet. Over each of the windows and doorways was a heavy and swirling green-blue material that formed what appeared to be an onion dome. I took a deep breath and sat down in the middle of the floor. How could I be gracious about this when my wife arrived? It looked horrible to a laughable extent, but not the ha-ha kind of laugh. We had paid $5,000 for an “expert” to turn an open, angular space into something that was a bizarre amalgam of looping and swirling shapes; no longer nondescript the rooms were nearly beyond description at the other end of the spectrum. It was so shocking that I was speechless as I heard footsteps emerging from the garage.

The first to enter the room were my son and daughter who simply stared, wide-eyed.

“Whoa,” said my seven-year-old son, finally.

Last in was my wife who spared me from having to speak by immediately bursting into tears. She put down some packages and took a spot beside me on the floor.

“It’s hideous,” she said.

The other three of us remained silent for a reasonable interval before the bravest of us, our nine-year-old daughter, ventured a question.

“Mom, was this what we were expecting?”

“It looked so good in the drawings,” said my wife.

“Did you ever get a swatch of the material?” I asked in as gentle and non-accusatory a tone as possible.

“Yes,” she said. “But the swatch is only about eighteen inches. It isn’t overwhelming. This…” she indicated our new surroundings… “is overwhelming.”

“Phew….” I let out a breath.

“Phew….” repeated our son.

“I hate it,” said our daughter.

“Let’s get rid of it,” said my wife.

“Really?” we all asked at once.

“We may as well make a party of it.”

And so it went. I brought two ladders up from the basement and we gathered some scissors and screw-drivers. My wife and I cut and disassembled the curtains from over the windows and the turbans from over the doorways. The children triumphantly threw the discarded materials into trash-bags. By the end of the project everyone was giggling.

“Never again,” we agreed, with regard to decorators. A lesson was learned. From that point forward, we went to stores and bought what we liked. We hired artisans to paint rooms and install wallpaper or sconces as we chose them and, eventually, the house was fully re-made in our style. It required several months to cover the mint green walls with a beige faux finish that we all enjoyed, but, by that time, we were old hands at home décor. When NS’s assistant called to ask if she could come photograph the job for NS’s portfolio, my wife took passive-aggressive pleasure in responding: “Sure, come on over!”

Tags hiring a decorator, Home decor, mauve

Categories Modern Society