ECLIPSE

by Steve Goldfinger

 Pull your covers up, Esme, and I’ll tell you a special story. Yes, just like that. Snuggle in tight.

Do you know what an eclipse is?  It’s when the earth gets in the way of the sun when it tries to shine on the moon. The moon gets very dark So how do you think the moon feels when this happens? Well, here’s my story.

“I don’t want it to happen again,” said Moon to no one in particular, particularly because no one was there. “I know it is only three days away …. or should I say three nights?  And I dread it.”

“Being eclipsed is no fun. I hate it when it gets so dark that I cannot see anything happening. If a cow jumps over me I want to be able to spot it so I can wave to it and even shout out Moo. I did that once, you know. And the cow laughed and asked me if I liked milk. Not especially I said, but do you like green cheese because if you do I can easily get some for you. The cow made a bad face. I laughed. This could never happen when I get eclipsed.

“And how would my first visitor, a man called Neil Armstrong, ever find me in the dark?

“There is a song that says I belong to everyone, but how would they feel if they can’t see me?

“There is something else of course. It has to do with how I feel about myself.

“I am very lonely up here. In fact, I am only happy when I can shine down on others and they can look up and admire me. I know I have inspired (that’s a new word, Esme, it means excited) people who paint pictures, others who write poems, ones who make up songs and even those whose only talent is to fall in love. That can’t happen when I can’t shine.

“So what have I learned from eclipse after eclipse?

“Well, I guess it is that, even in the darkest hours when I am most miserable, the time will come when I will be happy again and be able to make other people happy. And be able to see any cow that comes my way and have fun with her and be able to call her my friend.

“Being in the dark isn’t really so bad when you know you will shine again.”

Since joining BOLLI a few years ago, after a long career in medicine, Steve has been exploring his artistic side.  He has been active in both the Writers Guild and CAST (Creativity in Acting, Storytelling, and Theatre) as well as the Book Group and more.  

THE TWO OF US

By Steve Goldfinger

 She is a lot older than me (and I am old enough), yet our love endures and even grows stronger from year to year. She is full of soft charm, gentle shadows, and her commitment to my needs is unswerving.  Above all, her tenacious hold on beauty defies the new wrinkles that appear as inevitably as the seasons.

When I met 33 Birch Hill Road in 1966, she was 84 years old. She faced out on a gentle circle, comfortable with the two other venerable homes that bordered it. She embraced my wife and four sons as we moved in, and she did not shudder when we put her through some minor surgery, both cosmetic and reconstructive, at the start.

With pride, I took in her many graceful rooms. I loved the huge, multi-paned window with its arched top above her central staircase. The third floor, all one room, posed a challenge for one’s imagination when it came to livening it with furnishings.

Over the years, my infatuation with 33 Birch Hill transformed into love, exactly paralleling the ever-deepening love within the family she nurtured. I look back on the nooks and bindings that are shared between a home and those who call it such, and a bounty of remembrances springs forth.

Ed building the substantial back deck the summer after graduating from college. It remains sturdy and well used to this day, the one and only construction effort of his life.

The tee-off spot for the nine hole frisbee golf course Michael created, the “holes” being tree trunks, rocks, and assorted  landmarks around our circle.

The ghost piano sonata that startled my wife and me as we ate breakfast one morning, alone in the house. Well, not entirely alone. There was that squirrel who descended the open chimney, found the living room, and took a liking to the piano’s keyboard.

Peter tossing out carrots from his second floor window, his act in plain view of those of us sitting on the deck. He hated the carrots that Barbara always gave him to keep him healthy.

David’s room, its walls covered with large posters of dead rock stars. Also, music from his clarinet and later, his guitar. And the songs he wrote.

33 Birch Hill and I have aged noticeably in recent years. She has just undergone the replacement of three wood gutters at exorbitant expense while my left hip was replaced at virtually no cost, thanks to Medicare. She has needed an entire re-do of her front portico and new granite steps to finally replace her ever-rotting wooden ones.  She needs paint, inside and out. I need eye injections for macular degeneration. I need omeprazole for reflux and Eliquis for a heart that occasionally beats irregularly.

Love in later years does not change much—only in the intimacies and frailties that emerge.

After a long career in medicine, Steve has been exploring his artistic side.  At BOLLI, he has taken writing courses, been active in the Writers Guild, and even tried CAST (Creativity in Acting, Storytelling, and Theatre) where his imagination made him a singular player!

IN SEARCH OF THE JABBERWOCK

By Steve Goldfinger

April 10

Natives paddle us up this barely charted river in New Guinea. Commissioned by the Lewis Carroll Foundation, this is the strangest expedition I have ever led. It is the first step toward reincarnating the horrendous Jabberwock, to restoring those jaws that bite, the claws that catch.

The clue that set things off was the report that there is a wabe up the river where slithy toves could be seen gyring and gimbling alongside a forest of borogroves. It was there that the frumious Bandersnatch slaughtered the Jabberwock by plunging his vorpal blade snicker-snack through the beast and then galumphed away with its head.

Our mission is to find that vorpal blade. If scientists back home can scrape off some Jabberwock DANN, they will have the starter code to create a live Jabberwock that can be caged and shown around the world.

We were told to look for a particular tumtum tree where the Bandersnatch had rested just before the kill. That spot may be dozens of miles upriver, but our paddlers are strong and committed.

April 15

Hark! That must be jubjub birdsong coming from a tumtum tree just ahead. I am guessing jubjub because the song is raucous–downright ugly, in fact. Could one expect anything else from a bird that must be shunned?

My team gathers its shovels and picks.  The members include:

–   Martha Addington, archaeologist

–   Emil Gottschalk, eminent naturalist.

–  Mike Sullivan, river guide and provision supplier.

Emil is eight feet away from me when I hear him shouting. He is digging furiously into the shallow pit he has created. And then he raises it—a mud-caked sword with thin roots hanging from it.  He scrapes the mud away, and there it is—the vorpal blade!

April 18

Our victorious party is being paddled back down river. The sword is in full display, its blade still sharp, still menacing. I watch the trees slip by.  Martha is smoking, as usual, and, as always, snacking.  It’s a lazy journey back—until we suddenly freeze at the loud shrieking of what must be a dozen jubjub birds overhead. The paddlers lose control. The bow of our longboat snags against a fallen log at the shore. And there, glaring down on us, is an enormous figure—half naked, horny skinned, fanged, and reeking.  The odor is absolutely vile. It is, unmistakably, the Bandersnatch itself. He looks into the boat and sees what he wants. It is Martha! With one leap and snatch, he lands her and scurries into the forest, pushing pie crumbs and a cigarette away from her mouth.

We find them within two minutes. He is pressing against poor Martha. He thrusts her into a bush.  Her screams drown out the jubjub birds. Mike Sullivan approaches. He wields the vorpal-bladed sword. One stroke, and snicker-snack, the horny monster is headless.

April 21

 Martha chews some gum as we float up to the dock. Now it is in the hands of the scientists to separate Jabberwock DNA from Bandersnatch DNA.

After a long career in medicine, Steve has been exploring his artistic side. At BOLLI, he has taken writing courses, been active in the Writers Guild, and even tried CAST (Creativity in Acting, Storytelling, and Theatre) where his imagination made him a singular player!

THE MORE EXOTIC THE BETTER

by Steve Goldfinger

I like food—the more exotic the better.  So, who would I invite to a fantasy dinner party?

Marcus Gavius Apicius, Emperor Elagabalus, and William Buckland—only if they brought their chefs along to prepare their meals.  And Mahatma Gandhi, so I could see his face as he watched the others feast.

Apicius, a first century Roman, is renowned for his imaginative delectables. He brought culinary artistry to new realms, feeding his guests lark tongue pie, flamingo tongue, dolphin meatballs, jellyfish omelets, and boiled parrot. Homage to the chef!

Elagabalus, the depraved boy emperor, lived but 21 years. After his guests enjoyed such savories as camel heels, parrot heads, nightingale tongue, peacock brains, and mice baked in poppies and honey, they would disgorge themselves in order to have a second round of the same. Elagapalus liked surprise endings.  At the end of one food orgy, several of the gourmands remarked on how pleasant it would be if they could then be smothered under the scent of roses. Elagabalus obliged. At the end of their very next feast, he had them suffocated to death by tons of rose petals. He was known for concluding other banquets by unleashing wild animals on his thoroughly stuffed guests.

Second thoughts about inviting this lad.

William Buckland, Vicar and Professor of Geology at Oxford University in the 19th century, was also a man of dietary oddities: rodents, crocodiles, hedgehogs, moles, roast joint of bear, puppy, and his most historic swallowed morsel—the embalmed heart of King Louis XIV that had  been stolen from the king’s tomb and eventually came his way. When asked how the king’s heart tasted, Buckland replied that it would have gone a bit better with gravy prepared from the blood of a marmoset. Although he claimed he would eat anything organic, the vicar once admitted he could not be tempted to have a second helping of stewed housefly.

So I’m looking at Gandhi, seated in front of his goat milk, orange, nuts, stewed vegetables and concoction of ginger, lemons, strained butter, and aloe juice.

He is looking at me.

Shall I offer him a spoonful of my matzoh ball soup?

God, if I do, he might want me to try his concoction.

Better lie low.

After a long career in medicine, Steve has been exploring his artistic side.  At BOLLI, he has taken writing courses, been active in the Writers Guild, and even tried CAST (Creativity in Acting, Storytelling, and Theatre) where his imagination made him a singular player!

RITES OF PASSAGE

by Steve Goldfinger

I spent about two months learning to chant strange sounds in a way that would meet with the rabbi’s approval. It was my Torah rendition for my bar mitzvah at temple Pri Eitz Chaim, the ultra-orthodox synagogue on Ocean Avenue. The chant came off well enough, but my grandfather was not in the congregation to hear it.  He was in an oxygen tent set up on his bed in his small apartment.

My grandfather Emil Goldfinger was a pillar among the elders of Pri Eitz Chaim and the reason for my six years of Hebrew school torture in its airless, foul-smelling basement four afternoons a week plus Friday nights and Sunday mornings.  My parents only entered the synagogue on high holy days. The rest of the year, they never so much as lit candles on Friday night.  But for my grandfather’s sake, they sent me to Hebrew school.

My resentment was evident in the classroom.

I was painfully slow in speed reading Hebrew during competitions. I never even tried to understand Mr. Ben-Ezra’s instructions to the class, spoken in Hebrew–except perhaps shev ba kiseh, which meant “sit down in your seat.” I sometimes confused the holidays and never understood Tisha b’av.   Plus, I gave Hadassah Cohen murderous looks when she ripped out the page with the nude picture of Adam and Eve before passing out new textbooks.

My Hebrew name, Simcha, means “Joy,” and there were quizzical looks on my teachers’ faces when they called upon “Simcha” to answer their questions.

My parents remembered me sometimes sitting on the curb outside the synagogue with a forlorn look just before going inside for my ninety minutes of confinement. Little did they know that I had 40 cents in my pocket for a pastrami sandwich at Ruby’s which I would bolt down before arriving at Pri Eitz Chaim.

A tiny victory came at last, in my final year, when Rabbi Turk called me into his office and suggested I take off one day a week.

I did manage to graduate…with a 29% average. Recently, I chanced upon a faded copy of the graduation program, which said it all. Of the eleven of us at that crowning ceremony, ten received prizes of one sort or another.

However, they did spell my name correctly.

But surely it was the bar mitzvah, not the graduation, that was my rite of passage.

Emil Goldfinger’s rite of passage came five days later with his final breath…

Chanting was again heard.

After a long career in medicine, Steve has been exploring his artistic side.  At BOLLI, he has taken writing courses, been active in the Writers Guild, and even tried CAST (Creativity in Acting, Storytelling, and Theatre) where his imagination made him a singular player!

Prompt: Eating an American meal in a foreign country

At the Border in Dreamland

by Steve Goldfinger

I sat in a run-down taqueria, savoring my mac and cheese, trying to give the locals a sense of what really good food could be—when, suddenly, I got hit in the cheek with a viciously thrown enchilada.  It was followed by another that splattered on my elbow. Two hot tamales followed. A chorus of “Yankee go home!” erupted from all four tables. Then, the kitchen door opened, and out stepped Pancho Villa, rifle in hand, chest covered with medals and two crossed belts of shiny bullets.

What to do?  Only the day before, I had tried to get back home to the states, but a huge wall had prevented me from crossing the border. I begged. I pleaded. But the policia federal would not let me cross it.

And now, I was begging Pancho Villa not to kill me.

He let his gun drop and strode to my table. “There are many ways to die,” he said with a toothy grin. Then he reached into his sack and pulled out a huge jar of chili peppers, dumping about half of them onto my mac and cheese. He stirred them in with the barrel of his rifle. “This should do it,” he said.

“Do what?”

“Burn your kishkes out.” A roar of laughter filled the small establishment.

What did I hear?  Kishkes?

“Lansman?” I countered cautiously.

“Yes, yes……Galicia,” he responded. “And you?”

“Litvak.”

“Mexico isn’t what you think it is, and certainly I am not. Listen, you can call me by my real name…Schmuel.  And I’ll take you to the best restaurant in Guadalajara. Ratner’s.”

“Ratner’s? How can I believe you Panch—I mean Schmuel?”

“Well, those photos on the wall were taken in 1916 when General Pershing was sent here to get rid of me. Actually, we became good friends, and he loved it when I took him to Ratner’s. He adored gefilte fish. Also kugel and kasha varnishkas. When an outbreak of diarrhea nearly decimated his troops, he ordered each of them to eat 10 matzohs a day—a few too many for some who got so bound up they had to be evacuated. The general used the same remedy when dysentery felled hordes of his soldiers in World War I.”

Schmuel “Pancho” Villa continued.

“Pershing didn’t want to leave Mexico—not after I introduced him to Rosalita and she made him her exclusive at the Casa de Delicias.  He called her his little gattito, and she bathed him every day in her special love potion, oil of licorice. If you ever wondered how he got his nickname Black Jack, my lansman, that is how.”

So much history I never knew.

After a long career in medicine, Steve has been exploring his artistic side.  At BOLLI, he has taken writing courses, been active in the Writers Guild, and even tried CAST (Creativity in Acting, Storytelling, and Theatre) where his imagination made him a singular player!

by Steve Goldfinger

At age ten, I went to my first opera, Four Saints in Three Acts. Its composer was Vaughan Williams. Its librettist, Gertrude Stein. The line, “Pigeons on the grass alas” was her most memorable absurdity. Some of my classmates who were there with me probably still remember it. They may also recall that, not long afterward, we were taken to see a play performed by the Jean Louis Barrault company. As it was entirely in French, I am certain not a single word of it remains in our minds.

So, why were we fifth graders bused from PS 193 into the big city for these bewildering performances? Well, we were a group of bright kids selected from various elementary schools across Brooklyn who would comprise a so-called “opportunity” class that would last from grades 5 through 8. Our curriculum was intended to maximize what was thought to be our potential.

It wasn’t all artsy stuff. Back in 1946, we had some serious discussions about the world and concluded that communism was probably best for China. That same year, Miss Sullivan taught us about propaganda techniques in advertising. I learned not to be duped by testimonials and glittering generalities.

My mind was challenged.

I witnessed my first death in 1946.  Fred Cornman’s father, a musician, came in to play the piano for the class.  We sat in the auditorium, listening. Suddenly, a clamor of discordant notes erupted from the piano as he slumped onto to the keyboard. And at that moment, for the only time in my life, I heard a loud death rattle.  I knew exactly what was happening. I raced from my seat down an aisle to the back exit to escape. Miss Sullivan was close behind me, running to the principal’s office.

I can still hear that rattle.

I fell in love for the first time in the eighth grade. Her name was Paula. She sat next to me. She was beautiful, clearly the most popular girl in the class. The rare Sadie Hawkins Day (February 29^th) was traditionally when girls would ask boys to a dance. I couldn’t bear the thought that she might ask someone else, so I oafishly pre-empted her by inviting her to go with me. She accepted. Over the next months, my thoughts were torrid; our behavior was chaste. I remember the thrill of her allowing me to put my arm around her shoulder at a movie. I remember kissing her at her door. It was the first time we kissed. I mean really kissed.  And it was the last time we dated. We went to separate high schools.  So obsessed was I with Paula that I did not date again until my senior year.

My heart still skips a beat when I think of her seventy years later.

Since joining BOLLI a few years ago, after a long career in medicine, Steve has been exploring his artistic side.  He has been active in both the Writers Guild and CAST (Creativity in Acting, Storytelling, and Theatre) as well as the Book Group.

I QUIT

By Steve Goldfinger

“Giving up smoking is easy,” Mark Twain said.  “I’ve done it hundreds of times”  

My tally is a lot lower, perhaps ten or twelve times.  My fervent intentions were almost always foiled after I drank a little alcohol with a pal who was lighting up. “Can I have one?” invariably led to more.

At one point, I was seeing a patient who flaunted a pack of Lucky Strikes in his front shirt pocket. How I craved one, and my ensuing strategy was craven. He was in for a routine health check up, and I strongly urged him to quit smoking. The best way, I assured him, was to go cold turkey. “Toss that pack into that waste basket. Right now,” I implored.  He did.  I went for that waste basket as soon he was out the door.

That was 50 years ago, and I’ve been clean for about that long now.

It wasn’t so easy when it came to golf.   I can think of dozens of occasions when, driving home from a horrendous round with my golf buddy, I assured him that the end had come.  Never again.  Why torture myself?  Why destroy a perfectly gorgeous Sunday morning by hitting one wretched shot after another, succumbing to outbursts of temper, and cursing–so unlike me during the rest of my week. He would smile and remind me of the two good shots I had made that day.  And, sure enough, during the week, I thought about those shots, remembered how many wonderful ones I had hit in my prime.  Just recapture the rhythm, the mind set, the joy of being out in nature, the camaraderie, I said to myself.  And the next Sunday, I was out there with him again.  And the ride back was no different.

There was only one way to truly quit, and I proceeded to do it. Last year, I prepared a professional looking affadavit entitled Goldfinger’s Last Round of Golf and in it, detailed all my foozled and otherwise mis-hit shots, hole by hole. I sent it out to all my golfing friends– recent ones and others from years ago.

So far, this has worked.  I even gave my clubs to one of my sons. But I had this dream last night: I was out on the course with a player who was hitting magnificent shots with a set of curious-looking clubs, a recent breakthrough innovation by a club manufacturer who was advertising them widely.

I asked if I could swing one. When  I did,  the ball soared high and far, in a trajectory that would have made me proud even at my golfing peak.

These clubs can be purchased online or at a nearby golf store. They are handsome and affordable.

Tune in next month.

Since joining BOLLI a few years ago after a long career in medicine, Steve has been exploring his artistic side.  He has been active in both the Writers Guild and CAST (Creativity in Acting, Storytelling, and Theatre) as well as the Book Group.  

Shame

By Steve Goldfinger

It was a poker game we were really looking forward to.  Sure, we had had a few during the year, but this one was to be special. It would be just like the games we had been able to arrange when we were medical residents because Lloyd was coming to town.  And Lloyd never missed a game.

Lloyd was exceptional in many ways.  Not the least was his becoming the first African American to be appointed to the house staff at the MGH.  Lloyd was a superb doctor and human being, and he survived with dignity in a city rife with racism. This was probably no different than in his native Chicago, but, at least, there, he was at home.  There, he had brothers with whom he could endure and aspire.  Boston had to have been different. He must have had his share of diversions when away from the ordeal of residency. The only two I remember were his zeal for the Cleveland Browns (he would drive 650 miles to that city for a game) and for poker.

We were not card sharpies, only five or six guys at it for beers, laughs, and low- stake betting. We invented our own versions of poker with wild cards galore and betting sequences unheard of.

And so, all was ready that day,  April 4, 1968. The game was to be at my house in the evening, and the beer was cooling in the refrigerator.

At 7:05 that night, Martin Luther King was pronounced dead at St. Joseph’s Hospital in Memphis, and the infamous shooting forever earmarked the nearby Lorraine Motel for its place in history.

So there we were, five of us assembling for the poker game, Lloyd included.

And what did we do?

Played poker.

What did we say?

Lots of trivial things that I cannot remember. But not a word about what had to be cemented in our individual and group consciousness that night, to the exclusion of anything else.

Not a word.

Why?

How could this be?

Were we trying to brave through the game we had so looked forward to, not wanting to spoil it (as though it hadn’t already been utterly ruined)?

Were we reluctant to talk about racial hatred when we were so embodying a kind of camaraderie that we mistakenly thought absolved us from having to face reality?

Were we just too damn young, and despite our growth in another world, too totally inept at being able to reach out when that reality screamed at us?

We have no good answers, only shame.

Since joining BOLLI after a long career in medicine, Steve has been exploring his artistic side.  He has been active in both the Writers Guild and CAST (Creativity in Acting, Storytelling, and Theatre) as well as the Book Group.