MY FRIDAY NIGHT LIGHTS

by Steve Goldfinger

My parents were aghast when I strode home from school wearing a large, gold helmet, bowl-sized shoulder pads, and a huge purple shirt bearing the number 34.  It hanged to my shins.   At nine years old in Brownwood, Texas (population 12,000 or so), I was on Miss Wilson’s football team.

My dad was a doctor in the 13^th Armored tank division, training here to join General Patton’s final push. We had come from Brooklyn to be with him. Miss Wilson was the principal of the grade school. She was also spelling teacher, math teacher, librarian, baseball and football coach.

I was in the 3rd grade when I arrived. After appearing in a class and answering a few simple questions about Africa, the topic of the week, I was promoted to the 4^th.  In short order, the 5th. And a few days later, the 6^th.  Was I really that bright?

Anyway, in the 6^th grade, the guys automatically became Miss Wilson’s football team. Me included, shrimp that I was, who knew nothing about football. When I was playing line during practice scrimmages, I couldn’t understand why the kid across from me sometimes took a running jump over me when the ball was snapped and, at other times, just stood there looking down. I dIdn’t even know the difference between offense and defense.

I made it into one play during the season. It was a game played under the lights on a Friday night–yes, in 1944, this was a Texas tradition even for grade schools–and my dad brought a few of his fellow officers to join him in the stands. We were losing 35 to 0 and had the ball when Miss Wilson pushed me onto the field. “Tell them to pass, pass, and keep passing.”  It took me a while to get out there. I repeated her words to our quarterback in a tremulous voice and got up to the line. I don’t remember what happened immediately after, but my father told me I appeared exceedingly brave after receiving smelling salts on the sidelines.

That was my football career.

When the baseball season came around, I was first up in the batting order–a cinch to draw a walk because of my measly size, even without crouching.  And walk I did at the begining of our first game. The next pitch was thrown for a ball as I stood there when, all of a sudden, there was Miss Wilson charging at me.

“Why didn’t you steal?” she shouted.

“What do you mean?”

“You gotta steal on the first pitch!”

Really? I didn’t know that, but, on the next one, I followed her command. The ball beat me to the bag by about ten steps.  The shortstop held it out at me, waist high, and I slid right under it into the base….safe!

There she was, charging again.

“What was that?!”

They had never heard of a slide inTexas!  So this pipsqueak from the north had something to teach them.

When we returned to Brooklyn, it took a fair amount of persuasion by my mother to convince the principal of P.S. 234 to allow me to move ahead.  He wanted to discount my Texas education altogether and send me back to the third grade where I belonged.

Since joining BOLLI two 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.  

The Writers’ Guild prompt was:  “A Memorable Dinner Date,” which I chose to approach in a somewhat different way.

by Sue Wurster

For some, uranium dating marks time.  For others, it’s tree rings.  For us, it was dinner.  Not long after we started dating, Kathy chose to prepare our first home-cooked meal in my ridiculously tiny New York City efficiency apartment.

“So, where are your spices?” she asked me, turning from what constituted the kitchen (a grown-up version of the kid unit) to the den (the desk right behind her).

“Up there on the left above the sink,” I pointed.  Where else would they be?  I thought.  I’ve got all of three cupboards.

“I see salt, pepper, and a jar of Lawry’s,” she returned, “—but no spices.”

From that moment, the cultivation of my Midwestern palate was underway.

Two years later, we took it as tacit endorsement of our relationship when Kathy’s mom Betty added a bowl of sage stuffing to her Thanksgiving fare. (And I thought I’d been subtle about not having developed a taste for her renowned oyster variety.)  Kathy’s grandmother Caroline and the New Orleans family retainer Ella had passed their gourmet secrets to Betty who, in turn, gave them to her daughter.  Ten years later, after Betty died, Kathy placed her mom’s large, red recipe box on a shelf in our pantry and made her famous brisket and kugel for dinner.

Now, Kathy never actually used recipes, her own or anybody else’s.  I, however, follow them religiously, and what I cook ends up coming out just fine.  Kathy, though, could read a recipe, toss it aside, and do her own thing—always resulting in something … extra fine.

After Kathy died, I thought I’d try to carry on some of their best traditions myself—not Betty’s oyster stuffing, of course, but her brisket and kugel, for sure.  I went to that red box in the pantry and discovered that it contained no recipes at all.  On card after card, Betty described her dishes and made notes—hints, reminders, directives.  I could actually hear her voice:  If you forgot to get shallots, add a little garlic.

The one ingredient our spice rack eventually lacked when it came to home-cooked dinners was time.  Not t-h-y-m-e time but, rather, the minutes and hours that gourmet cooking entails.  As teacher parents with papers to grade and picky eaters to feed, we ended up resorting to the quick and easy.  My gastronome’s array of gourmet cooking paraphernalia gathered dust in the pantry.  There never seemed to be enough grown-up time for the espresso machine.  Panini press.  Crepe maker.  Sushi shaping tubes.  Or the bread machine.  All ended up waiting, as were we, for our picky eaters to develop their more sophisticated palates.

It’s been almost seven years now.  About two years ago,  Cara pulled out the fancy steamer for her experimental veggie concoctions.  And a few months later, after a shopping jaunt in Natick that somehow ended up with her buying yeast, of all things, Dani commandeered the bread machine.  Both have dipped into that recipe box to create their own versions of both Grandma Betty and Mommy’s perennial favorites.

From that first dinner in my city shoebox to the last dish of Thanksgiving oyster stuffing, what Kathy gave all of us–every day, in every way–was the very best in true “soul food.”  Complete with spices.

This blog has been such a highlight for me at BOLLI, and I hope to see more members choose to write and share thoughts, favorite books/movies/tv shows, local recommendations for restaurants and/or other establishments, memories–or take your camera for a walk and send us the results!

Send submissions to:  susanlwurster@gmail.com

THE END OF THE BEGINNING

by Larry Schwirian

It was the last week of May, and I was driving to McKeesport to pick up my tux for the Senior Prom.  This was probably the last time I would ever need to go to McKeesport for anything.   Graduation was only a few weeks away, and then there would be only three short months before I left the only home I’d ever known for college in another state.  I was anxious to get away, to begin to make my way in the world on my own terms, to be independent of my family…but I was also a little apprehensive.  I was, it could be said, more or less at the top of the heap, both academically and socially, in the small town where I grew up, but I knew the competition was going to be a lot tougher in the city at the selective engineering school I was going to attend.

As I parked the car to go into the store to pick up my tux, my train of thought shifted to the girl who was my date for the prom.  Her name was Ginny.  She was not my girlfriend or even someone I occasionally dated…but just a friend.  Her longtime boyfriend and future husband was a couple of years older and away at college;  she very much wanted to go to the prom, so she asked me to be her escort. I couldn’t very well refuse as I didn’t have a girlfriend at the time and there was no one I would be happier to spend a special evening with. She was quite attractive and a very personable girl, or should I say young woman?  I was never sure, at that age, what the difference was between the two.

Ginny was unlike most of the other girls in our class. She dressed more conservatively and seemed to be more introspective. She lived with her grandmother and never shared anything about her parents or siblings. I sensed a self-consciousness about her situation, so I never pushed for details.  Most of the “in-crowd” girls always seemed to hang around together, but Ginny didn’t seem to need the support of her peers.

On the evening of the prom, I drove to her grandmother’s to pick her up.  When she came down the stairs in a cream colored, spaghetti-strap, bare-shouldered gown, I was gob-smacked. I had brought her a corsage but was unnerved as to how and where I was going to fasten it to her gown. Fortunately, Grandma rigged-up something so she could wear it on her wrist.

The prom itself was fairly uneventful except that I got a small cut on my nose from Ginny’s hair…she used some kind of hairspray that made her hair that stiff. Afterward, I took her home, and we sat on her porch swing for a couple of hours, talking about our futures. As I was about to leave, she gave me a hug, kissed me on the cheek, and thanked me for being a good friend…and benign escort.

Except for the graduation ceremony, that was the last I saw or heard from Ginny until our forty-fifth high school reunion. That prom and that graduation ceremony were, in a very real sense, The End of My Beginning.

Architect Larry and his fellow architect wife Caroline live in an historic preservation home in Newton and, together, lead BOLLI courses on architecture.  Since joining BOLLI, Larry has dived into writing.  He has been an active participant in and leader of the Writers Guild special interest group as well as serving on the BOLLI Journal staff.  

HOME RUN!

by Mitch Fischman

“Did you get to second base last night?” my buddy Marty asked.  He motioned how he barely slid into third and hoped to round the bases next Saturday…maybe even hit a home run, if he was lucky. Sure I knew about the Red Sox, but I wondered why he was playing baseball on Saturday night.  He was talkative and was always the spokesman for our group of kids when events of the day needed interpretation.  So, when he took off his belt, leaving with his pants partially open, I wondered why anyone would play a game without a belt.  But Marty was a schemer, and he was so energized with the details of how he would steal home from third next week, it sounded possible.

Growing up, I knew that Marty behaved differently than our other friends. He always climbed trees or played tricks on us.  Mostly, they were harmless like trying to lock us out of our own homes or starting fires with his ever-present lighter.  He said he carried it to be able to light cigarettes he would bum from his older brother.  I never believed that.   I assumed he used it to play tricks or burn someone’s house down.  Whenever I heard sirens, I always thought that Marty had done it again.

I was particularly intrigued as to how Marty was going to hit a home run next Saturday, and he didn’t disappoint me with his answer.  “I will stand at the plate with a guitar,” he said, “and sing a love song while holding a dozen roses.”  I appreciated his care for detail but wondered how he could hit a home run out of the park while holding all that stuff and, I assumed, a bat. He was confident, though, that he would succeed.

A week later, when I asked whether or not he had hit a home run, he said, “No–only a triple.”  And he was disappointed that he was rejected at third after spending $250 on a limousine which didn’t make any friggin’ sense.  I told him that all I wanted to hit was a single and that I needed him to come help me to buy a good bat.

“You don’t need a bat,” he said.  “Just some good after-shave lotion and mouthwash.”  I was confused.  What the heck did any of that have to do with baseball?   So far, Marty hasn’t explained anything to me.  I guess it’s our little secret,  but maybe someday I will know more.

Mitch Fischman is a baseball fan and a city planner, working for the Boston Redevelopment Authority for 15 years and for developers for 30 years. As a kid he went to Red Sox games with his Dad and always kept a running score of hits and outs by player. This blog entry grew out of that life experience.

MY REVOLUTION

A few days after my sixteenth birthday and before Christmas in 1958, my parents, my sister and I mounted the gangplank of the M.S Italia, anchored in the Hudson River. We were sailing on the Christmas-New Year’s cruise to the Caribbean, in the days before Caribbean cruises were affordable for middle-class families like mine. But we were guests of the cruise line, which regularly doled out freebies to travel agents like my father, the would-be bon vivant who happily left behind his egalitarian instincts and enjoyed the first-class rooms, the food, and the drink.

Sailing past the New York City skyline and the Statue of Liberty was awe-inspiring, the North Atlantic in mid-winter, less so. But by day three, we could enjoy the lavish dinners and by day four the water was like turquoise glass and the sun was shining. First stop, Nassau in the Bahamas – everybody ashore to buy straw hats. Next day, Port-au-Prince, colorful, French, and with the grinding poverty invisible to tourists. Then Kingston, Jamaica, where a group of us posturing teenagers hung around a beach bar that served anyone.

But these ports were the appetizers. The main course was to be New Year’s Eve in Havana. Havana! The decadent playground of the rich, famous, and disreputable, where for one glorious night the passengers from the M.S. Italia would drink and dance and gamble and gawk. That is, most of the passengers. Night life was not for my parents. Nor were they inclined to be a party to the corruption of the Batista regime. They were aware – and I was dimly aware – that there was unrest in Cuba. We knew the word “guerilla.” We knew the rebels were in the mountains, led by a patriot and workers’ champion named Fidel Castro. But that was far removed from New Year’s Eve in Havana. So while our fellow passengers, dressed to the nines, went ashore to celebrate, we had a quiet dinner at anchor in the harbor and went to bed.

In the morning, the quiet was shattered. Loudspeakers blared in two languages. We could hear the boom of cannon fire. We ran on deck to learn that in the early morning hours Batista had fled to the Dominican Republic. Castro’s forces were marching toward the capital to take control of the government. The rebels had won! Viva la revolución! We hung over the deck rails cheering and waving to the Cuban sailors on the warship anchored alongside.

I looked at my parents. They were political activists of the far-left-wing variety but they weren’t cheering or waving. Hadn’t they been working for this all their lives? They looked worried. The United States had backed Batista until the end. Maybe this wasn’t a good time to be Americans in Havana, whatever your political leanings. The loudspeakers confirmed it. We were leaving. Immediately. Members of the crew were dispatched to round up the passengers still in the casinos and hotels and within the hour we steamed out of Havana harbor, leaving the revolution behind and leaving Cuba behind for almost sixty years.

A native New Yorker, Abby moved to Boston to be among her people:  family and Red Sox fans.  She is a music lover, crossword puzzler, baseball fan, and political junkie who flunked Halloween costumes but can debug her daughter’s wifi.

Fertile New Mexican Topsoil

By Dennis Greene

            I have always wondered if my mother’s penchant for cleanliness prevented me from achieving my dream of playing for the Celtics.

In July of 1958, I went to work at Philmont Boy Scout ranch in Cimmeron, New Mexico.  When I set out, I stood five foot nothing but was full of enthusiasm.  But, by the end of the summer, after I had immersed myself in this unbelievable outdoor adventure, I had grown almost eight inches.

I  kept a low profile on the ranch work crew to avoid the attention of Smith Mullens, the trail boss. He was a tough little cowboy who didn’t say much but had a formidable look.  On one day, though, I was assigned to work with him  in a well shaft where it was impossible to avoid his notice.

“Hey, New England, when was the last time you took a shower?” Smith asked.

“I’m not sure, ” I answered. “There ‘s not much water out here in the desert.”

“It looks like there’s enough dirt and grit on your neck to grow taters, and I don’t want to think about what’s crawling in your hair, ” Smith drawled. “I have a mind to take my horse brush to you.”

“I’ll be sure to shower the next time we are at base camp, ” I promised, without any real intention of following through. I believed my filthiness might be the cause of my recent growth spurt, and I didn’t plan on washing until I was much taller.

“I’m not sure it can wait that long,”  Smith said ominously.

Smith was more of a doer than a talker.  Shortly after we finished installing a pipe, I found myself surrounded by the entire work crew. They grabbed me, threw me down in the grass, and stripped me naked. There was lots of laughing and taunting, but I wasn’t amused. I fought like a crazed wolverine but was overwhelmingly outnumbered. Two buckets of icy water hit me, and I was soaped up, head to toe, with a bar of rough laundry soap.

Then Smith Mullens appeared.

“OK, New England.  Time to shed some of that rich New Mexican topsoil,” he said,  approaching with his horse brush.

For the next few minutes, it felt as if I were being flayed alive. The laughter and taunting receded into the background as that brush scrubbed the dirt from my flesh. I thought I could see mud or blood running down my limbs and torso. It was a relief when the guys lifted me up and tossed me into the watering trough. I came up sputtering to the sound of fifteen teen-age idiots laughing their asses off.

I was so mad I wasn’t even a little embarrassed, but that night, I had to admit to myself that I felt a good deal less gritty.  But because of the kind of work we did, I soon managed to become just as dirty as I had been before the bath, and I remained covered with that New Mexican topsoil for the rest of the trip.

When my parents met me at the bus station in Albany, my mother was aghast. I thought I noticed a few tears forming, but she brushed them away quickly. We were supposed to meet a bunch of my parent’s old friends in Pittsfield for a little vacation, but she would not even allow me in the car. She got a hotel room within walking distance of the bus terminal where she ordered me to disrobe, threw away what I had on, and told me to remain in the shower until she returned with new clothes. Then, she had my dad escort me to the nearest barber for a haircut and my first shave. When I was finally presentable enough to pass her inspection, she allowed me to rejoin the family, and we headed to Camp Winadu.

I still wonder how tall I might have been if she had let me continue to grow in that rich New Mexican topsoil for just another month or two. At six-foot five, I think I could have made it to the NBA.

Dennis spent his early years in and around New Bedford, Massachusetts as a reclusive bookworm, avid Boy Scout, high school basketball player and thespian.  He now lives in Wellesley where he is writing a coming of age memoir, trying to improve his golf game, attending courses and leading a new science fiction course at BOLLI–and taking frequent naps. 

*

                Share your memoir writing with BOLLI Matters readers!                 Send items to susanlwurster@gmail.com

The Writers Guild prompt was “Show us your fancy footwork!”  which took Steve back in time.

TWINKLE TOES

by Steve Goldfinger

They don’t call me “Twinkle Toes” without reason.  No, they do it for laughs.  In fact, they call it”Danse Macabre” when I get on the floor.

It all began–or, in truth–didn’t begin when my mother insisted that I take dance lessons from an adolescent neighbor.  The girl was 2 years older and  7 inches taller than me as we partnered in her parents’ living room.  As her Victrola played out scratchy tunes, I looked up at her slightly sweaty, acne-laden face.  I watched her nod as she counted out the rhythm.  My feet would plunk down on the spots on the floor that she pointed to with her eyes.

I told my mother not to worry because I would never fall for a girl who liked to dance, so there was no need for me to acquire that particular skill.

And please, Mom, I do not want to take elocution lessons.

*

When I married Barbara, she had just graduated from Brooklyn College where she had been president of the modern dance company.  It was a culmination of years of classes, practice, and performances.  I loved watching her dance.  I loved everything about her.  I foresaw a marriage challenged only at bar mitzvah and marriage celebrations when hired bands would blast out their dance invitations.  She was really pretty good at leading me around the floor, smiling as though enjoying herself and not wincing when one of my feet would squash one of hers.  Thanks to a lot of at-home practice, the one dance we could do passably well was the cha-cha.  I somehow thought of it as a Jewish dance, probably because it was so popular at all those celebrations.

My friend Sam knew only one dance step, which I saw him perform in ludicrous manner many years ago.  It was at El Bodegon, a very good Spanish restaurant in Washington that had a small stage facing the tables.  Once each evening, the music would boom out from speakers, and two beautiful girls in frilly costumes would come out and perform wild flamenco dances.  Then, invariably, they would try to get one of the diners to get up on the stage with them.  The Latin music blared when Sam was cajoled into joining them.  Then, he launched into the one step he knew…the Charleston.  It almost worked if you had drunk enough Valencia.

My most ridiculous dance experience occurred during my internship year at the Massachusetts General Hospital.  On a weekend when Barbara was visiting her folks in Brooklyn, my resident–a charming and very persuasive guy–asked…no, virtually commanded…that I “double date” with him.  He was going to a square dance with his girlfriend, and her housemate was to be my partner.

And so, she was.  Guilt shrouded every second of my time with her.  Betrayal, thy name is Stephen!  Abandon, ye, all hope of reparation!

I wonder if Myrna is still telling the story about the deaf mute who once took her to a square dance.

*

Share your memories with the BOLLI community by submitting memoir writing (of approximately 500 words) to BOLLI Matters co-editor Sue Wurster at susanlwurster@gmail.com

ESCAPING TO IMAGINARY WORLDS

by Dennis Greene

In 1952, when I was an undersized, under-aged, socially inept eight -year–old, my family relocated from a working class neighborhood in Queens, New York, to one of the most disadvantaged school districts in New Bedford, Massachusetts. For the next seven years I tried to find my place in this unwelcoming new world, and when the struggle got me down, I escaped to the amazing worlds created by Edgar Rice Burroughs, Isaac Asimov, Jules Verne,  H.G. Wells, Ray Bradbury, E.E.”Doc” Smith and all the other extraordinary science fiction and fantasy writers of the early and mid-twentieth century. Many of these books were out of print in the 1950s, but I searched the glass-floored stacks of the New Bedford Free Public Library to obtain transport to these imaginary worlds. These flights of fantasy turned a potentially lonely and unhappy period of my childhood into a time I look back on with fond nostalgia.

I recall a time in tenth grade when it seemed the arc of my adolescence was finally on the upswing. I had a bunch of new basketball playing friends, and I was one of the better players. We played every afternoon in Buttonwood Park or in the Dartmouth High gym. I had finally experienced a growth spurt, and my jump shot had improved to the point where I was confident I would be selected to play on the JV team. All the other guys striving for places told me I was a sure bet to make it. On the Friday when the team roster was posted, the whole bunch of us crowded in front of the bulletin board to see the list. I ran my eyes over the list several times quickly, then a few more times very slowly; then I just stared at it with a sick, empty feeling in my gut. I didn’t make the team. The names of several much weaker players were on the list, but no matter how long I stared, mine was not.

I was devastated. After staring at the list for an eternity, I fled for home without saying a word to anyone. I made myself a ham, Swiss cheese and tomato sandwich on seeded light rye with mayo and retreated to my room. There, I spent the weekend re-reading Edgar Rice Burroughs’ The Princess of Mars and doing lots of sleeping. I emerged on Sunday evening, still pissed off and disappointed but ready to again face the world. That quick trip to Barsoom to be with John Carter, Tars Tarkas and the incomparable Deija Thoris helped me get through a tough few days.

Like many disappointments, failing to make the team turned out to be a good thing. After moping around the house for a week or two, my mom and dad had had enough. One way or another, they convinced me to fill my time doing other stuff while all my Dartmouth friends practiced basketball. I grudgingly took their advice, and during that tenth-grade basketball season, I tried out and got a role in a high school play, joined a co-ed bowling team at the Jewish Community Center, and there met a group of guys who invited me to play on their church league basketball team. We won the New England Championship, and I acquired a new group of wonderful friends, including several girls. If I had made the JV team, I would have missed all that.

The following year, I did make the JV team, and my senior year I was a starter on the worst varsity basketball team in Dartmouth High’s history. The coach was not impressed with the basketball ability of our collection of short, slow, honor society members, as we compiled a losing 6 and 9 record, but in later years, he referred to us as the “smartest” group he ever coached. So everything did turn out fine.

Fifty-seven years later, on Nov. 9, 2016, I woke up and tuned in to the election results to learn that Donald Trump was our President-elect. I stared at the television with the same blank stare I had used in 1959 to peruse that JV basketball roster, but again, the result did not change. Again, I made myself a ham, Swiss cheese and tomato sandwich on light rye with mayo and retreated to my bedroom.  This time I re-read a collection of  Poul Anderson’s Polytechnic League stories about the heroic intergalactic traders Nicholas van Rijn and David Fayaden. I emerged a few days later, ready to face the world we live in.  I still believe that speculative literature can be a remedy for depression and despair if the right works are selected and the reader is able to escape to that other world and let his or her imagination embrace the epic scope and optimistic outlook of these heroic adventures. So if you are ever feeling down, just pick up a copy of Dune or Game of Thrones and go on an adventure.

Dennis Greene joined BOLLI a year ago and for the past two semesters has begun to acquire a liberal education. He spent his early years in and around New Bedford, Massachusetts as a reclusive bookworm, avid Boy Scout, high school basketball player and thespian. After graduating Dartmouth High School, Dennis obtained a vocational education studying engineering, business administration and law. He then spent over four decades as an engineer, lawyer, husband, father of two daughters, and pop culture devotee. He now lives in Wellesley where he is writing a coming of age memoir, trying to improve his golf game, attending courses at BOLLI and taking frequent naps.

*

Share your memories with the BOLLI community by submitting memoir writing (of approximately 500 words) to BOLLI Matters co-editor Sue Wurster at susanlwurster@gmail.com