Blue Books

Posted on April 24, 2007 by Jim

I have this re-occurring dream.  While not a full fledged nightmare, it’s something upsetting, and on more than one occasion it has brought me out of my sleep.  Although the specifics are never the same, the dreams always involve feeling unprepared for some type of academic test or class presentation.

The anxiety I feel is nearly unbearable.  Invariably I am of my present age; but some how find myself back at Union College (or some place at university level) or sometimes back at Hamden Hall (or some other secondary school), confronted with a room full of students who probably knew why they were there, even if I didn’t know why I was there. 

Also in common in these dreams, is my sense that I could bluff, or luck my way thru whatever the assignment or test involved… even though I knew that I was woefully lacking in preparation.

There are certain twists to these “school boy” excursions… like forgetting my mail box combination at Union, or not remembering football plays at Hamden Hall.  I can assure you that these latter failings were not a problem at the time… although of being unprepared for academic assignments… I can say it happened.  All too frequently.

Maybe these quasi-nightmares are a payback?  That’s it.

I am paying my debt back for drawing a bowling pin on my exam for Mr. Osborn’s Geometry final.  What did that have to do with Geometry?  Absolutely nothing!  Still I got a solid “B” for the course (actually I think it was an “A”; but pride won’t allow me to admit to that).

As bad as these dis-jointed visitations to my past are, the actual memories are just as bad… maybe more so.  Particularly at Hamden Hall.

Major exams were twice a year.  January and June.  Canvas covered Taylor Gymnasium’s floor, where the whole of the Upper School took its exams, desks were placed far enough apart to make cheating from your neighbor impossible without the use of hand signals.  There was a sense of drama… unusual quiet for that many students… several teachers monitoring their classes… several classes taking their exams at the same time.

I hated it.

Our work was done in those ubiquitous “blue books.”  I hated those blue books… so innocent on the outside, so barren on the inside… so devoid of any character or sense of imagination.  The bowling pin I drew for Mr. Osborn may have been the best thing that was put in a blue book.

But nothing at Hamden Hall would prepare me for the worst blue book experience of my life.  It happened at Union… Erik Hansen’s 20th Century European History class (which he began with the Franco-Prussian War in 1870).  Our Final Exam (1/3 of the course grade) was one question: “Trace Movements of the Left or Right in Europe in the Twentieth Century.”  We were given unlimited time on the exam… and unlimited number of blue books.  My two papers for the course were “A” and “B”; but I caught a “hook” for the Final.

It was one of three times that I can remember ever complaining about a grade.  Once with Miss Stewart in 11th Grade English, once with Arnie Bittelman (the converted butcher) in Graphics Art my Sophomore year at Union… and with Erik Hansen.

To me there was a serious injustice.  “Professor Hansen, we have just spent the Semester on this topic… I have read nearly 5,000 pages of subject material written by some of the best historians of our time {not to mention what I read for my papers}… how could I possibly cover it in an exam, regardless of the time you allowed or the number of blue books you provided?”

To which he replied, “James, the test was in your ability to take the material and distill it into its essence.”

Q.E.D.  Maybe that’s why I am haunted by these damn dreams?  I am not particularly good at “distilling.”  I enjoy too much the leisurely stroll thru the woods… happy to be distracted by… by?  By nearly anything.  And in word written, or spoken, I am prone to ramble.

I don’t think I will ever be good at blue book stuff.  I just wish the hell my mind wouldn’t keep bringing it to my attention all the time… I am declaring my dreams off limits for blue book issues (let’s see if that works).

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Bert and Ernie

Posted on April 18, 2007 by Jim

By and large I keep to myself when I go to the gym.  Although I no longer have the running regimen I once had, I still put myself on the treadmill in solitary activity… oblivious to those around me.

My post work-out sauna is the one time when I will engage in brief conversation with fellow regulars.  But in truth, even there I would prefer to sweat in solitude.

One of my favorite regulars is Joe Debone.  He’s retired, drives a pick-up, has a big Harley for weekend cruising, is an avid hunter… and his hobby of many years is taxidermy.  According to Steve, another regular, who has visited his digs in Norwalk… his home is a combination of the Museum of Natural History and the hunting lodge of Sven of the Fjords.  He stuffs and mounts for other folks, too (his wait list is 6 months long); but everything on display in his “trophy room” he has bagged.  I have not asked if that includes road kill on the Merritt Parkway.

I guess you could call Joe a “sportsman”.  I guess that goes hand-in-hand with being an outdoors man… motorcycles and all… hunting… and maybe a bit of fly fishing and camping, too.

My family is no stranger to the outdoor life.  I can recall one of my tee shots at Race Brook’s par three second hole coming perilously to the swan peacefully swimming in the pond fronting the green.   Or joining  my Dad on the patio of the Bagshot House in Barbados… our mission was to acquire a healthy tan.

I could also mention sitting on the 50 yard line for the Yale-Princeton Game in a chilling rain… but that seems a stretch.

Sure… sneer if you will.  But our family did possess a true sportsman.  Or should I say sportsperson?

I don’t think that my Mother would be fussy about the label.  She needed no outside acknowledgement of her quest to rid Long Island Sound of its weak fish population, nor confirmation for what that quest represented.  I’ll be honest… I think she was looking for a diversion as she pursued her true passion… acquiring a healthy tan.  That, and schmoozing with her fishing partner, Bunty Cohen.

Still, there was the day when I stood at the shore of Erich’s Day Camp in Branford and saw my Mother and Bunty in Bunty’s “fishing yacht” (a ten foot row boat with a kick motor) hoisting their recent catch for me to see of some two dozen weak fish between them. I guess my Mother knew how to fish.

It was some years after, Mom got her own yacht and still took it down the Mamauguin River to where it empties into the Sound… and she still sought to reduce the amount of fish in that body of water.  Speak to Joe Dubone, or my Mother for that matter… and there is this strange respect for that which they hunt.  And maybe for the finest specimens there is a need to honor their nature by preserving them.

And what compelled Joe to fill his home with the former lives of animal, birds and fish that he had “experienced”, moved my Mother to do the same.  Two of her weak fish she took to the staff of Yale’s Peabody Museum to be mounted (she didn’t know of Joe Dubone at the time, and neither did I).

The mounted fish were put on display in the breakfast room of my family’s house on Alston Avenue.  There was nothing else in that home that would give even the slightest indication of the outdoor tradition of our family.  So… to an outsider it might seem out of place.  But that’s OK… to an insider it was out of place, too.

And I think of it today… and say, “Mom, you did a helluva job.”

I wonder if she named those two fish?  The breakfast room (the “trophy” room) is where she and Mommie Soph would light the Sabbath candles.  A simple and beautiful ritual that has been performed by women for thousands of years.  Cover the head, circle the candle flame and bring the spirit to your heart, cover the eyes, say the blessing.  So, maybe on a Friday Mom would go into the room, prepared to light the candles; but before doing so she says, “hello Bert and Ernie…”  addressing the fish, that is.  Or, “hello Abbot and Costello…” or “Shabbat shalom Rogers and Hammerstein.”

I don’t know if she named the fish.  But if it were my Sister Lynn, those fish would certainly have been given names.

And this more a story about my Sister than it is about my Mother.

Lynn has a gift.  She can identify the spirit of something and give it an appropriate title… a name that somehow embodies that object’s essence.  Stuffed toys, cars, pets, plants… you name it and Lynn can find the handle.  It sounds simple; but it’s not.  And somehow a lifeless object or a pet becomes infused with a personality and an attitude. And more importantly, our attitude towards the object becomes more respectful.  There is a harmonious balance between the object and oursleves.

Identifying what is important in something, what is emblematic, is a process.  And I got to witness this process at close quarters.  I had just purchased a new car, a Saturn.  Although it was my car… it was destined for Suzy’s use.  And I think it was Suzy who felt the car needed a name… and knowing that this was an area of Lynn’s expertise, she was enlisted in choosing an appropriate name.

But before deciding the name, Lynn needed to know more about the nature of the car.  For example, it could me maternal… Lynn suggested Mrs. LaPuffsky.  Or maybe some what flighty or flirtatious… Lynn suggests Mitzie.  There was a give and take.  Names suggested to Suzy and responses back.  Finally a name that seems to fit the character of the car, and blend with the attitude of Suzy: Carmella.  Or, how it is really pronounced… Car-Mella.  Which, in turn, became abbreviated to Carmie.

And Carmie it is.

My Sister is a treasure.  It’s like having a shaman in your family.

It’s not naming of this stuffed toy, car or pet… that’s not really that hard.  It’s understanding the toy, the car or pet… and our interaction.  And it is the understanding that sets Lynn apart from most other folks.  There is an intuition. 

An intuition that speaks of her appreciation of life.  And it is her appreciation of life, that I love the most.  And while I might not have guessed it right… I think that Bert and Ernie would suit Mom’s weak fish just fine.  How Lynn sees it… well, that just might be another story.

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I have been advised…

Posted on April 9, 2007 by Jim

How do you know if you have them?  And even if you have them, you have to rely on others to give you an idea as to their quality.  And the folks who do the reporting always seem to have an agenda… some sort of complaint that probably colours their appreciation of a good snore. 

You may think it is easy to get a good snore.  I am here to tell you that a good snore is not easy to come by.  You have to know where to look for them.  Growing up in New Haven, we had access to a wonderful produce market on Whalley Avenue: Margie’s.   It is the only market I know of, that a person wasn’t allowed to pick out their own fruits and vegetables.  Margie would take each patron thru their needs selecting the proper plum or ear of corn that she thought was worthy.  End of story.  When Mommie Soph or my Mom would go there, I would have to remain close at heel lest I get to close to the produce display… and maybe touch something.

Mom would pay close attention to what looked good… and sometimes Margie would point to a basket over by the root vegetables… perhaps she had just received in some fresh snores… and Mom couldn’t resist… she would pick up a dozen or so for my Dad.  Then on Sundays Dad would always take a couple with him to enjoy on the couch while trying to watch some golf or an inning or two of a baseball ball game.  My Dad was also a notorious kitchen raider… and late at night when he would hit the fridge for a snack… he would always grab a handful of snores to take back up to bed.

Sadly… Margie’s market is no more.  Sure there are a few mail-order places that feature snores… usually the same places that sell rhino horn powder and dried snail slime.  There are some “pre-packaged” frozen snores that you can get at Costco… but they have had chemicals added as a preservative.  Some “specialty markets” get small amounts of imported snores; but they are priced to “Mars” and are usually weak and lack character.

I have had to make do.  But… more than one person has advised me that I do “just fine” with what I have been able to secure.  A few “engines at idle”, a couple of “hums of a spring day”, several “blast-offs”, a “flupper riffle” here and there, and even an occasional “ripper with a drool” (if I can find them).

But I don’t like leaving these things to chance.  You know… why go running around at the last minute looking for something to add necessary commentary to a dream.  And where would we be without our dreams?  Those extraordianry flights to the impossible and the disjointed?  Opportunities to visit again with folks who have moved to the other side of the river… Dreams are important and so are the accompanying snoring punctuation marks.  You see… I know this, even if you don’t.  Forgive me for sounding braggy; but I think my snores are great. 

On the other hand.  Some folks are lacking in the snoring arts.  Their snores fall short in the grace and elegance department… unlike those of us who were lucky enough to acquire “Margie quality” snores in their youth.  It’s true… you can’t get good snores in Brooklyn, ‘ferinstance.  *tsk, tsk*.  Brooklyn snores have volume… and little else.  Sorry.

Sandy and I have gone over this at considerable length.  And we have agreed to no longer leave this up to chance.  We have just pulled up the soy beans we planted last year (I can’t stand tofu and can’t understand why I let Sandy talk me into it in the first place) and we have just put in a small grove of snore trees. The trees are cuttings from the famous Darbing Forest in Srilanka and take very well to a variety of soil types.  We have also purchased 60 acres in the Litchfield Hills that offer key southern exposure for the limousin clones that we will plant for the winter crop.  This will give us year ’round access to snores and will make us independent of market availablity.

We are also planning on building a great house there so that we can offer gracious entertainments on the grounds of our plantation… and folks will be able to purchase snores… then stroll thru the groves, find a cozy hammock, a chaise lounge or just put out a blanket on the lawn and sample fresh, native, natural snores.  Nothing finer!

Fair warning… I have also been advised that I tend to be a bit greedy when it comes to snores.  I like to hoard them and not share… well they are so satisfying.  So… the next time you drop by, and if I am so engaged… I suggest that you take what you can get.  Don’t worry… I’ll understand.

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The Four Dwarfs and Passover

Posted on April 3, 2007 by Jim

I couldn’t wait to get into bed on the nights after my Mom had changed the linen.  Nothing is better than fresh sheets.  I cherished it as much as the nights that my Dad would brush my hair after my night time bath.  If my Mom pulled bathing chores, she would have a business-like approach to the brushing of my hair.  My Dad?  He would take his time, slowly brushing my hair with a gentleness and care…perhaps unsure what a girl would think was important.  He would blow dry small portions, always checking the dryness.

When he was satisfied that my hair was well dry, I’d rush to my room, put on a fresh nightgown and dive in.  I couldn’t wait to enter those cold clean sheets. And that is what it was like.  Just like diving into a pool on an early June day.  Something that tingled and made your body come alive.

I would bury myself in.  Kicking my feet.  I am sure that it would look like I was treading water.  No.  I was merely trying to create warmth in the nether reaches of my nest.  I would stretch my nightgown down, twisting and turning… scratching and pawing at the sheets willing that they surrender their comfort.

Settled, I would reach for a book to occupy me ‘til Dad would come in.  I would look at something that would in no way interfere with what we would “read” together.

It would always be the same.  I would hear a knock…

“Are you ready for me, Bird?” he would ask.

And I would giggle, kick my feet in the covers and scrunch up with my pillow, “yes, I’m ready.”

Dad would come in, four or five books under arm, “Well… let’s see.  What would you like to hear tonight?”

I would kick my feet, not sure whether I had knocked all the cold from the bed, and bring the covers up to my nose… and I would giggle, “I don’t know… you choose!”  And I would giggle and kick my feet again… my hair is beautiful, I’m wearing my favorite nightgown with lavender flowers, Mom has made a fresh bed.

“Well, then… let’s see here.”  And he would search thru his books on hand, “I think a good story for tonight might be The Four Dwarfs and Passover.”

I would bicycle my feet, re-position my nightgown, re-draw my covers up to my nose… and then inch them down so I could say, “I thought there were seven dwarfs.”

“Well Bird… you are just going to have to listen to the story.”

I loved my Dad’s voice.  It was soothing. It was reassuring.  It was warm and safe.  As warm as my blankets, as safe as a castle keep.  And to hear his words was enveloping… something that secured me.  I would be lulled, like music to a savage beast.   Oh, sure… I spent my day at school or in play running about… and I guess I could have fallen asleep no matter how you slice the pie. 

There are actors who have that “talent”… the ability to project strength and compassion thru their voice alone – Morgan Freeman comes to mind… But for me, hearing Dad’s voice was like a sedative… it put me to ease.  I could listen to my Dad giving a weather report.  And for sure at the end of a busy day of study and play I welcomed that sound as any that I have heard.

Oh, to listen to his voice.

I would cycle my legs once or twice, turn on to my right side and bring the covers to my chin.

Dad would turn off the main light in my room.  Sit at the base of my bed, with only the lamp from my desk for light.  He would open to a page.

Never mind that the four dwarfs turned into the Hiryu, the Soryu, the Kaga and the Akagi… the four aircraft carriers that we sunk at the Battle of Midway.

Never mind that he never really read from the book.

And never mind that The Fat Cheese and the French Fry turned into the Battle of Agincourt, or that The Feast of Alice turned into the Congress of Vienna, or that The Tower of Jell-O and Pirate King turned into the defeat of Chinese Gordon at Khartoum and that The Day the Honey Bear Lost His Pants became the Japanese Battle Fleet crossing the Russian Fleet’s “T” at Tushima Strait.

My Dad would simply open a book and begin with a description of the pitching sea, the sky and the smell of the sea breeze… and I would be taken for a journey on his soothing voice… to places I could only dream about.

He could take the wind beating against the window pane in my room to describe the sound of the arrow flight the English long-bowmen sent into the ranks of the terrified French soldiers of King Charles VI.

He would always find a way to include me in his story.  I would be seated next to Prince Metternich as we had dinner with Talleyrand, Wellington and Nesselrode as we tried to bring order to war ravaged Europe.  “You would have been dressed in your finest,” he would have said to me, and I would have been carried off to my dreams on thoughts of thick tables, and chandeliered rooms with grand paintings & tapestries.

When my eyes became heavy I would just hear the melody of his words & phrases… and I would be taken to my day’s rest and tucked in for the night.  Dad would close his book, kiss me on the forehead and say, “Dream of an exciting world, Bird… it lays before your feet.”

He would turn off my desk lamp… and he would be gone.

It is Spring now and I am preparing to take my 11th Grade Modern European History Class to the Pacific.  Even though it’s a lecture I have given year after year, I still like to review my notes.  Six months after the Japanese sank our Battleship Fleet at Pearl, a numerically inferior American Task Force met and decisively defeated the Japanese Carrier Fleet at Midway.  It was a Battle of critical importance, maybe the most important of the War.  It stopped the Japanese in their tracks and permitted Roosevelt to pursue his policy of Germany first.

I glance at the title of my lecture and smile…  Four Dwarfs and Passover.

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