New Year’s Car Story

I rarely carry any cash to speak of – maybe a twenty dollar bill, which, once it’s broken, it’s gone in a flash. The rest is all paid for in plastic. But today I happened to have five singles and a ten dollar bill in my wallet and for the first time in many years my car battery died. I was waiting to find a parking spot on East 58th Street in Manhattan (one of the only streets in this Upper East Side neighborhood where parking is permitted before 6 or 7 p.m. during the week.) So it’s a popular hangout for cars hoping to nab a coveted spot. Once I got there, I gave myself 20 minutes before giving up and going to a garage. That’s my routine. Sometimes I’m lucky, most times not. I set my iPhone for 20 minutes, put on the car’s emergency flashers and read a book while waiting. Mildly startled by the alarm, I then turned the key, only to hear a repetitive clicking sound. What?! Tried again, and again, the clicking. After a few more futile tries, I called AAA and miracle of miracles, a truck arrived in under ten minutes!

The mechanic jump started the battery in no time and gently asked me to step out of the car so he could point something out to me. What an idiot I am! I had left the headlights on in addition to running the emergency flashers, thereby draining the battery. He told me not to turn the engine off for about an hour so the battery can recharge. I handed him five bucks (a dollar for each minute he was there) and we both went  on our merry ways.

Keeping the car on for an hour could pose a problem because I had a date to take my 94 year old mother to lunch at 1 p.m. (it was 12:30) and we were meeting her friend at the restaurant, but I decided to ask the garage attendant to run the engine. I handed him ten bucks – and so, my cash was depleted. New Year’s resolution: to carry an emergency $20 bill at all times.

Happy New Year to all of my friends out there and may you keep all of your resolutions for 2016.


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“I don’t trust people who don’t write things down.” What a great line and it is attributed to Jake Burton Carpenter, the founder of Burton Snowboards. And write he did – in what amounted to an unorganized diary of random notes, tracking his grueling recovery from a paralyzing disease, a type of Guillain-Barre syndrome. He is now home and back to work, running the now-global Burton Snowboard company. A happy ending to 2015.


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The Blond Leading the Blind

Setting: The practice putting green at a local golf course

Dramatis Personae: Three golfers- a brunette, a prematurely gray-haired woman and yours truly, the blonde.

Our first stop was the driving range where it was utterly deflating to have a golf pro comment that out of the three of us, my friend who has NEVER TAKEN A GOLF LESSON, possesses the best swing. It was all too apparent that both of these ladies outhit me, but where is the justice in this? It’s my 5th season of golf and their first! From the driving range we walked over to the practice putting green, armed with a few golf balls and a putter. We surveyed the rather large, undulating  green and I explained to my friends to drop three balls and practice putting from the same spot. It seemed a bit strange that there was only one hole on this “practice” green, but so be it. I removed the flag and we began our practice. It was dauntingly difficult as we putted away, unaware that the greens keeper got wind of us. As she was heading over, she called out, “Ladies, you’re on the 18th hole. This is NOT a practice green!” Oops. I should have known better since I had been there last year. What else is new?



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Welcome to College. Warning: What You Are About To Learn May be Disturbing

Grow up, or as some would say, “Man up.” The latest inane trend involves some colleges proposing to put warning labels on works of great literature. In case you haven’t guessed, I find that offensive. I am in complete disagreement with the notion of censoring syllabi in academia in order to coddle students according to their individual comfort levels. Sunday’s front page New York Times: I tend to agree with the fuming academics who, according to the Times article, hold that “professors should be trusted to use common sense and that being provocative is part of their mandate. Trigger warnings, they say, suggest a certain fragility of mind that higher learning is meant to challenge, not embrace.” Exams were never comfortable for me, but I had to take them. This “trigger warning” proposal is just another example of the dumbing down of American education.

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Bye Bye Birdie!

This is a tale of my almost birdie, the birdie that flew away. It was Sunday on the golf course with Ken. Hole # 4,  119 yards. With my new driver, I get on the green in one! But this is not my typical “on the green” with the ball usually 50 feet from the cup. I’m a foot away! Hoofing my way to the green, I could smell a birdie, my first ever.

P.S. I blew it, but parred the hole, another rarity for me. They say it takes five years to even consider calling yourself a “golfer.” This marks the beginning of my fifith season, so this could be what I’ve been working and waiting for. Or not.

P.P.S. I never birdied in 2014, but managed it TWICE in 2015! The light at the end  of the tunnel is attributed to working with a talented golf pro named Jeff and the fact that my golf buddies all want to take lessons with him next year is a testament to his capabilities.

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Lefties I Have Loved

I realize my title is reminiscent of Rupert Brooke’s war poem, “The Great Lover,” which begins, “These I have loved…” He goes  on to enumerate the luxuries of the civilian life he left behind to fight The Great War. Until I saw an Associated Press photo of Norman Rockwell painting at the easel, I hadn’t known he was a southpaw. I love the way he holds a stick in his right hand to support his left arm as he is about to apply the brush to the canvas.  Hence, Rockwell appears to be among the talented ten-percenters, the southpaws in the arts and sports world that I so appreciate. I am among the “unknown lefties” who perk up at the mention of another one of “us.”  In tennis, everyone is wary of the challenges a left-handed player brings to the game. I have always admired Rod Laver, Guillermo Vilas, Jimmy Connors, Johnny McEnroe, but especially idolized Martina and now, Rafael Nadal. In golf, there’s Phil Mickelson and in music, McCartney, Hendrix, Clapton and Paul Simon, all left-handed axmen. Presidents Clinton and Obama happen to be left-handed, as were the art masters Leonardo Da Vinci and Michelangelo. Being in such distinguished company just makes me feel proud (for what it’s worth.)

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Miniature Glass Figures Fit Perfectly Into the Booth

Attention, anyone who ever took high school English: As a teacher I attempted to bring “The Glass Menagerie” to life in my classroom, but make no mistake about it – seeing it performed on Broadway gives it the helium it deserves. This Tennessee Williams classic is a tragedy in which nobody actually dies. Celia Keenan Bolger portrays the fragile Laura Wingfield so convincingly that it makes you wonder if she’s actually anemic. In contrast, Cherry Jones, the smothering, controlling and tragic Amanda, is the archetypal helicopter parent. Although she steamrolls across the stage in the first act, she manages to put on her best flirtatious sashaying for her daughter’s Gentlemen Caller, playfully acted by Brian J. Smith. Cherry Jones is the Meryl Streep of the theater; whatever role she takes on turns to gold. I love this play but had forgotten how truly sad it really is.
“The Glass Menagerie” is currently being performed at the Booth Theater in New York.
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Season of the Bird

Nothing earth-shattering, yet a nice parallel.  On Thanksgiving Day, my sister Emily brought over a needlepoint of a bird perched on a rosebush. It’s in a gorgeous antique wood frame that once hung in our house in Kew Gardens. Once my Mom moved to an apartment, the needlepoint somehow landed in Emily’s possession. I guess it was time to return it to the rightful owner, the “artiste” herself (moi) who stitched it free-hand in 1963 for an assignment in Novelty shop class at Russell Sage Junior High School. (Yes, they still had an assortment of shop classes we were forced to take. Sewing was my least favorite.) However, I managed to produce this slightly pregnant-looking bird by copying a print that contained the miniscule boxes I used as my guide. I was thrilled that Emily brought it back, but I am now saddled with the feng-shui of where to hang it. This should be the least of anyone’s problems and I am exceedingly thankful for that.  

This needlepoint bird alights just as Donna Tartt’s novel, “The Goldfinch” is hitting the best-seller list and just as Carel Fabritius’s painting of the same name is being exhibited at the Frick Museum, along with Vermeer’s “The Girl With the Pearl Earring” and several other Dutch masters on loan from the Royal Picture Gallery Mauritshuis in The Hague. The new novel centers around a mother and her son who are at New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art, viewing “The Goldfinch” when a terrorist bomb explodes, killing the mother. And it goes on and on for about 700 pages. I just read that the artist also died in an explosion in his native city of Delft. I trust my needlepoint bird will be safe and sound once I find a place for it.

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Kenny’s Guest Post on JFK’s Assassination

As the 50th anniversary of John F. Kennedy’s assassination approaches, many of us will be moved to remember, “Where was I when it happened?” My story is perhaps one of the more unusual ones.

 November 22, 1963 was on a Friday. I was sitting in Mr. Ed Schneider’s Social Studies class at JHS 80 in The Bronx. The time was somewhere around 11:30 a.m., Eastern Standard Time. My class had just finished a syllabus on the Presidents of the United States. There were about 10 minutes left to the period and not enough time for Mr. Schneider to start a new subject of study. That would have to wait until Monday.

 To fill the remaining time before the bell rang, he shared with the class a piece of historical trivia, which is also explained by Robert Caro in his most recent installment of Lyndon Johnson’s biography, “The Passage of Power”:

“During the last hundred years before 1960, five presidents had died in office, approximately 20 years apart from the time they were elected – Abraham Lincoln in 1865, James Garfield in 1881, William McKinley in 1901, Warren Harding in 1923 and FDR in 1945.”

As the bell rang to end the period, Mr. Schneider finished with the statement “Who knows what will happen to JFK? Will he be able to serve out his presidency or will something happen to him?” 

 With the bell, we all ran out of the room and on to the next period. At 12:30 p.m. Central Time (1:30 Eastern), JFK’s life is cut short by the assassin’s bullet.

 At around 2:00 Eastern, an announcement goes out over the P.A. for everyone to return to their homeroom classrooms. At this point the death of JFK begins to percolate throughout the school. We were kept in our classrooms for about 30 minutes, where we were informed that the President had been shot. Another announcement came over the P.A. “There will be a rapid dismissal and all students are to leave the building immediately and go home – except Mr. Schneider’s Social Studies class! You are to report to his classroom immediately!!!”

 We all entered his classroom from various parts of the school building. The silence in the room was scary, as we were generally a noisy group. We were all seated and beginning to speculate what we did wrong. How come we couldn’t go home like everyone else? Waiting for us was Mr. Schneider, his student teacher, the Social Studies Assistant Principal and the school’s principal. Ed walked up to the front of the class; all the grownups stood at the back of the room. Their faces were very somber and looking a wee bit frightened. 

 Ed, clearly shaken, looks at us all for a few heartbeats and then begins to tell us that he had nothing to do with the shooting, that it was all very coincidental, and that he had been telling us a rare piece of history trivia. As a side note, if President Reagan died from his shooting in 1981, this historical anomaly would have continued. He asked that we please not tell anyone that he predicted what would happen to JFK.


Several years ago, I was able to track down Mr. Schneider. I was watching a PBS show about The Bronx Historical Society in which he was interviewed on another topic. I called the museum and asked to give him my contact information. I gave as the message, “I was in your class on November 22, 1963.”


A couple of hours later, he called! He said, “Finally, I have someone who can prove my story.” He explained that for many years he would repeat this story, but no one would believe him. Now he had corroboration!!

 I just tried calling him to review the events of 50 years ago in his classroom, but all I got was his voicemail. Hopefully he’ll be able to call me back.

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C’est Un Artiste!

So, what did I learn in school today? I never realized that the great Surrealist Rene Magritte ( 1898-1967) was Belgian and not French. He was born in Brussels and later moved to Paris for three years to be closer to the Surrealist movement.  The current exhibit of his paintings at MOMA, “The Mystery of the Ordinary” is quite extraordinary. The works at this show were all done between approximately 1927 and 1937,  obviously a very prolific decade for Magritte. Because so much of his art is preoccupied with bodily fragmentation and displacement, it’s fun to ponder. “Les Muscles Celestes”  (Muscles  of the Sky-1927) is a scene I’d like to see: Clouds melting from the sky and landing on wooden decking. “Black Magic” depicts a nude (possibly Madame Magritte who often modeled for the artist) with a white dove on her shoulder. But the sky blue intermingled with the flesh tones on the body makes this painting unusually beautiful. The show included the renowned and as well as lesser known paintings. A group of schoolchildren was sitting in front of “Ceci n’est pas une pipe,” as a docent conducted a discussion.  I love Magritte’s own explanation of this work: “It is symbolic of a pipe, but you can’t smoke it, so, ceci n’est pas une pipe.”

His combinations of incongruous images are mind-boggling to me and I was absolutely mesmerized by his giant masterpiece, “On the Threshold  of Liberty” (1937.) It is so three-dimensional that it’s as if you are being drawn into a huge, adjoining room.  I had to laugh at “The False Mirror,” the famous painting of the eye filled with clouds because it reminded me of my own eye before the cataract surgery. The exhibit is really fun for fans of fine art and Surrealism. You can catch it until January 12, 2014.

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