Mr. New Jersey Part III

Ten years later

Shortly after commencement, a redheaded, slightly hunched, thirty-nine-year-old man slouched in. It was Mr. New Jersey in person. Ten years older than at our last meeting. He motioned to the piano stool, I nodded, he sat and surveyed the office. Not much had changed. The enormous Japanese Geisha parasol still covered most of the ceiling; the shelves were crammed with hand puppets; production posters covered the walls and the costume rack overflowed with Children’s Theatre colors.

He scanned the production chaos purposefully. His eyes stop searching when they saw the slightly faded baseball picture of dad. He smiled wistfully and tried a sympathy ploy, “I got fired a few days ago so I came for advice.”

I loathed arrested development. “How do you expect me to help? You argue rather than embrace change and you’re too arrogant to admit your mistakes.”

He stared without a word. I responded in kind. We stayed that way as the clock ticked. Knowing that his time was running out, he reached for my baseball photo of dad. “You once found the time to teach me through his stories.”

Realizing he was manipulating for much-needed attention, I replied, “You were my student then, you aren’t now.”

“OK, you’re right.” He avoided my eyes. “Every time I got a new job I failed. I finally realize that I  blamed others for my inability to relate to people. I even got in an altercation with a dishwasher. ”

I exploded, stood and took Dad’s picture away from him. “You were in a position of leadership. You had to work harder than anyone else, know every employee by name, know the names of their children, their wives. Dad always took a sincere interest in all his employees. He always whistled “Fly me to the moon” as he walked through the club. When I asked him why he always whistled the same song he told me it was to alert the employees that the manager was on his way. He never wanted to catch anyone goofing off, because he hated the thought of yelling or disciplining people. He was a fabulous inspiration to those around him.”

Mr. New Jersey replied slowly. “I tried to trap them so I could discipline them. It made me feel superior"

“That is absolutely ridiculous, that’s no way to ‘win friends and influence people’. Now there’s a book you should study. I looked at the clock. “I’m heading home. Call me when you’re ready to listen to some truths about yourself. Oh, and lock the door on your way out.”

After a summer of travel I returned to find an envelope stapled to my office door. It contained a stick figure drawing of a girl in floor length dress. Holding her hand was a balding man. I turned it over and found a stick figure of a left-handed baseball player. Under the picture was written, Sorry, but I need him more than you ever needed that dress.

I entered my office and stopped. The picture frame was empty. That impervious man/child needed a father so much that he had stolen mine.

Meet Mr. New Jersey part II

Ten years before I retired, our secretary answered the phone and said with a nervous, hesitant voice, “I’m not sure that she’s here. I’ll need to put you on hold. Is that O.K?”

I looked up from sorting through the mail to see a frown on her freckled, worried face. Placing her hand over the mouthpiece, she whispered, in  her Boston accented voice, “There's a man asking for you. He sounds like a criminal from Law and Order. Should I tell him you aren’t here?

I shook my head. “Have him call my cell. I’m late for office hours.”

On the sixty some step climb to my third floor office the phone rang. I answered.

A voice said. “Bet ya don’t remember me!”

The game began as I mimicked him,” Bet ya don’t remember me?”

A pause. Then a gravelly laugh. “Guess ya do. Ya know, I miss ya a lot.”

He must need a recommend!- Former students always called when they were making a life change because I wrote great recommends! The conversations were always the same “Blah, blah, blah.” “Oh?” “And do you think you could blah blah blah.”

I reached my top floor office; still covered with the DOOR wallpaper.

His crude voice softened. “Sorry for not being in touch.”

I rolled my eyes as I entered my office. “What can I do for you?”

“Wanted you to know –––––I was thinkin bout ya.”

I opened my computer. “Sure ya did! That’s why I haven’t heard from you for, hmm, twenty years.” I hit ‘get mail’ and scanned the ten waiting messages and said. “I’ve got stuff to do before class so really do need to tell me what you want.”

“I joined the hotel industry.”

Stunned silence from my end. Why on earth would this tonally cold man ever take a job like that!

Lack of a response caused him to brag about his importance.

“My boss relies on me for everything. He doesn’t make a move without discussing it with

me first.

Eyebrows lifted, I responded thoughtfully, “Hotels don’t usually lend themselves to what I imagine is your management style. I looked at the picture of dad and remembered him whistling everywhere he went as a way of alerting his employees that “management was headed their way.” He understood human nature and knew people occasionally slacked off. He didn’t want to catch them idling. I asked, “How do you manage your co-workers?”

“It don’t matter cuz I don’t respect them. When I give an order they gotta obey.” His retort almost manipulated me into a teaching tirade. I wanted to call him in for a three hour meeting of chastisement and training. It was one of my flaws. I always thought I could make a difference. It was obvious to me that with this student, I had no effect on him when he was twenty and could not expect to when he was pushing forty and still had his ridiculous superior attitude.

I heard chatter and musical theatre songs outside.

"Sorry, but I have to get to class. You can hear the chaos. These kids are absolutely incredible triple threat performers. They're teaching me, which is always a good sign. If you get over this way, be sure and look me up. Bye."

Realizing that Mr. New Jersey wasn’t worth another thought, I hung up the phone and focused on the future.

SAD TO SAY, MR. NEW JERSEY ARRIVES IN THE NEXT BLOG-

Meet Mr. New Jersey

A few years ago I received a postcard from a former student, who was raised in a volatile Levittown, New Jersey household where lack of affection and beatings were the norm. The card was from the Baseball Hall of Fame and  said, “I’ll see you soon.” For some strange reason, this angry young man enrolled in my Musical Theatre for Children class. The course required students to write a musical and be involved in the performance and technical production of the chosen script. The semester lasted fifteen weeks with a required performance the tenth week of the term. It was a collaborative project that required 100% commitment.

The majority came from New England small towns of under 14,000. Mr. New Jersey grew up in a suburb of New York, yet at age eighteen he had never visited the city. He hadn’t seen a play or musical, not even those performed in his high school. He considered anyone in the performing arts to be homosexual and voiced hatred of those who were.

His fellow classmates had been active members of their high school drama. They knew the hit songs from a variety of Broadway musicals. He did not. They had a commonality in their love of musicals. They understood the importance of working toward a goal. He was a left handed METS fan with competent baseball and golfing skills, but he balked at dancing. “That was for sissies.”

This 5’10” red-head sat in the rear of the theatre classroom, with legs outstretched, arms folded, and grinding his teeth in anger. This happened twice a week for 90 minutes. His classmates avoided him. By week three I insisted he visit my office on the top floor of the Arts Building. I told him to look for M318 in the music wing. The door was covered with a multicolored sign that simply ceiling to floor sign that said DOOR. Smiling I said, “You can’t miss it. Plan to confer for one hour and a half.”

He arrived fifteen minutes late, ill tempered and foul mouthed. His language was horrific, “Shit, why the f*** didn’t you tell me where it was?” He slumped on the small piano stool, leaned back onto the keyboard, struck a chord of dissonance, stuck out his feet, crossed his arms and glared. It was quite a moment.

Ms tough love, teaching style kicked in and got right to the point. “You’ve got some issues that are getting in your way of succeeding, not only in class, but in life. Quite frankly, to put it in language you seem to prefer, you are a pain in the ass.” He sat up with his fists clenched. I held up my “wait a minute” hand and leaned in with a smile. “My dad believed there were more horses asses in the world than horses and you must admit that you are at the head of that class.” I cocked my head to the right. I knocked my foot against his. He sat up, fists clenched. He was ready for a fight.

I shrugged and pointed to a 1920’s picture of a college student in a baseball uniform with a bat resting on his left shoulder. 

“That’s my dad. He was a great southpaw pitcher and batter. He dreamed of being a professional ball player but only got beatings from his German/Irish Parents. As a result, he gave me all the support he could.”

His eyes narrowed. I continued, “All kids should be raised with that kind of love. Don’t you think?”

“Yeah sure. But it ain’t real.”

“It can be, if you want it to be.”

“Aahh, whada ya know about it?

Mimicking his insolence, I said, “Ah, whada ya know about it? Did your parents own their own home.

“Sure, everybody did.”

“Not me." He eyebrows rose in surprise. 

"I grew up in a three-bedroom rental home on a busy highway. My job was to turn the collars and cuffs on my father’s dress shirts so he could wear them for another year.” 

We were frugal. I made all my own clothes.” As I said this, a vision of a long pink dress entered my mind. I apologized. “All except for my prom gown. We bought that.

He commented in a demeaning word slur and a snearing mouth. “Gown? Ya only went to one prom?”

I bristled at the implication. “Don’t be ridiculous.

“Then why only one dress?”

 “Mom was sensible. For coats and complicated items we went to Kennard’s, the downtown department store. Other girls went to Wilmington Dry Goods, a sort of Filene’s Basement, littered with bargains, but Mom needed the comfort of a saleslady. I still remember the spring day we walked into the evening gown section and I fell in love with a taffeta ball gown, straight from the 1954 re-release of Gone With The Wind. I imagined how pretty I would look wearing it. I pleaded with Joan of Arc raised hands. “Please! The bemused saleslady watched my mother hiss through pursed lips, “Don’t be so melodramatic." I fell to my knees. Her eyes rolled. "All right, you can try it on.”

Five minutes later, I waltzed out of the dressing room singing “I Feel Pretty.” and gave a civil war curtsy. Mom’s dainty, glove-covered hand made a turn around motion. She admired me. “You do look lovely.” She checked the price before excaliming, “It’s $75.00?”

The saleslady replied with honesty, “That doesn’t include the hoop underskirt, tiara, white gloves or shoes. The total will be closer to $100.00.”

My face fell. “I knew mom had only budgeted $60.00.” She started to shake her head but I stopped her, “I’ll wear the same dress to both.”

She was skeptical. “Do not try and manipulate me. You know you’ll rip this one in the car door at the evening’s end or come up with some reason that you need a new dress.”

I begged. “I won’t. I promise.”

She gave me her brown-eyes knowing stare and sniffed. “A pie crust promise - easily made, easily broken.

I confided, “Mom, we both know that I am never going to be queen of any prom, I’m not busty and curvy like the other girls my age. I’m just a tree climbing, funny, creative and popular tomboy. For the first time in my life I feel pretty. In this dress I feel like a Cinderella not a stepsister." I stood and focused my earnest blue eyes and said. " I will be proud to wear this dress to both the junior and senior proms.” Mom nodded to the saleslady and I went to both proms feeling like the belle of the ball.

My heart skipped a beat at the memory. I looked at his glowing face and choked out, “I’ve never told that story to anyone.”

He looked at his dirty, sneakered feet. There was a moment of quiet discomfort. I broke the mood.

“That’s enough about my life. What about yours?”

Over the next two months he began to open up, to me, to his classmates and finally to the homosexual guys in the theatre department. How had we done it? I say we because it was a collaborative effort. He was so anxious to hear stories about my Dad that we brokered a deal; one story equaled a discussion on a Broadway musical of my choice. We kept this game up throughout his college career. He even had a few mixed tapes of happy songs that kept him going for the next two years.

He graduated and we drifted apart. I heard he got married and quickly divorced. It didn't surprise me. He needed someone strong and caring and often the two do not go together. Alumni from the 90’s would ask, "whatever happened to that angry guy? Eh, you know, what’s his name?" I knew that he would be in touch when he needed me and thought I would enjoy our ongoing game of mental exercise.

TO BE CONTINUED 

Impending doom in Ohio

Memories of my childhood are in Technicolor despite the fact that history displays them in black and white. Each picture in mom’s scrapbook is a springboard to a story. Today I opened that carefully pasted and dated album to a photo of Santa Claus and shivered. Before the age of four he is my only memory.

In September of 1945 the world celebrated VJ day, but Impending doom lurked in Ohio. Dad's job and free housing ended and my personal Santa Claus was transferred.

Dad turned down job after job and mother grew anxious until he settled on the one he felt was perfect. We moved in time to hear a Christmas Eve knock at the door and a familiar ho ho ho. Dad's perfect job carried us to Santa’s hometown.

I believed in the magic of Christmas until the day our fifth grade teacher read a poem that ended, “Isn’t it too bad there is no Santa Claus.” I gasped. My classmates looked away. No doubt they remembered their own pain when they lost Santa at a much earlier age. My imagination and positive personality rode on the wings of fantasy much longer than my older classmates.

 
In third grade I looked out my window to see dad running from the car carrying a small yellow and pink Easter basket. The next morning that same basket was filled with chocolate eggs. For years I pretended belief in the Easter Bunny only as a guarantee of a fix of chocolate.

In fourth grade, I felt a hand slip under my pillow and my eyes opened to see mom's round butt and seamed nylon legs crawling from my room. Bye Bye tooth fairy. Although I lost belief in characters that I had never met. Santa was different. He wasn't a basket of eggs, he wasn't a quarter-filled envelope. He was real.

I raced home and knocked on the door. The same door Santa entered for the past seven years. My tear streaked face demanded honesty. Mom took me on her lap and told me that truths to some were lies to others. I should analyze everything and choose what was important to me. As I grew, my truths might change but it was always my choice. It was a lot for a fifth grader to absorb and I braced for the worst Christmas of my life.  

For four days I analyzed and tried to decide. Was there a Santa or was he a sham? Sure, I had given up the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy, but was I ready to give up on Santa? He was real, they weren’t. As I listlessly tossed a fallen piece of tinsel onto the tree I heard the sound of bells and the familiar ho ho ho. I flung open the door and stood staring. A cheery-faced man wearing a dime-store beard and shabby costume broke into a chubby smile. I embraced him as the wonderful human that he was. He stayed until the year he waved his final goodbye

Thinking back on that period of my life, I realize that his visits were essential to my self-esteem. Every year, he wrote about me in his big black book and proved that I mattered. I was important to more than just my family and friends. I was important to Santa Claus. His dedication solidified my belief that ordinary people do magical things that make a difference.

Passing Time with the Bell Ringer

When Dad retired to Orlando he took on the family shopping to fight off his boredom. One day in November I answered the phone to hear my mother (who was 3,000 miles away) report, in a very worried voice. “Your father went to the store and hasn’t come back." She paused, obviously distressed. "It’s been more than an hour. Should I call the police?”  

“He’s probably putting in an application to be a bag boy.”   

She was horrified. “Can you imagine anyone with your father’s ability as a bag boy?” 

Actually I could. I imagined his thin frame wheeling shopping carts about. “Sure, he’d be the best bag boy that Publix ever had, chatting to everyone, telling his stories.  He'd get tips that he could parlay into winnings at Jai Lai.”  

She hung up.

A half hour later, she called to tell me Dad was home. “Do you know where your father was?”   

“Of course not.”   

Her voice was incredulous. "He was talking to the Salvation Army bell ringer.  It was the man's first day. Your father thought he looked a little lonely so he sat on a bench and helped the man pass his time. Can you imagine?"

Actually, I could. Few people gave donations before Thanksgiving and it was in keeping with Dad’s gregarious nature to keep the bell ringer entertained. Every day at eleven Dad told stories of his life during the Depression, the shows he'd seen, the management of Clubs for the well-heeled and insisted on making sure Harry and I were properly introduced. After Dad died, I returned for one week to Orlando and found Harry ringing his bell. As we sat and shared stories, Harry confided that he continued to wait for Dad's visits like a kid waiting for  Santa Claus. I knew exactly what he met.

 

Nunsense Confusion

In 1945 we moved to Wilmington, Delaware where we lived until 1965.  Soon after our arrival, Mom answered our door to be greeted by a team of Nuns, who felt obligated to save my brother’s seven-year-old soul by enrolling him at St. Joseph’s School. Luckily for Mom, Dad arrived and fended them off with sheer Lucha logic. "We have the best public school in the state of Delaware two blocks away, why would I send my children anywhere else?" 

Even though I was spared religious education six days a week, I still had to face the rigors of Saturday Catechism classes. Around age seven, I remember telling Sister “something or other” that I wouldn’t be in class the following week because the family was going to Rome for Easter. I still see her face beaming in reverence as she quickly made the sign of the cross and confused me with the following statement, "You will see the Pope!”  Her tall and imposing frame loomed heavily over mine. My blue eyes looked up at her admiring brown ones. I shrugged my tiny shoulders. I didn’t know if we would or not.  

She insisted, “Surely, you will see the Holy Father.”  

“I don’t know about a Holy Father, but we'll see  my uncle." 

She looked confused. 

I smiled with confidence, "We go every year.” 

She gasped. “You go to Italy every year?”   

What was she talking about? I gave her a short geography lesson, ”Italy?" I corrected her,  "My Uncle lives in New York State. Eight hours by car. ”   

Her face contorted in anger. She whirled to her desk and spun back with a ruler-raised hand. Anger shot from her eyes as she moved toward me. I backed toward the door, which was suddenly opened by Dad. My Stetson hatted father had arrived in the nick of time to inform her that there really was a Rome, New York.

Twenty-years later, my mother and I ended our round-the-world Pan AM l, birthday tour in Rome, where I bought several Pope blessed Rosaries as anonymous Christmas gifts for those Nuns in Wilmington. I envisioned Sister Something or other's wimple encased reaction as she opened a package from Rome, NY and wondered if she would remember our interaction as much as I did.

       

Painful Moments, an instrument for learning

PAINFUL MOMENTS, An instrument for learning.

I grew up in an idyllic world. My father adored me and my mother loved me. I had a naive belief that those I liked always had my best interests at heart. In 1953, an irresistible tenth grade boy trampled that seventh grade naïveté with two words.

This happened at a statewide student council meeting. Our school had two representatives, I was one, the other was a handsome, sixteen-year-old that I was attracted to. As the group of predominantly male leaders gathered, someone asked, “Who is our secretary?” My imaginary boyfriend pointed and said, “That girl with the big nose.”

All heads turned to stare at the scrawny, flat chested, twelve-year-old who was still in undershirts. I hunched my shoulders to prevent stares at my non-existent boobs. It was shame enough to know everyone was staring at my nose.

Usually I met negative comments with an appropriate retort that brought laughter to the situation. Kindness and clever wit were reasons for my popularity. I could stand up for others with ease, but never for myself. I sat in pain and pretended to be taking minutes.

Until the end of the first grade I was a cute, very outgoing, kid with short dark hair, which was cut by a barber, because hairdressers and nail parlors were not in abundance. I wore a little barrette that the Italian barber’s wife would put in my hair every fourth Saturday. I didn’t mind being the only girl in the barbershop. The barber’s stories were interesting and I charmed the customers with prattlings of my own. I never felt out of place in that man’s world but I was overwhelmed by the meanness of the adolescent male world I was entering.

I survived the ordeal of the stares; the boys’ bragging comments and the two-hour drive home with my tormentor. I entered our tranquil, two story white home and climbed to my pink bedroom, where I watched the traffic whiz by below. I thought of my aunt, who was an account executive at a New York Ad agency. At her high school graduation she was awarded a copy of Cyrano de Bergerac. She threw it in the garbage, wondering if it was thoughtlessness or meanness. She lived with that question until she died at age eighty-eight.

The lesson I learned that night continues to be my mantra: accept people for who they are not what they look like. There is an actor for every role, a song for every voice, and individuality is to be celebrated not scorned. 

The Battles of Motherhood

I've written a few stories about my relationship with Dad and felt mother should get some equal billing credit. Hope you enjoy!

I was my mother’s Pearl Harbor baby, which may be why much of our early relationship was battle-driven. On December 7, 1941 –that “date which will live in infamy“ I burst forth on the world - just as the news of Pearl Harbor was reaching my mother’s delivery room.  The first words my thirty-eight-year-old mother heard - after my first howl and her Ether wore off were -“We’re in it now.”  She soon discovered that those words were a prelude to the U.S. entering World War II and the howl was just an overture to the tumultuous relationship she would have with her only daughter. 

I can still see her large brown eyes watching me in stunned horror and saying things like, “If I had you first we never would have had your brother,” or “If you didn’t look so much like your father’s side of the family I would have thought there was a mix-up at the hospital.” When I relay these comments to others they assume I had an abusive mother. That was not the case. She was appalled by my impulsivity and baffled by inability to follow what she called “proper” procedure. She battled to keep me under control with a measure of grace and decorum but it was a losing battle.

Her first warning that I was not going to be an easy child was on our first shopping trip. This two-year-old explorer wandered off, something my obedient older brother never did. I was in “Ladies Shoes” entertaining the clerks with my Shirley Temple imitation. Mom hauled me into the baby department and bought a blue harness to guarantee safe shopping. At home I was hooked to a clothesline (like a dog run) so I could play safely in our backyard.  This lasted until a neighbor phoned to ask, “Why is Carol running around the backyard nude?” 

By age seven my cuteness was gone. Mom looked at her long-legged, skinny, awkward child and enrolled me in ballet, tap and acrobatics. She was careful to seek out teachers that did not believe in recitals. She refused to face the embarrassment of smiling at the false accolades; “Carol is sooo exceptional.” 

My 5’2” bun headed, grey haired, determined mother spent seven agonizing years watching those dance classes, notebook in hand, writing down every step so she could drill me as I laboriously practiced in our linoleum lined 50’s kitchen. Dad would walk by applauding enthusiastically at every off balanced torjété, knobby kneed plié. Mom would look at him and shake her head as she continued reading: Left hop, right shuffle, step R, flap, ball change. Years later she confided that she would have given up if I was the worst one in the class. Since I was only the second worse, we kept going.

In eighth grade Mom let me get a bra. No falsies like the other girls were wearing. I also got my period, which meant I was mature enough to ask the male druggist for my own “sanitary napkins.” They were kept, along with the condoms, behind the counter. I waited until no other customers were around, and without making eye contact mumbled, “I need a box of Kotex.” I plunked the money onto the counter, grabbed the item and ran out the door into Mom’s waiting car. I hurled the bag to the floor and told her, “You know that It’s embarrassing to ask a man for Kotex, next time you’ll have to get it.”

A deep voice replied, “Young Lady, you’re in the wrong car.”

MORE MOTHER DAUGHTER STORIES TO FOLLOW

Baseball

Baseball:

One fall day in 1949, Dad announced that we were getting a 12” black and white TV/radio/record player combination in time to watch the opening game of the World Series. Minutes later the J.B. Van Skyver furniture truck arrived. This meant that we could watch TV seated, not standing in the cold, outside a furniture store.

The World Series began televised broadcasts in 1947. The Brooklyn Dodgers had Jackie Robinson (who had broken the color barrier) and the New York Yankees boasted Joe DiMaggio, among others. Dad always got two tickets to the fourth game of the World Series when the Yankees were playing in New York. I once asked him, “Why the fourth?” he replied, with Lucha logic, “There might not be a fifth.”

It was what is termed as a “subway series” with two New York teams vying to be champions. It promised to be a memorable one, and television (no matter how small) afforded him the opportunity to see all the games. Since Mom was not a fan of baseball, he made sure the console included a record player and radio. After all Mom loved Broadway show tunes and her favorite soap opera was Helen Trent.

Television was a good investment for family bonding because we spent many happy hours watching in the humid Delaware summers (long before air conditioning). Our gray-green GE fifties fan circulated the air and kept us cool as we watched the variety shows of Milton Berle, Jimmy Durante, Bob Hope, Sid Caesar and Ed Sullivan .

From 1949 to 1953 Dad and I watched the New York Yankees create an unprecedented record of winning five consecutive World Series Championships. During ads Dad would tell of Mickey Mantle’s stream of conscious monologues, quote Yogi Berra sayings and confide how much he admired Casey Stengel, originally named KC after his hometown of Kansas City. The initials were expanded to “Casey” after the popular poem Casey at the Bat, which was a selection from Dad’s “driving to church poetry repertoire.” He used to recite poems to quiet my whining complaints, “Other kids don’t have to go to church every Sunday, why do we?” There were no car radios in those days.

My infatuation with baseball ended when the Yankees lost in 1954, but Dad was loyal to the manager who had provided him with so many hours of happiness. Casey, long retired, died at age eighty-five, the day after the 1975 baseball season ended. The Los Angeles funeral was delayed for a week to let the players attend. Dad phoned to tell me he was going to Forest Lawn Cemetery well before the crowds. He wanted to pay his respects to the man he respected most in baseball. Mom thought he was crazy, but I understood. I remembered the thrill of those five seasons. We shared them seated side-by-side watching that larger than life team on that little 12” screen. I am certain Dad left Forest Lawn Cemetery reciting Casey at the Bat to make his trip home a little less painful.  

Golf-1953

Life’s lessons learned-a golfing story

Our local Dunkin Donuts store is advertising Arnold Palmer Coolattas (half ice tea and half lemonade), a frozen drink tribute to one of America’s legendary, professional golfers. I ordered the drink and reflected on what I term Life’s Lessons Learned.

At the end of World War II, my father took a job as General Manager of the Wilmington Country Club. The position included his meals, an automobile and a two-bedroom apartment, which he considered too small for our family of four. He was fortunate enough to find a three-bedroom, one and a half bath, 1807 house at the edge of the Club property.

Two or three times a week, we ate in the club’s upstairs private dining room (Dad’s meals were free, Mom’s half price and Jerry’s and mine quarter price). I remember Fridays in particular, because catholic mandated “fish day” meant Lobster Newburg to me. Every Friday, we would come through the front entrance at 5:30 sharp, chat with Myrt, the switchboard operator, say “hi” to the cleaning staff and climb the carved mahogany stairway to the private dining room, where we ordered off the menu from the waitress in training. After dinner, we would exit through the kitchen to thank the dishwashers, chefs, food preparers and my personal favorite, the pastry chef. Through those interactions, I learned that respect for the quality of an individual’s work was more important than any job title.

The golf course was also Dad’s responsibility. One Sunday a month he and Gus, the greens keeper, walked the fairways and examined the greens while playing eighteen holes of golf. During the week Dad often played three holes of golf near our home. One day, in 1953 when my future Engineer brother was busy tapping out Morse code to various Hams around the world (not the acting kind-that was my domain), I picked up my newly purchased set of matched and registered clubs to join Dad on his nightly rounds. 

My golfing lessons began on the putting green at age eight. Over the next three years, as my strength built, so did my golfing skills. That summer night, I hit a fabulous line drive heading toward the number four green. Longest drive ever for this eleven-year-old, scrawny girl. I dashed to the ball, looked down and froze. There, under my golf ball was a dead bird. I had committed murder. Convinced that my future would be in Hell, I screamed. Dad tried to convince me there was no way that my shot had killed that bird. He pulled a new ball from his golf bag and placed it at my feet. He tried to distract me by reciting a portion of a poem adapted from Longfellow, “I drove a golf-ball into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where.” He had a poem or song that fit every occasion.

I kept my eye on the ball and was relieved to see it land five feet short of the hated sand trap. Whew! I grabbed my bag and ran to see what club I needed to get me onto the green. Under the ball was another dead bird. I threw down my bag, screamed and scanned the darkening sky. I was familiar with the Lux Radio Theatre of the Air’s version of Daphne du Maurier’s short story “The Birds” and feared retaliation. I started shaking in fear of the consequences of my actions. In an effort to keep me focused on the flag waiting at the center of the green, Dad put down a new golf ball and handed me a club. I sliced to the right, overshot the green and landed in the rough, killing another bird. I threw down my club and zig zagged all the way home passing more dead birds along the way.

After querying Gus, who told him about a wonderful new product they were using called DDT, Dad worried. Rachel Carson wrote Silent Spring, the government banned DDT and Gus died of Cancer. At the funeral of his best friend, Dad turned his tearful face to mine and said, “I knew something was wrong when you saw those dead birds. I should have followed my instincts and stopped it then. After all I was the Manager, it was my responsibility.” That was the day I began to understand what is required of those who lead.

The Forgotten Lie

The Forgotten Lie

This blog was to focus on answering questions, but viewing a criminal trial sent me in another direction. What follows is a story of a crime perpetrated on my parents. I call it The Forgotten lie.

In the fifties most middle class families only had one car, we had two. Our family car was a 1956 indestructible, four-door, yellow automatic with power assisted steering. It was the car Dad used for my driving lessons.

His teaching was brief. With each mile traversed he became more nervous and his instructions more panicked. 

            When we spied someone standing on a sidewalk his voiced warned, “Watch out                   you never know when they may want to end it all;

            When we drove on country roads, “Get over, there may be a tractor lurking ahead;”

            When we traversed the many Wilmington estates,  “For God’s sake don’t kill any of             Mr. duPont’s cows.” Dad's foot never left his imaginary brake.

Soon Mom took over. She had been driving her own car since 1927; the year Dad turned sixteen. After a few lessons, Mom dubbed me the family driver. I chauffeured her shopping trips because I was adept at parallel parking. When Wilmington got its first parking garage, I thrilled to accelerate up the curved ramps on our weekly trips to the library. My high school years were carefree until I broke the one rule our family lived by, honesty. My folks believed that a lie was the intent to deceive and avoidance of honesty was a sin.  

I was working that summer in a corporate mail room, earning $1.00 an hour. One day, a co-worker asked if I could give him a lift to the auto repair shop. Sure. We chatted and laughed all the way to the parking lot where he stopped and stared. His jaw hung open in absolute awe as he moved toward the bright yellow Buick. He caressed the hood ornament, focused hopeful eyes on me and said, “I’ve always wanted to drive a Buick.” Well his wish was easy to grant. Why not? It didn’t cost anything to give him a half-hour of happiness. Off we went.

Bob was one of those friendly salesman type guys, who always talks while looking at the person next to him. One second he was immersed in a funny story and suddenly I was looking at an indestructible Buick hood resting in my lap. 

I ordered, “Get out of the car” and took his place in the driver's seat.His face showed fear of losing his license, "I can't let you do that." My face showed fear at losing my mother's trust. "I'm dead if they ever find out. Believe me."

Soon everyone arrived. the cops, my folks, the neighbors and of course, my older brother with a camera lens glued to his horned rimmed glasses. He insisted on recording the event.

My parents never admonished or grounded me. They were happy I was safe and continued to loan me the car as needed. Dad called the insurance company and lowered the deductible from $250.00 to $50.00. This carefree teen knew nothing about insurance, but she did know never to let anyone know the truth. 

For the next twenty-five years life was idyllic. I graduated from Syracuse, lived in Japan, got a teaching job in New Hampshire, married, bought and restored two homes, and at age forty-one had a child. Over the years I forgot about my crashing lie until the day I dropped my guard..

I was forty-one when my husband, John called to tell me he had been in an accident. I hung up the phone, turned to my mother and said, “That’s something I never want to experience.” 

My Mother, with an eighty-two year-old memory like an elephant said, “Remember the Buick?”It was time to relieve my conscience. “Weeelll, I guess now I can tell you the truth about that event.” She looked confused.  “I wasn’t driving, Bob was.” She  blurted out, “ I’ll never trust you again” and walked from the room.

It was a mom-daughter moment. She blamed herself for my lapse of honesty.  I spent the next seven years as the caregiver/companion, who kept her going. It was worth it because when she said her final Sayonara, I had her both her trust and her respect. 

Hell's Kitchen 1978

Teachers intrigue their students. Gossip about their personal lives infiltrates young imaginations. This phenomenon begins in Kindergarten and continues well into college. Unlike other faculty in our department, my self-esteem was  not heightened by bragging about accomplishments. Only when specific questions were asked did I use stories as a way of imparting wisdom. 

This is a story about surviving by your instincts.

Hell's Kitchen 1978

In 1978, predators, peep shows, prostitutes and X rated films were the norm for the crime-ridden area known as Hell’s kitchen. I was a thirty-six year old, blonde, Twiggy look alike, assistant professor, paying $75.00 a month for my 43^rd Street rent controlled, fifth floor walk-up between Ninth and Tenth Avenues. There were three rooms, one of which was a closet for the toilet-only bathroom. The sink stood in the kitchen, next to the metal-topped, claw-foot bathtub, which doubled as a table.The living room looked onto the often over-flowing garbage cans and strewn pizza boxes on 43rd street. It was the decade when there were more characters on the streets of New York than on the stages of Broadway.

Prior to Disney’s arrival in NY, Hell’s Kitchen was a considered a violent place for a woman alone, but I walked the streets with cautious confidence because my New York raised, Irish Catholic, worse-case-scenario father had taught his only daughter the rules of survival:

            Always be sure and walk down the wider avenues.

            Avoid the narrow dimly lit side streets.

            Never walk too close to a building.

            If anyone follows you, cross the street., you can always cross back.

            Walk facing traffic so you can see the dangers that lurk ahead.

            When in doubt, follow your instincts.

Day and night, I avoided the Port Authority area replete with 42^nd Street drug dealers murmuring, “Loose joints? Loose joints?” Initially, I gave these lost souls loose change because I thought they needed money for a medical procedure. That was until a street savvy actor-friend set me straight. I learned a lot on the streets of New York especially to follow my father's advice.

One February night, I left the St. James Theatre on 44^th Street humming the show’s title song, On the Twentieth Century, to keep me warm. I always found comfort in the combination of words and music. I walked from the balcony into a raging blizzard.  I raised my jacket hood, focused on the snow covered sidewalk and headed for Broadway, a safer route than hooker-ridden Eighth Avenue. It was 11:30 pm and Broadway was empty. No cars, no cabs, no people!

I slid my way to the usually traffic filled 42^nd Street. It too, was empty except for a large mass moving toward me. I analyzed. Was it safer to skate across the wide street or to continue walking with courteous confidence and NO eye contact? I kept going. The screen of dense snow parted to reveal the mass it was a stereotypical pimp from central casting eying me.  He wore a white fur coat, matching Stetson hat, and wielded a white walking stick.

He surveyed my blonde hair, which peeked through the hood of my snow covered short parka. He scanned the jeans that clung to my thin body and called out in a loud voice “Hi ya baby!”

My nervous antennae began to emerge, but I ignored him and kept walking at the same pace, in order not to alert him to my rising fear. He turned and walked beside me, “Honey, you look lonely.”

He was close enough to seize me. I tried to remain calm and kept moving. He said in a deeper voice, “Hey, baby! Do you need a place to spend the night?”

I began to fall at the thought but grabbed a nearby church railing to steady myself. The ridiculousness of the situation drove me into a paralytic fit of laughter. I looked at him and laughed even harder, never thinking of the possible consequences. He gaped for a moment and then his mouth opened and his enormous white teeth grew into a large smile as he joined in the laughter. It was a New York moment! The two of us standing during a New York blizzard bent over with laughter and pointing at each other. I finally recovered enough to wave goodbye and headed home I thanked good old dad. for giving me  his final piece of advise, “Follow your instincts." 

Opening Doors

Opening Doors

Since I’m in a university “frame of mind,” I’ll share my father’s rationale for success that I passed on to my students. This wisdom stood me in good stead as I rushed along the streets of NY in the 60’s and 70’s. It allowed me to undertake, with confidence, risky theatrical endeavors (i.e. developing an English speaking theatre in Tokyo) . It gave me the audacity to begin or walk-away from relationships, and often I race toward situations others might be too cautious or thoughtful to undertake.  The advice? “Follow your instincts.”

People are always interested in how one makes choices. The pivotal moments in my life were as a result of following my instincts. I’ll make it brief.

In the summer of 1968, with an MFA in hand, I was contemplating two job offers: one paid $8,000 as a tenure-track teacher at the University of New Hampshire, the other paid $13,000 as a director of USO shows in Korea. The $13,000 USO directorship came with room, board, PX privileges and all the men required for South Pacific. It was a no brainer. I shook hands with the USO director in San Francisco, “I’ll let you know early tomorrow.” I opened the door and began to move from the room, exuberance in my step. I turned to close the door and hesitated

“I have one final question.” He seemed surprised.

“Are uniforms required?”

“Absolutely, otherwise you might be mistaken for a bar girl.”

            I didn’t react, he blushed.

I imagined myself in blue or white, like a Nellie Forbush entertaining the troops. “Blue?”

             

He shook his head. “Khaki.” 

My eyes widened “K-H-AAAKI!!!!?? 

My career decision was based on a piece of fabric.

I followed my instincts and took the job at UNH.  My world then, as now, is immersed in musical comedies, happy endings and ever changing kaleidoscopes of color.

This blog will consist of short stories geared to providing insight about:

            Childhood memories from the decades of the 40’s and 50’s;

            Life and travels with my mother in the 60’s;

            Marriage and teaching in the 70’s;

            Balancing life with a newborn at age 40 and aging parents in the 80’s and 90’s.

There will also be advice on starting your own business, writing a recommend, auditioning, choosing a college, achieving academic success as a female in a male dominated world, and the varied experiences that retirement offers. The posts may not fall in order because of my ADHD brain that rapidly races from one thought to another. Still, the beauty of a blog is that the reader can put them in any order and read or delete. It’s empowering, so enjoy the journey and feel free to ask questions. I’ll try to provide answers that aren’t too harsh, but my reputation is of one who is brutally honest. So, if you want the answers, as I see them, please ask.

My Stong Woman Number--What's in a name?

Noel Battles?!! It’s a translation of my maiden (and often) professional name, Carol Lucha. Carol and Noel conjure an image of happy songs. Lucha is Spanish for struggle or battle. The first and last names reflect my contrasting personality and served me well throughout my formative years. My parents raised me with the belief that life consists of battles waiting to be won, and at a young age I learned to savor the win by relishing in the humor of every situation. I took exceptional joy in putting down arrogant bullies with very large egos. One such event occurred in my mid-forties, shortly before my bid for the coveted academic title of full professor.

The occasion arose when the university vice president asked me to produce and direct a musical for Women’s History Month. He wanted it produced in the large 700-seat campus theatre and insisted that it focus on women, both as performers and audience members. I’m Getting My Act Together and Taking it On The Road, an off Broadway 1978 hit that ran for 1,165 performance and made a statement about women and their relationships with men was the perfect choice. The small cast show was dramatically powerful, the music energetic, and the lyrics and dialogue thought provoking. The date was set, the royalties paid and rehearsals began. All seemed well, until the day the posters went up. That happened to be the day of the weekly faculty meeting and the day I changed my name.

The rather boring meeting was drawing to a conclusion when the department chair began a lengthy diatribe outlining his belief that I was undermining the department for directing a show without gaining the permission of the department before agreeing to misrepresent the faculty.

My confusion was apparent as I tried to ascertain his problem.

Five minutes later everything fell into place. “You mean you don’t think I have the right to do this project because it will reflect badly on the department because it may look like the theatre department produced it?

“Yes, the performance is in the Johnson Theatre.”

I responded quickly, “But it doesn’t say Department of Theatre, it only mentions my name as director.”

“Exactly. Your name is listed as director.”

“Your telling me that I can’t direct anything not of your choosing? Some may consider that a violation of a academic freedom.”

Sudden backtracking from the red-faced chair. “No, you can direct wherever you want, just not in the Johnson Theatre because everyone will see your name on the poster and think it is our production.

“So your main problem is my name appearing on the poster?”

Relief sprang into his flaccid, flabby face. “Yes, if your name appears, everyone will think it is under our auspices.”

I felt myself smile as my blue eyes narrowed in delight. I simpered like Scarlet O’Hara on the terrace at Tara. “Oooh, I understand now what your problem is. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll fix everything.”

The bell rang. Meeting over. I meandered over to the Women’s Studies office to ask that new posters be redesigned, printed and disseminated. After hearing my rationale, it was agreed and I left humming “I’m doing my strong woman number…” one of my favorite songs in the show.

I explained the need for secrecy among the female student cast and we entered the fray. The new posters papered the campus. Noel Battles was listed as the director. The name was displayed in prominent red letters.

It was amusing to hear the various faculty comments.

“The new posters are eye catching.”

“They sure are.”

“Should boost ticket sales.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“I see there is a new director.”

No comment, just an impish grin.

“Is it anyone I may know.”

“I respect her work as much as I do my own. She is an excellent director.”

“When will we meet her?”

“When you come to the show.”

And so on. Over the next two weeks the cast, crew and I were united in our anticipation of the clever remarks we might make to avert the next query about Noel Battles. It was delightful. It was delicious. The songs in the show took on new meaning as we bonded against that “old boy network.”

At last. It was the day of the opening and of the weekly faculty meeting. Tension oozed from the chair as the meeting commenced. He asked a few pointed questions, “Is everyone ready for opening?”

“Yes.”

“When will you introduce me to the director?”

I decided it was time to turn the knife a little. “I’m certain you have already met.”

“I don’t know anyone named Noel Battles.”

The frown on my face was apparent, the smile on my face was growing larger and my mind was whirling at the thrill of winning the game.

“Oooh (Scarlet O’Hara and the southern accent emerged), I’m sure you do, but you’ll find out tonight. You are coming aren’t you?”

His face grew red. He couldn’t contain himself. He reminded me of a balloon ready to pop. The sweet side of my nature grew concerned that he might have a heart attack.

The bell rang. He yelled, “Damn it. Who the hell is Noel Battles?”

I answered his question quietly, “Me.” I collected my things, bowed and explained. “You had a problem because Carol Lucha’s name was on the poster. I solved your problem by removing the name from the poster but not the person from the production.”

I left a very quiet room humming “Who’s got the last laugh now?”

And that is just one incident in my story. Next time I’ll tell you topics that may be covered in the ensuing postings. Some you may skip and others may be of interest. They are all topical, most have a touch of humor and all are reflections of the girl who was raised by a mother eight years OLDER than her husband, my father. But the Mom/Carol and Dad/Carol stories I’ll save for later blogs.

created by humor, tenacity, the belief that I made a difference to my students

Motherhood March 2014

Mother's Day 2014.
The only birth records naming me as a mother date from 1982, a few weeks shy of my forty-first birthday, but this this e-mail gives credence to the belief of many that I became a mother in 1969 at the age of twenty-seven and continued to collect and raise children, on an annual basis, for forty more years.

Dear Carol,
    In reality, of course  we are more like the best of friends - but I wanted to also wish you a Happy Mother's Day  . . .there are many different aspects to being a mother - but when it comes to your relationship with your students, you have truly mothered us!  I have never had a more loving, supportive, nurturing and guiding mentor in my life - and for that you have my love and my infinite appreciation and gratitude.  

Pet

Thus, my daughter's siblings number well into the hundreds, the number of close friends listed on my Facebook page.

This blog is dedicated and written to my many "children." Those first students arrived on the college campus during the academic year of Kent State, the event that shook them into awareness and activism. My eclectic family survived the defeat in Vietnam, learned to distrust our nation's leaders during Watergate, saw the end of The Berlin Wall, supported each other throughout 9/11, and realized, as we  shared funeral grief and sewed tributary AIDS quilt squares, that race and religion were not the only causes of prejudice.

Now we stay in touch via Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, the Internet, email and sometimes we actually pick up the phone and have a heart felt talk.

This blog is attributed to "Noel Battles" a name I was forced to create to keep most of the men on our faculty at peace with the fact that I always did my "strong woman number" with humor and as a result most often "succeeded...without really trying."

Stay tuned for Blog 2- the creation of Noel Battles.