1958 Revisited

When I was in high school, I really disliked playing in any of the major sports. So, I always applied (and was accepted) to be the team manager. As compared with college where being a manager was a big thing on campus, manager in high school was not regarded too highly, I think. But, it was a way to get out of being on a team and, my case, doing a lot of sitting on the bench anyway. This picture is from 1958 when I was Varsity Football manager. I think there were cutouts of the whole team for a banquet.

Can You Find Me?

St. Louis Country Day School, Class 7 (you'd know this as 6th grade):

Change, the Subject

Looks like my poetry/music project, Change, the Subject, is finally going to happen. It's 67 years (a)bridged. Performances are 12/8 at 7 PM and 12/9 at 1 PM, Centene Center for the Arts and Education, 4th floor Rialto Ballroom. The nice folks at HotCity, St. Louis Poetry Center, St. Louis Writers Guild, River Styx, and Chesterfield Arts are all co-sponsors.

Should be fun. And there will be a reception after each performance as well as a discount on the purchase of any of my books. Tickets are $15 -- call Chesterfield Arts at 636-519-1955 for your tickets -- limited seating. Here's a bit of flavor for what you'll hear/see:

A Journey

I was born in 1940,
the only son of an only son.
The worst I knew about the war
was rationing of horsemeat
for our two Great Danes, yellow
powder we had to add to white oleomargarine.
I grew up assimilationist Jewish,
St. Louis suburbs,
private school, ivy league college,
married at 20,
went from college into industry for 10 years,
back to school for a Ph.D. then taught accounting for over 20.
Both my parents died
between their 80th and 81st birthdays.
Over the past several years,
I’ve lost good friends, family.
I’m 67, long-time married, retired,
have three grown children, two grandchildren,
four horses, two dogs.
Been operated on for cancer.
My story is particular to me.
My story is yours.

Four Doctor Stories

1. The Finger

Up until about age 40, my internist was a family friend and wonderful doctor who made house calls even when others had given that up. One day I was in for an annual physical. We got to the part where I had to drop my drawers and bend over. I said to him: “This is the part of the exam I really hate.” His response as he fitted a glove onto his right hand: “There are lots of people whose hand I won’t shake, but there is no one that I wouldn’t stick my finger up his ass.”

2. The Scalpel

We had all our children while I was in my 20s. In my early 30s, I decided to get a vasectomy. Also about that time, I had assumed the presidency of the Central Agency for Jewish Education and we were coordinating for the very first time the funding of orthodox, conservative, and reform education throughout the city. This was a big deal. The urologist who was going to do the surgery was an orthodox Jew and very involved in the orthodox day school movement.

I went through all the preparatory work for the vasectomy, was told to disrobe from the waist down, climb onto the table, spread my legs, and put my feet in the metal stirrups. When all this had been accomplished, the doctor and a nurse entered the room. As he was about to start, scalpel in hand, he said: “So I understand you’re the new president of the Central Agency.” My response: “Herb, I’ll give you anything you want!”

3. A Cheeky Opinion

The left side of my face was swollen and hot. I went to an ENT for an examination. He probed and palpated. He looked up my nose, down my throat. Finally, he said: “I can’t find anything. But wait.” He opened the door to the examination room and hailed a colleague who was passing. “Frank,” he said, “would you please look at my patient.” Frank agreed and went through about the same exam that the first doctor had. When he was finished, Frank said: “Norm, I know you know what’s wrong with this guy and are trying to test me. But, frankly, I can’t find a thing.” To which Norm replied to me: “You see, you got a second opinion.”

4. Cold Fingers

Same doctor as the first story. I came into him one winter to complain that my fingers sometimes turned white at the tips when the weather was cold. It was like there was no blood going to them. He looked at my hands. Remember, now, he was a close friend of the family. I told him: “You know, Mom has the same thing.” He replied: “Well, you better ask her what’s wrong with you.”