Category Archives: Human Interest

A Roadblock Leads to a More Rewarding Path

Posted on by
Reporter Lois Lane in a scene from the cartoon, "The Arctic Giant" (1942)

Reporter Lois Lane in a scene from the cartoon, “The Arctic Giant” (1942)

By Judy Berman

Sometimes, it’s best not to ignore those nagging voices inside your head. The ones that tell you, maybe, you should rethink what you’re doing.

My moment of clarity came when a recruiter at a place I wanted to work at told me I didn’t appear to be the “go-to person” at my job. That’s not exactly what I expected – or wanted – to hear.

In basketball terms, the go-to-person is the one who other players throw the ball to when they are in a difficult spot and they want their team to score.

His harsh words prompted me to assess what I was doing and what I needed to change.

Just what were my options? Curling up in a fetal position and pounding my fists on the floor? Carrying the taste of defeat and bitterness with me for years? Or resigning myself to working in a job that I didn’t enjoy or find challenging?

His myopic view of my capabilities didn’t mesh with my own. Negativity just wears you down and out. It distracts you from achieving your goals. I’m reminded of Sean Connery’s character, (as Jim Malone, an Irish beat cop), in the movie, “The Untouchables.” Connery confronts Eliot Ness about how he plans to respond to mobster Al Capone, “What are you prepared to do?”

I chose to re-evaluate my career. I looked at the work and actions of those I admired. My mission was to become the type of person employers wanted.

Then, a strange thing happened. As I transformed, my stock rose in management’s eyes.

Still frame from the animated cartoon "Superman: Billion Dollar Limited" (1942)

No longer the mild-mannered reporter.                                                                      ["Superman: Billion Dollar Limited" (1942)]

 

About three years later, no longer the mild-mannered reporter, I wrote a letter to that recruiter and thanked him for his comments during that job interview. I told him that he had inspired me to make changes at work, and the response from my bosses was positive.

Shortly before I wrote that letter, my employer had named me Employee of the Month for front-page stories I’d written about a man who had been in isolation for three months even though a jury had cleared him of any wrongdoing in a prison riot. After my stories ran, the state reversed its decision and released the man to the general prison population.

That same week, my editor wrote in my annual review that I’d become the “go-to reporter when we have a tough nut to crack.”

How sweet that was.

I never received a response to my letter. But that wasn’t necessary. I had turned a negative into a positive. That brutal discussion, years earlier, forced me to re-examine what I was doing and to look at alternate ways to approach my job. As I did so, I fell back in love with my job. I felt valued and I was in a working environment where I could bloom and grow. The bonus was I was working with and for people I liked and respected.

Sometimes life’s lessons reveal that the only thing that needs changing is how we look at things and how we respond to them.

As Gandhi once said, “Be the change that you want to see in the world.”

—

Movie clip – Nine to Five – I didn’t work 9 to 5, nor did I have these experiences. But, many workers can relate to these characters. 

—

COPYRIGHT NOTICE: Judy Berman and earthrider, 2011-12. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to (Judy Berman) and (earthrider, earth-rider.com, or earthriderdotcom) with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

—

Photo: Reporter – Lois Lane – cartoon – Lois Lane in a scene from the cartoon, ‘The Arctic Giant’ (1942). http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/2/25/Lois_Lane_en_la_caricatura_%27The_Arctic_Giant%27.png

Photo: Jobs – Superman – cartoon – Still frame from the animated cartoon “Superman: Billion Dollar Limited” (1942). http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/d/dc/Superman-billiondollarlimited1942.jpg

Listening for Santa’s Sleigh Bells

Posted on by
A child gives Santa a gift during an annual party.

A child gives Santa a gift during an annual party.

By Judy Berman

This time of year, right around Christmas, I step into a time warp to a place back home in Central New York.

It is the first snowfall. Streetlights highlight the stark whiteness. Dave, our girls and I drive around the neighborhood to see how the houses are decked out. One neighbor has a huge snow dragon in his front yard, and part of it is dyed green. Other homes look like the Griswalds’ – a light show consuming every inch of their home.

I love it when the snowflakes are huge, white crystals like the detergent Ivory Snow. Or, when the snow is like butter and just slides off the top of your car with one gentle push.

But, now, at nightfall, the snow is like granular sugar. You can tell it is cold just by how the snow crunches underfoot. Like that scene in the 2004 film, “The Polar Express,” where a young boy is beginning to look for signs to confirm Santa’s presence.

It’s that moment that parents like Shona dread. She suspects her child is beginning to question the existence of that widely talked about, but rarely sighted jolly old elf. In a letter to Santa, her daughter asks how he can deliver so many presents in such a short span.

Shona's daughter writes to Santa

Shona’s daughter writes to Santa

Never mind more probing interrogation such as: How can Santa get into Jimmy’s house when they don’t have a chimney? How does he get up the elevator in the high-rise? How can the sleigh fly if it’s weighted down by so many presents? They’ve heard the naysayers.

Still, like the boy in the story, many don’t want to rush to judgment. They just want reassurances.

“On Christmas Eve, many years ago, I lay quietly on my bed. I did not rustle the sheets. I breathed slowly and silently. I was listening for a sound – a sound a friend told me I’d never hear – the ringing bells of Santa’s sleigh,” wrote author Chris Van Allsburg in “The Polar Express.”

Well, he does hear a sound. But it’s not the gentle ringing of a bell. It’s the “sounds of hissing steam and squeaking metal. I saw a train standing perfectly still in front of my house.”

He ran up to the train. When the conductor said it was the Polar Express, the boy clambered aboard. By the time the boy returns home, any nagging doubts he had have been answered.

I love the scene where the boy realizes he could have any gift in the world. It reminds me when my brother, Hank, was about 3. Hank asked for only three things for Christmas: Golden Books, Chiclets and Sun Maid Raisins. He was delighted to find them under the tree Christmas morning.

The little boy in the book and the movie also was ecstatic to discover he got the gift he thought he lost: a beautiful-sounding silver bell that fell from Santa’s sleigh. It’s a bell that can only be heard by those who truly believe.

We have a copy of that bell. The kid in all of us wants to believe in magical moments and a time of innocence.

I shake the bell, and smile when I hear its melodic ringing.

Santa greets children in Singapore.

When Jolly Old Saint Nick is busy, his helpers step in. Chief Warrant Officer Marc Lefebvre dressed as Santa to greet children in Singapore.

—

Movie clip: The Polar Express – A boy visits the North Pole as he seeks answers about Santa and the magic of Christmas.   

COPYRIGHT NOTICE: Judy Berman and earthrider, 2011-12. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to (Judy Berman) and (earthrider, earth-rider.com, or earthriderdotcom) with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

—

Main Photo – Santa – A child gives Santa a gift during the annual 24th Marine Expeditionary Unit Christmas Party. Taken Dec. 8, 2010 at the Marston Pavilion, Camp Lejeune, N.C. http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/b/b4/USMC-101208-M-8527P-045.jpg/640px-USMC-101208-M-8527P-045.jpg

Photo – Santa – letter from Shona’s daughter. Dec. 2012

Photo – Santa greets children – When Jolly Old Saint Nick is busy, his helpers step in. In Singapore, Chief Warrant Officer Marc Lefebvre dressed as Santa and greeted children at Singapore’s Child at Street 11 Care Center. Here, Sailors and Marines from the USS Makin Island (LHD8) give gifts to children as part of a community service project. (Dec. 22, 2011) http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/6/6b/US_Navy_111222-N-DX615-057_Chief_Warrant_Officer_Marc_Lefebvre%2C_dressed_as_Santa_Claus%2C_greets_children_at_Singapore%27s_Child_at_Street_11_care_cent.jpg/640px-US_Navy_111222-N-DX615-057_Chief_Warrant_Officer_Marc_Lefebvre%2C_dressed_as_Santa_Claus%2C_greets_children_at_Singapore%27s_Child_at_Street_11_care_cent.jpg

A Look Into the Rear-View Mirror

Posted on by

By Judy Berman

Faded photographs. I fall down a rabbit hole. On the other side of a mirror’s reflection, I spot a girl I vaguely remember. Now I see her thru a different set of lenses.

Like the White Rabbit in “Alice in Wonderland,” the clock races – this time, backwards. I’m 15, traveling solo for the first time, on a bus from Central New York to visit my grandparents in Pennsylvania.

At a bus depot in Wilkes-Barre, some of the other passengers invite me to have lunch with them. One is an Air Force man, Jim Peterson, who is with his wife. Before we went our separate ways, Airman Peterson told me, “Don’t ever change. Stay just as sweet as you are.”

I want to say, “You talking to me?” My perception of me was the polar opposite. I felt like an awkward, barely noticed teen. His compliment changes how I see myself.

How I envy Molly Ringwald (as Andie Walsh) in the movie, “Pretty in Pink.” She is from “the wrong side of the tracks,” but Andie has a pretty good sense of self. She has a crush on a rich student, Andrew McCarthy (who plays Blane McDonough). Blane breaks the prom date with her because his snobby friend, James Spader (as Steff), put Andie down.

Andie decides to go to her high school prom by herself, but her childhood friend, Duckie (Jon Cryer), is there to escort her. Blane realizes that his friend’s disparaging remarks stem from Andie refusing to go out with Steff. He tells Steff off and confesses his love to Andie.

”You said you couldn’t be with someone who didn’t believe in you. Well, I believed in you. I just didn’t believe in me,” McCarthy/McDonough says.

Why are we so hard on ourselves?

In another photo, my hair is in a slicked-back D.A. – a failed attempt to look hip like Elvis. I have a mental image of the Cheshire Cat chuckling over it. But my Granddad Fiet writes that he is astounded “that a vessel of vinegar” like himself could produce such a looker.

Really, I thought Granddad’s glasses must be Coke-bottle thick or he had a bit of Irish Blarney in him. Were his comments just familial pride? What had I failed to notice?

My lack of confidence went beyond my appearance. A high school English teacher I respected, Robert Gloccum, predicted that I would go far as a writer. Yet, outside of school, I hesitate for years to show anyone what I write. What did he observe that I was too blind to see?

Who sees the best in you? Too many times, we shortchange ourselves. I know I did. When I look thru our dusty photo albums now, I see this distant reminder of who I once was looking back at me. My mysterious smile hints, “If you could just see what lies ahead … “

It is like being in a field of daisies. Nothing set me apart from the other wildflowers.

Then, one day, I feel more like a budding rose coming into my own.

Now that field is wide-open with endless possibilities. Unlike the White Rabbit, you may discover as I did that there’s always time to pursue your dreams.

—-

COPYRIGHT NOTICE: Judy Berman and earthrider, 2011-12. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to (Judy Berman) and (earthrider, earth-rider.com, or earthriderdotcom) with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

—–

video clip – the ending of “Pretty in Pink”

Main Photo: “Alice’s Adventure in Wonderland,” by Lewis Carroll (Charles Lutwidge Dodgson). Illustrated by Helen Oxenbury. Manufacturer: Walker Books Ltd., 2001

Photo: Judy – high school yearbook

Both Sides, Now

Posted on by

By Judy Berman

As I begin another year of teaching, the Joni Mitchell song, “Both Sides, Now,” popped into my head.

“I’ve looked at life from both sides now

From WIN and LOSE and still somehow

It’s life’s illusions I recall

I really don’t know life at all.”

Two students come to my mind. One spoke little English when she entered my class. By the end of that school year, she easily spoke English. The other student made little effort to learn a second language.

The first student was from Thailand. She saw me about four years later, when I entered a restaurant where she worked part time.

“Mrs. Berman, do you remember me?” she asked, her voice beginning to break.

I would know Suphattra anywhere. She was so shy when she first joined my class. We exchanged notes thru a journal that I asked her to keep. In it, she told me a little about herself and I did the same. This was done to build a student’s skills in writing and reading.

In her notebook, Suphattra asked questions about something she didn’t understand in class. And, I would respond. She was a very eager learner.

We also drew cartoons and posted little pictures. I was surprised – weeks later – when her boss brought out Suphattra’s notebook. She had kept it all this time. I was delighted to know that exchange, our writings, had meant that much to her.

I often think of another student, too.

She just dug in her heels and stubbornly refused to do her homework or study a second language. Detentions meant missing out on hanging with her friends at a diner near school. Failing grades also didn’t convince her that she needed to buckle down. She was locked in a battle of wills. She had to cram for her final exam – which she passed.

That second student was me.

My high school French teacher, Mrs. Pauline Manwaring, did teach me a valuable lesson. One that I never had an opportunity to thank her for – and, now, it’s too late. She died in 1995.

That lesson was: Do not procrastinate. Get the basics down and build on what you’ve learned.

I applied that lesson when I learned shorthand and, later, when I studied Spanish in college and French on my own.

During Mrs. Manwaring’s classes, I can recall her telling only one joke. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she shared her story. Somehow, I expect she’d have a similar reaction if she knew what lengths I went to learn French before my first visit to Paris.

I wonder if she’d chuckle if she knew I am an English (Language Arts) teacher, and work with some students whose first language is not English.

Or, maybe, Mrs. Manwaring would just smile, knowing that not all students come into their own at the same time. That’s what I think of as students enter my class each new school year.

Having been in the classroom, as a student and a teacher, I do see both sides clearly now.

—-

COPYRIGHT NOTICE: Judy Berman and earthrider, 2011-12. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to (Judy Berman) and (earthrider, earth-rider.com, or earthriderdotcom) with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

—-

* Link to Joni Mitchell’s song, “Both Sides, Now” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bcrEqIpi6sg

* Photo – Teacher and Students http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/2/25/Ashs-teacher-and-students.jpg

Photo – teens – Happy Days – Ron Howard – 1974 http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/3/3d/Ron_Howard_Happy_Days_1974.JPG/640px-Ron_Howard_Happy_Days_1974.JPG

Another Saturday Night

Posted on by

By Judy Berman

Alone on a Saturday night. That wasn’t the original plan.

Nathan sounds sincerely apologetic as he breaks our date. Of course, his hushed tones may have more to do with where he’s breaking the news to me – in the medical library where I work.

“Mom’s having a party that night, and I thought you’d feel out of place.”

I hope he works on those people skills before he completes his internship. Still, I’m forgiving. Maybe there’s more to this story.

As it turns out, there is. My friend, Peter, says Nathan broke the date with me to go out with Betty, a co-worker.

“Why?”

Peter just arches his eyebrows in surprise.

OK. I get it. Betty’s drop-dead gorgeous.

Still, I am really more hurt than I let on. It doesn’t help that Betty and I work in the same office. Really! He could have cast his net a little further.

A few weekends later, my friend, Patty, tells me Nathan called while I was out, and he wants me to call back. Delighted at first, I am about to call. Then, I hesitate. Patty and I already have plans to go on a picnic with friends.

“G’wan, call him,” Patty taunts.

“And let you have my share of the corn on the cob? No way.”

On our way to the picnic area, light dawns.

“What a jerk I am,” I mutter.

“No argument here,” Patty shoots back. “But what are you talking about?”

“Oh, nothing. Just something I forgot,” I say making light of my outburst.

What slipped my mind until that moment is why Nathan picked this particular weekend to call me. Betty is out of town.

On Monday, Nathan is playful, acting hurt when he sees me at work.

“I called you Saturday,” he said.

“Oh, that’s right. I was halfway to a picnic with a couple of guys before I remembered,” I say, not quite trying to sound sincere.

“You hurt my feelings,” he says, trying to look crushed.

“It works both ways.”

I could tell he didn’t have a clue. I doubt he would care, even if he did know what I’m talking about.

Betty told everyone that she was typing papers for Nathan’s classes in exchange for a ride home that summer. But, when the time came, he only drove her to the airport.

In the fall, I spot him as he descends the stairwell. He is tanned and tall, leaning against the wall.

“Hi. How are you?” he says, bouncy and breezy, as if we see one another daily. I am equally friendly and casual.

“Oh. By the way,” he says almost apologetically, “do you think you’d be able to type my papers this semester?”

Why am I not surprised? But my response, still cheerful, floors him.

“Oh. I don’t think I’ll have time. I’m taking two classes on the hill this semester, and working, too.”

“Why don’t you have Betty type them up?” I suggest.

His jaw nearly hit the stairs. Until that moment, he never knew I knew.

“Uh! No. She did such a lousy job,” he stammers lamely. “I don’t want to ask her again.”

“Oh. Too bad. Well good luck,” and I leave him in mid-sentence on the stairwell and join my friends.

He may be there still.

(This is a true story. Nathan and Betty’s names have been changed.)

—-

COPYRIGHT NOTICE: Judy Berman and earthrider, 2011-12. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to (Judy Berman) and (earthrider, earth-rider.com, or earthriderdotcom) with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

—-

Main Photo – Judy at party1

Photo – picnic – table with corn http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/9/95/Lifetime_Picnic_Table.jpg/300px-Lifetime_Picnic_Table.jpg

Photo – Judy with friends at party – Peter and Debbie (who he later married) is seated right behind me. I am in the first row, on left, in the metallic silver suit.

Living in the Shadows (Part 3)

Posted on by

By Judy Berman

The move to my second apartment is soon followed by a fire, a hole in the wall, and living in the shadows.

Moving from one furnished apartment to another, the only thing I need to move is my personal stuff.

That’s tricky, given as I don’t have a driver’s license. Neither does my friend, Tommy, or his girlfriend, Sharon, who are helping me move.

My new place is nearly a mile away. Oh, to have the mobility of the bikers pictured above. We do have wheels – a cart to move my TV, and a wagon to hold my stereo and other items.

It’s fall. The weather’s cool. We’re pushing and pulling the cart and wagon down several blocks. All we can do is laugh, knowing how ridiculous we must look to passing motorists.

My three-room apartment is on the second floor. It’s in a quiet neighborhood with a little grocery store on the corner and a park nearby where I can walk my French poodle, Paris. Tommy will again be my downstairs neighbor.

There are two apartments on my floor. The other one is empty, and that becomes a problem.

One night, friends stop by where I’m working at my second job at Grant’s department store to tell me that there was a fire at my apartment. Paris is fine.

After work, I return to the apartment. Firefighters had to chop a huge hole in the wall between the two apartments to get to the fire.

What caused it? It was accidental. The landlord’s son had a party in the empty apartment, and they forgot to unplug the space heater which started the fire.

Other than the gaping hole, there’s very little damage inside my apartment. The gas stove works. So does the fridge. But there’s no electricity.

Despite that, I decide to stay. It’s the first time since I’ve moved into the city that I feel safe. If anything happens, Tommy’s just downstairs. His girlfriend, Sharon, and her parents live just a little ways down the street.

For a month, I am just a shadow. It’s late when I come home from my second job. I see few people as I come and go.

By the time my apartment is fixed up, I’m soon on the move again. This time, it’s just downstairs. Tommy and Sharon are getting married, and he’s moving out.

Finally, calm after a stormy beginning with my first apartment. Peace at last.

—-

Read: Part 1 – A Rude Awakening  http://earth-rider.com/2012/06/30/a-rude-awakening/

Read: Part 2 – Late Night Intruder http://earth-rider.com/2012/07/07/late-night-intruder/

COPYRIGHT NOTICE: Judy Berman and earthrider, 2011-12. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to (Judy Berman) and (earthrider, earth-rider.com, or earthriderdotcom) with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

—-

Photo: Moving – by bike. Bicyclists in Portland, Ore., brave the rain to help each other move by bike. Taken Feb. 2, 2008, by Axcordion http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Moving_by_bike.jpg

Photo: house – shadows – candlelight – Author Jeff Attaway from Dakar, Senegal wrote that “ever since June 1st the power outages in Ouagadougou have been horrible. Taken June 2, 2009 http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Flickr_-_Jeff_Attaway_-_lights_out.jpg

Photo: firefighters – Chicago, Aug. 9, 2005 http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Chicago_fire_fighters_walking.jpg

Late Night Intruder (Part 2)

Posted on by

by Judy Berman

Life on the third floor with a ghost is unsettling.

Sightings of my neighbor, Roger, become even more scarce after the incident of the angry woman who attempts to confront him by using the fire escape that ends at my window. (read: Part 1 – A Rude Awakening. Link below story)

But trouble seems to find a way to ensnare him – and me – again.

One Saturday evening in late summer, a stranger knocks on my door. I pull back the curtain on my door’s window, and eye him warily.

No one, not even salesmen, will venture up the winding staircases, especially at night, unless they are visiting one of the tenants. The man, I’ll call him Caruso, wants to get hold of Roger. Roger’s not home, so Caruso asks to use my phone.

I grudgingly agree.

I must be certifiable.

Now, this guy is inside my tiny apartment. He tries to engage me in small talk. No dice. He tries to play with my dog, Paris. Paris, a small, gray French poodle, looks to me for guidance and then, intuitively, backs away from the man.

I tell Caruso it’s time to go, and he does without comment.

Whew! That’s the end of that, I think. But I am wrong. Caruso is back again 30 minutes later. This time I ignore his persistent rapping. Caruso begins to sing “O Sole Mio” – in the original Neapolitan language. I pull the curtain aside and tell him, again, to leave.

Calling the cops didn’t seem to be an option, given what happened with fire-escape woman who had kicked in Roger’s door just about two months ago. After all that, she is just escorted to the nearest corner and released. Besides, what am I going to tell them? Some guy is singing outside my door? Nah!

After Caruso leaves, I call another tenant, Tommy, and tell him about the nuisance visitor. Tommy says he hasn’t seen the guy in the building and invites me to join him and his friends at the Poorhouse, a bar and hangout.

I seize the opportunity to avoid Caruso and his serenades. We walk to the bar. Another snag. You have to be 21 to even enter. At the time, I am 22, but I have no I.D. Sorry.

So Tommy, ever the protective big brother, walks me back home. Then, he returns to the Poorhouse. I decide to call it a night.

About 1 a.m., another knock on the door.

“Not again,” I mutter groggily as I get up from my sofa bed.

“It’s the police,” a deep-voiced man announces. “Please open the door.”

I look out the window and, bless him; it is the police – more than one. He asks me if I’d been bothered by a man earlier that evening. I say “yes,” and the officer wants me to go downstairs with him to identify a suspect who broke into a first-floor apartment.

It turns out Caruso was going between our apartments by using a back hallway. It’s the first time I realize there is a back hallway between the second and third floors. This explains why Tommy never saw Caruso walk past his apartment that’s in the front half of the run-down house our apartments are in.

Caruso is caught after he creeps into the girls’ apartment. When one of them awakes and sees him, she screams. Her roomies tackle Caruso and hold him down until the police arrive.

We all go to the police station to file a complaint. The cops and girls laugh as I describe the “O Sole Mio” serenade – complete with the singing. But my smile quickly fades when I see Caruso leave the building with his attorney. Great! Caruso’s out on bail, and I’m still stuck at the police station filing reports.

When I return home, who’s outside our apartment building? Caruso, of course. Don’t they always return to the scene of the crime? This time, Roger’s with him.

The girls don’t want to stick around, and invite me to join them at the beach. Sure. Glad to escape this madness.

Fat chance.

At the beach, a good 30 miles from our apartment, we see Caruso’s attorney. I’d recognize that slicked-back hair a block away. He doesn’t approach us, but his presence certainly puts a damper on our outing.

I hear later that the charges against Caruso were dropped. The girls downstairs moved away. But Caruso still has another visit on his agenda – and, perhaps, a score to settle.

Maybe Caruso didn’t know a new set of tenants moved into that first-floor apartment. It’s late at night when he forces open the door to their apartment, pushing a bed and the girl in it across the room.

I’m told her screams could be heard in the next county. I was out of town and learn about the break-in when I return. I shudder. All I have for protection between me and any intruder is a flimsy door with a window in it and my faint-hearted French poodle.

Cold comfort. It’s time to move if I ever want any peace. But on a bank clerk’s salary, where?

Finally, I find a new place to live. But it has problems of its own.

—-

COPYRIGHT NOTICE: Judy Berman and earthrider, 2011-12. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to (Judy Berman) and (earthrider, earth-rider.com, or earthriderdotcom) with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

—-

* man singing opera http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Opera_singer_icon.svg

* police – arrest – 1973 (photo not connected to arrest at my apartment)http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/0/0a/STREET_ARREST_FOR_DRINKING_COMPLAINT_-_NARA_-_546658.tif/lossy-page1-640px-STREET_ARREST_FOR_DRINKING_COMPLAINT_-_NARA_-_546658.tif.jpg

* clock in the departure board in the main station in Hannover,Germany http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HannoverUhrInAnzeigetafel060415_p1040618.jpg

* link to: A Rude Awakening (Part 1)  http://earth-rider.com/2012/06/30/a-rude-awakening/

A Rude Awakening (Part 1)

Posted on by

By Judy Berman

My first apartment. I now understand why parents have sleepless nights.

It seems like an excellent choice, even though the home, which is converted into apartments, reminds me of the house on the hill behind the Bates Motel in “Psycho.” Rent is affordable. I can walk to work and save bus fare.

My third-floor walk-up, one-room apartment is quiet. That changes when a tenant moves in across the hall.

Roger is almost a myth. Let’s just say that Dracula makes more daytime appearances than he does. I rarely see Roger, and when I do, it is usually just his back as he is about to enter his apartment.

One incredibly hot June night, my apartment is like a sauna. So I leave my door open to let in what little breeze lingers in the hallway.

I am reading when I hear someone coming up the stairs. It’s Roger and a woman is with him. Roger is a quiet man who has never spoken a word to me. He’d brought a woman home with him once before. Nothing unusual, I think. Still, I close my door for privacy.

Within 15 minutes, I hear the muffled sounds of an argument across the hall. Then, there is a knock on my door.

From the window in my door, I see the woman who Roger brought home. She looks upset.

She asks if she can use my phone to call the cops because Roger kicked her out and won’t let her get all her belongings.

Her cool demeanor changes after she makes the call. The woman races across the landing and kicks a crack in Roger’s door.

I just stand there in shock, clutching my poodle. Paris is no guard dog. He’s quaking almost as much as I am.

While I’m still trying to regain my composure, my downstairs neighbor steps out into the hallway. Eva heard the commotion, and wondered what’s going on.

Minutes later, a heavy-set cop comes up our stairwell two steps at a time. After talking to the woman, he gives me a fleeting, reassuring smile. Then, he strolls over and pounds on Roger’s door.

“You’re puffing up my ulcer, Roger,” the officer bellows.

That’s all the convincing Roger needs. As he cautiously opens his door, I join Eva downstairs in her apartment. A grandmotherly type, in her late-50s or early-60s, she makes tea to calm our nerves.

“I swear I’ve never seen anything like that,” Eva says, “and I’ve lived here for five years.”

As we try to draw comfort from one another, we see someone climbing the fire escape next to Eva’s window. This is particularly unsettling because the fire escape ends outside my apartment.

Short hair. Masculine jowl.

“Hey, fella,” I yell. “Where do you think you’re going?”

The intruder ignores me and continues to climb the fire escape. The second time I yell, the “fella” turns, snarls and informs me in extremely profane language that she is a lady and not a fella.

I’d disagree on the “lady” part, but I’m not about to argue.

When I look closer, I realize it was the woman who’d been in Roger’s apartment. Apparently. when the cop took her away to end the squabble, he just dropped her off at the corner. She returns. looking to get a piece of Roger, but thinks better of it when she realizes she’s been spotted. The woman scurries back down the fire escape and runs off.

I’m hot. I race downstairs. I’m not even sure why. If I ran into the “fella,” well, I’m not sure I would be here to tell this story.

Roger is outside. sitting on the bottom step. He sits there, dejectedly, holding his head in his hands.

“You ought to be more selective about the type of person you bring home,” I say indignantly.

Poor, bleary-eyed Roger looks at me, as if through a haze, and watches as I storm off.

Two months later, Roger is linked to still another police visit. But. this time, Roger might be forgiven. He isn’t even home when it begins.

That’s all the wake-up call I need to find somewhere else to live. The rent may be affordable, but my peace of mind is worth a lot more.

—-

COPYRIGHT NOTICE: Judy Berman and earthrider, 2011-12. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to (Judy Berman) and (earthrider, earth-rider.com, or earthriderdotcom) with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

—-

Photo: Queen Anne-style home seen in the movie “Psycho” and the video clip “Thriller” – author: Laëtitia Zysberg. Date April 22, 2012 http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/8/87/Sanders_House%2C_1345_Carroll_Avenue_%28_1887_%29.JPG/450px-Sanders_House%2C_1345_Carroll_Avenue_%28_1887_%29.JPG

Photo: This is a photo of Ray Simpson of the Village People (not of the officer who responded to the incident at my first apartment). Taken at Asbury Park, N.J., on June 3, 2006, by Jackie of Monmouth County ,N.J. http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/4/4e/Village_People-Cop.jpg/289px-Village_People-Cop.jpg

Photo: This photo, taken January 2008, is of a Delran, N.J., police car – not the one that responded to the incident at my first apartment. http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/1/13/Delran%2C_New_Jersey_police_car.jpg/320px-Delran%2C_New_Jersey_police_car.jpg

The Case of the Missing Lunch

Posted on by

By Judy Berman

Loss is something we all have weathered, whether it’s a defeat in a game, keys you can’t find or the loss of a friend.

This story, however, is about more than a missing lunch.

There must come a time in every kid’s life when they ask: “Just what were they thinking?”

“They” being their parents. That moment came for me in fifth grade.

I was not a fussy eater. Mom never had to worry about leftovers. Our cocker spaniel, Rusty, scarfed up any unclaimed meat – even if it was only unsupervised for a minute or two. I cheerfully gobbled down the remaining potatoes and veggies.

But there was one thing I hated: egg-and-olive sandwiches. Separate, fine. Together, repulsive.

I don’t know what possessed my Mom. She packed one for me for lunch. I looked at it in disgust and reluctantly plucked the bag containing the sandwich off our kitchen table.

By lunchtime, it was nowhere to be found.

I opened my desk in class and gasped, “Where’s my lunch?” A fellow student told the teacher he’d seen my lunch earlier that morning. Everyone was puzzled by its disappearance.

We had no cafeteria. So I was sent to the principal’s office, where he shared some crackers and milk with me. He looked bemused like: “What the heck is going on here?”

When I got home, I told my Mom about my missing sandwich. She didn’t say anything, but, after that, I was packing my own lunch every day.

She was on to me. Guess I wasn’t as slick as I thought.

What happened to that lunch? I’m sure the statute of limitations has run out on this one. So here goes. I ditched my lunch – sandwich and all – in a trash can on Main Street across from Harvey Brothers’ grocery store on my way to school. The student who said he saw it in my desk meant well, but he was mistaken.

Sorry, Mom.

So, what else was lost?

My little white lies, fibs, tall tales and outright whoppers … finally caught up with me.

My “ah-ha” moment happened after a really minor incident. I realized my parents doubted even the smallest things I’d told them even when I WAS telling the truth.

I knew I’d gone too far. I decided I better clean up my act to regain their trust.

Now, nothing could persuade me to tell a lie. OK, I lie ALL the time on surveys where they want to know your age, weight, income and the location of all your valuables. (Valuables? Fuhgeddaboudit! Our 12-year-old TV is the newest thing we’ve got.)

I’d make one other exception. If a friend asked: “Do I look fat in this dress?” Well, if she did, I’d sooner take a bullet than tell the truth.

Trust me on this one: The truth is out there. But, sometimes, that’s not what we’re really looking for.

—-

COPYRIGHT NOTICE: Judy Berman and earthrider, 2011-12. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to (Judy Berman) and (earthrider, earth-rider.com, or earthriderdotcom) with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

—-

Photo: Egg salad sandwich

Photo: Alley Grafitti – Lies – graffiti seen in a downtown alleyway in Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada– May 18, 2008 http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Alley_Graffiti_-_Lies.jpg

To Dad, With Love

Posted on by

By Judy Berman

With his western cowboy hat tilted at just the right angle, my Dad looked like he’d spent his whole life rounding up cattle and riding horses.

Looks can be deceiving. But the Philadelphia native shared at least one other trait cowboys are known for. He played it close to the vest, not always revealing what he thought.

Like E. F. Hutton, when my Dad spoke, people listened. For good reason. He was knowledgeable, a superb storyteller and easily cracked me up with his jokes – even the corny ones. OK, especially the corny ones.

This year is the first year Dad won’t be with us to celebrate Father’s Day. As I meander down thru Memory Lane, so many thoughts and memories rush to the surface.

Growing up, I thought my Dad could do it all. He was a true Renaissance man.

He made the first radio I owned – a crystal radio set. A memory I treasure because I loved to listen to the music and programs on radio. Dad also made the first TV set we ever owned. Talk about bragging rights.

As an electronics engineer, Dad tinkered with many electronic gadgets at our home long before they became staples in just about everyone’s home.

When he wasn’t building or fixing things, he’d unwind by playing the guitar. I can still recall haunting tunes, upbeat jazz and classical music that he entertained us with.

Dad was the gold standard that I measured all my dates by.

His curiosity was passed down to me. It led me to discover new ideas, new cultures and places.

He also challenged me by giving me riddles to solve. What do you know? What can you infer? What’s going on?

Here’s an example of a riddle he might have posed to me that I found online:

“A man was shot to death in his car. There were no powder marks on his clothing which indicated that the gunman was outside the car. However, all the windows were up and the doors were locked. After a close inspection was made, the only bullet holes discovered were in the man’s body. How was he murdered?” (Answer below)

This meant I had to think outside the box, to look beyond the superficial. I had to deduce. Great life-shaping skills. Sometimes, I succeeded. Other times, Dad had to supply the answer.

Then, I’d do the hand plant on my forehead. Oh! That was so logical. Next time, I’d try harder to figure it out.

That, more than anything, helped guide me in life.

I’d like to be able to tell him: “Thank you, Dad for providing me with love, security and making me think. Thank you for everything you did.”

To all fathers, whether it’s by birth, step, adopted, mentor, Big Brother … Happy Father’s Day on June 17th and on every day.

(** Answer to riddle: The victim was in a convertible. He was shot while the top was down. **)  http://www.funnyriddles.net/A-Strange-Murder-Riddle-225.htm

—-

**  A special thank you to C.J. of Food Stories who nominated me for the Illuminating Blogger Award. Check out her website at http://foodstoriesblog.com/  and find many creative ideas for desserts, meals and dining. She quotes Hippocrates: “Let thy food be thy medicine and thy medicine be thy food.” She said he knew the power of proper nutrition well before current science became aware of this fact.

—-

COPYRIGHT NOTICE: Judy Berman and earthrider, 2011-12. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to (Judy Berman) and (earthrider, earth-rider.com, or earthriderdotcom) with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

—-

Main photo: Dad and me, Nelson, Nevada (2002)

Photo: Dad in U.S. Army (1943)

Photo: Dad (in center) and his classmates in Chicago, Ill.