Thanks, Mr. Job

This week’s RemembeRED prompt: As the school year is wrapping up and we're on the cusp of summer, we've decided to go easy on you.  

We want to know what, from your childhood, do you still know by heart?

Photo:  famousdead.com

It was spring of junior year and my high school classmates and I were deep into studying Shakespeare with Mr. Job (pronounced the same way as the biblical guy, not the place you go each day to earn a living). Young, cute and exceedingly devoted to his students, our teacher provided an engaging introduction to the Bard of Avon.  (I still can see the signature shake of his head that flicked a cowlick out of his eyes, the better to see his own southpaw chicken scratch on the blackboard.)

One of our assignments that semester was to select and memorize a passage from among the many we read in Shakespeare's plays and sonnets. As a result, to this day I still can recite from memory this famous soliloquy from Macbeth:

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

In the three decades since I sat in that class, many other terrific memories have stayed with me.  The best, by far, is that of our celebration of the Bard’s birthday, which we marked in 1980 on Wednesday, April 23, the accepted date for his birth, which actually is unknown. Complete with hats--the pointy ones with under-the-chin rubber bands to hold them in place--our celebration also included a thickly frosted birthday cake adorned with sugary roses and inscribed “Happy Birthday, Will” and our choice of a red (grape juice) or white (milk) beverage.  We rounded out the festivities with a hearty toast to Will and individualized recitations of our memorized passage--each one a personal tribute to the guest of honor.

Nearly a decade after that 1980 birthday party, I mailed a postcard from Shakespeare’s home in Stratford-upon-Avon to Mr. Job back at the high school.  It was, I believe, my own personal tribute to the man who not only brought Shakespeare to life, but who also nurtured in me a love of literature that I carry with me to this day.

Remembe(RED) is the memoir meme of The Red Dress Club.  Thanks for reading...and feel free to offer thoughts, ideas and/or constructive criticism.  I appreciate hearing what you have to say.

Phil Seidman: A Facebook Memoir

When I was growing up in Somerset, New Jersey, we never called Somerset Park Pharmacy by name. “The Pharmacy” or just “Phil’s” was enough for everyone in town to know exactly what you were talking about. The tiny, cramped store in the row of four set back from Easton Avenue near Foxwood Drive was an institution. In the 1970s, before K-Mart, Target and Staples (and even after they showed up on the retail scene), it’s where we went for school supplies, cosmetics, birthday cards, gift wrap, band-aids, bubble gum, baseball cards, small gifts and, of course, prescriptions – antibiotics, cough syrup, inhalers, acne creams and the like – all filled by Phil himself. A handwritten sign in the front window gave a phone number – probably Phil’s home number – in case a medical emergency made it necessary for a prescription to be filled after hours. Thankfully, my family never had to use that number.

Sadly, I was reminded of Phil’s yesterday when I saw my high school classmate, Bruce Weinstein’s status update on Facebook, which said: “Loving the stock market rally today so much, I’m going golfing! Fore!!! RIP Phil Seidman!”

Bruce Schwartz (who I assume also grew up in Franklin, but I don’t know personally or on Facebook), seemed as incredulous as I was upon seeing the news, and commented thusly: “Phil Seidman passed away?”

When there was no reply, I repeated the question: “Did he?”

“Yes,” said Daniel Morris, another Franklinite who was a few years ahead of me in school and worked for Phil as a delivery guy.

“Very sad…” I said, trying to internalize that yet another piece of my childhood was no more.

“Wow, sad indeed,” commented Bruce Schwartz. “I have such great memories of him in the store.”

We all do.

Bonny McClain from around the corner on Summerall Road chimed in with this: “I remember Phil as he was the only place to buy batteries on Christmas morning when Santa forgot them.......he was also very nice to my parents in their elder years. Thanks for posting, Bruce.”

By then, I’d emailed the news to my sister who, although she has neither the time nor the inclination to play around with Facebook, replied with this: “I'll always remember the image of that very cramped store with the claustrophobic aisles and John Harsell (her friend and the eternal pharmacy assistant) and Phil at the back watching everyone who came in...”

Amy’s reply reminded me of the very same thing…and so I continued the conversation: “The store always seemed especially cramped to me at back-to-school time when the spiral notebooks and pens were piled in boxes in the aisles between the cosmetics and the gift wrap. A bygone era...”

Then came Stuart Rosenthal from Tripplet Road who recalled, “Baseball card buying memories at Phil’s (THE Drug Store) for me.”

Next was Joanne Silverstein-Bacon (I can’t remember exactly where she lived, but I think it was over near Appleman Road. Am I right, Franklinties?) who said, “The best thing about the first day of school was going there for supplies.”

Last was Pam Boullé Gunter (I recognize the name, but can’t put a face with it…it’s been a lot of years), who said: “Phil from the Pharmacy? How sad. Marcy and what was the son?”

“Mitch,” I said.

In the same way that we all have remembered Phil and his store, may Mitch and Marcy’s memories of their father and his pharmacy sustain them and their families during these difficult days and be a blessing to them always. And, as Bruce Weinstein, who started this entire conversation said, “Rest in peace, Phil Seidman.”

Making Change Happen

Earlier this week, I blogged extensively on RJ.org about my attempts to change the Friday night online registration timeslot that was assigned to me the week before by Baruch College. As I was emailing with the Hillel director and the rabbinic chaplain and trying – ultimately without success – to speak with someone in the registrar’s office, I was reminded of an earlier time in my life when I also opted to challenge a school's policy...

It was 1977 and I was a freshman in a typical suburban New Jersey high school. Intent on following in an older cousin’s footsteps, I wanted to join the local chapter of the Key Club, sponsored by Kiwanis, the international service organization. As I learned, however, much to my dismay, in my high school membership in the Key Club was limited to boys, although there was a Keyette Club, the girls’ equivalent. Separate, but equal didn’t do it for me, though, and at the tender age of 14, I was ready to buck the system.

I notified the president of the Key Club that I wanted to join. Although he tried to persuade me to join the Keyettes, I persisted and was granted an “interview.” This was 1977, remember, and so what I really got was a “hazing.” On the assigned day, I showed up after school to the chemistry lab where the meetings were held – the advisor was a chemistry teacher – and faced a roomful of snickering upper class high school guys. Undaunted, I followed their instructions and, after donning a lead apron and a blindfold, stood on a worktable and did what they demanded. I sang the national anthem, sniffed the obnoxious but harmless fumes rising from beakers they held under my nose, ran my hands through the unknown goo they held in front of me and followed a host of equally sophomoric commands. Finally, my ordeal was over and I was free to go home and await the Club’s decision.

About a week later, it arrived. My request to join had been denied – no explanation given. Before the end of the day, my parents were in the principal’s office and within a few months, the Key Club and the Keyette Club were one. By then, however, I’d made my point and felt no need to join.

More than 30 years later, though, the lesson about change and the incredible power we possess to make it happen – even if not on the first try -- lives within me still.