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.

Let’s Play the Dating Game

The prompt:  This week, we want you to recall the games you played when you were young.
Did you love Monopoly, Yahtzee, or Uno? Or did you prefer backgammon, Trouble, or Scrabble?
Write a piece that explores one of your memories.
Let's have a 600 word limit.
 
Seated at the bar, but close to the door, he’d recognized her as soon as she walked in, hugged her, and motioned for her to take the empty seat next to his.  Once they settled in—he with a refill on his Ketel One, she with a sweating glass of Chardonnay--the words flowed.  It was good to put a face to the voice and to pick up where they’d left off over the phone—all without the rippling silence that often descends like fog on such first-time conversations. 

A while later, the hostess led them to a cozy corner table.  Was this chance or had he arranged it in advance?  No matter.  Their gentle dialogue was the perfect complement to the meal, and by the time they left to walk off dinner, there seemed to be a comfortable easiness between them.

“This was great,” he offered, as they approached the train station.

“It was.  Thanks again for dinner and a very enjoyable evening.”

“I’d like to do this again soon.  Give me a few days and I’ll be in touch.”

“Sure…that’d be nice.  Look forward to it.”

Another hug and he was lost in the crowd.  She headed up the block to catch the bus.

*  *  *

And so it was that she'd wasted yet another night playing the dating game.

Of course he didn’t call…they never do.

So now she plays Facebook Scrabble instead, waiting patiently for the page to reload so she can take her turn with the tiles.

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.

Where are the Hippies?

Today's prompt:  Write about the first (or second) memory that comes to mind when you see this image:

Photo:  Battelle.org

An ashtray, one box of Larks, one of Parliaments and two glasses of Boone’s Farm Apple Wine sat on the table in the kitchen. Amidst the avocado green appliances, two young women sat with them, alternately sipping the cloyingly sweet wine and, chins pointing upward, exhaling hazy blue smoke ceiling-ward. Only now do I realize how young they really were:  one, not yet 30, was the mother of three daughters; the other, at 36, was the mother of two, my sister and me.

This was their late afternoon custom—developed to fill the time after work, when we girls were at Brownies and it was too soon to start dinner. Or perhaps, it was the friends’ defense against a crazy world. Richard Nixon was president, body counts dominated the nightly news, and Helen Reddy, Peter Paul and Mary, Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass, and the Kingston Trio were the musical backdrop to our lives.

Me (interrupting the peace of the women's afternoon ritual): “Ma, I told Nancy I’m going to be a hippie for Halloween and she said that God doesn’t love hippies.”

Ma: “God loves everyone—especially hippies."

Me:  "Why does God love hippies?"

Ma:  "Because they want to end the war.”

Me: “Then I’m going to be a hippie for Halloween.”

Where are today's hippies who want to end today’s wars?!

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.