UNFORGETTABLE, Part 2

                                          UNFORGETTABLE, Part 2

Another look way, way back, and another person I can never forget…this one is tinged with regret…the things I would love to say to her.

I was probably as unprepared to cope with high school as anyone in my class.  I had barely made it through eighth grade, most likely because the principal and my teachers were tired of putting up with my scholastic underachieving, often misconstrued humor, (coupled surprisingly with an extremely introverted personality,) and general social ineptitude.

To make this particularly frustrating, it was coupled with upon receipt of the standard I.Q. test results, the highest scores in the class.  The verdict of the school professional staff was: Unmotivated and lazy. 

So my goal in high school was to simply try, as I had in grammar school, to ‘get by’ with the least possible amount of effort.

My homeroom class, my Freshman Algebra Teacher, and my personal contact with the school guidance department was Ruth Boyle.  Mrs. Boyle had the reputation as a ‘tough but fair’ teacher, homeroom disciplinarian, and ‘no nonsense’ member of the guidance department.

So I did learn to behave myself in the homeroom.  That was easy since that was always first thing in the school day and lasted for about half an hour.

Not so when I returned to Mrs. Boyle’s room in her roll as algebra teacher.  By the third week of my freshman year, I had decided I would likely fail algebra, and thus should not waste brain power in an attempt to interfere with the inevitable.  This was a behavioral pattern I had perfected in grammar school, and it was both self fulfilling, and some sort of psychological crutch which had served me well.  But when my various test scores belied my performance in algebra (and to a lesser extent most of my other subjects) I was referred to the school’s guidance department.  That’s when I found out that my homeroom/algebra teacher would now further torment me with the echo of those prior educators who had shown frustration…I was really sick of hearing that I was not living up to my potential…I was a chronic underachiever.  One nice thing about Mrs. Boyle in her role as guidance professional was that we did not meet in the wide open space of a classroom.  She sat on one side of a desk, and I on the other.  No one else was there.

“Bobby, you’re on the track team, but you know you have to keep up a certain academic standard to compete.  You’re on the verge of losing that…do you understand that?”

“Yes, I do.” 

“You know, your test scores on the general tests indicate you should be doing much better academically.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that before.”

“But, the fact that you’ve heard it before doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”

It went on for about half an hour. Instead of welcoming her attempts to reach me, I parried every reasoned approach with a combination of lack of interest with a level of resentment that she was probing me, and I found it uncomfortable.

As to my classmates, I was sort of “Just There.”  It was a very large high school, and you really didn’t know everyone.  I was just below the radar as an athlete…anonymous second stringer at best.  I rarely had a date…when one was needed for some special event, I would revert to a female grammar school classmate who, too, was usually ‘dateless,’ and the two of us would show up together, although never really having any romantic interest in each other.  There was a certain non threatening familiarity between us.  It would be at least three months between ‘dates,’ and there were no expectations. 

I need to mention now that Ruth Boyle, aged 35, was an outstandingly attractive young (35…YOUNG?  It took me years to recognize that was not an oxymoron!)  Nevertheless, this ‘ancient’ educator was the subject of many an adolescent boys hormonally inspired fantasies and dreams.

My school would have monthly dances in the gymnasium…usually on a Saturday night.  The professional staff always had one of their own assigned to chaperone these events.  This time it was Ruth Boyle.

A lot of us, both boys and girls, attended these dances ‘stag.’  There was always the chance one of us might get up enough courage to ask someone to dance.  Usually, though, the boys were on one side of the gym, girls on the other.  And so it was that night.  We were not the athletic or academic superstars.  We definitely were not the socially adept uber class.  We were sort of …just…there.

From her perch on a chair, monitoring the events, Mrs. Boyle rose and slowly walked over to the boys side.  “Bobby, will you dance with me?”

There were many Roberts in my class, and I looked around to see who was being addressed.  Most assuredly she was talking to me. “Really? Are you serious?” I asked. There was a soft tug at my shoulder, and, probably red faced, I was holding my teacher/would be mentor in the mode of that generation, (touching while dancing.)  The music stopped and I was escorted back to the ‘male wallflower’ section.  But that dance put me on the map as a ‘someone’ in my High School. A tiny, but needed, reversal to my lack of self esteem.

I’d like to say that dance single handedly awoke my academic and social self awareness.  Sadly, that didn’t happen.

Through my entire uninspiring high school years, I was still the one who ‘got by’ with the minimum of effort.  But Ruth Boyle frequently called me into her office to try to instill some feelings of self worth.  And in spite of that one two minute dance, I still greeted her efforts with parries of humor, coupled with resentment that someone was ‘pushing’ me.

By the time I graduated, Mrs. Boyle had moved on to other schools, and was never to be heard of again, at least by me.

The years went by, and others succeeded where she had failed…although the failure was certainly not hers…it was my lack of understanding…that instead of appreciation, I hurled resentment.  And yet she had tried.

Lately I’ve thought a lot about Ruth Boyle.  I know she’d be well into her second century by now, and most likely gone.  But how I would love to spend a few minutes with her. To thank her for how she went out of her way to try to do something to benefit this unappreciative teenager.  To apologize for my consistent and somewhat successful to parry and disarm her sincere efforts to reach me.  But mostly, to tell her…”Ruth, it DID work.  It took a few more years and the efforts of a few others.  I didn’t appreciate how much time you put in to install a feeling of self worth in me.  From taking your free time to cheering me on in the track meets, to hiding what must’ve been hurtful pain to my lack of heeding your advice, and yes, to that short dance at the gym.  (I found out later that chaperones weren’t supposed to do that at risk of their employment,)

But it’s too late now.  I can’t go back and spend a few moments with her.  I just want to send my ‘thanks’ out to the cosmos.  I’d like to think that she somehow knew that I’d come to this someday. .  I hope so.   It took many years and  a lot of unlearning old habits and several other mentors on my life’s journey to establish some feelings of self worth in me.  All played a part in me becoming who I am.

But if, just IF I could, I think it would go something like this:  “Ruth Boyle, you pushed me.  You tried so hard to make this work in progress come to fruition.  But it wasn’t ready yet.  It had to ripen at it’s own pace.  As the years went on, I had other mentors who were more successful in the task.  But it wasn’t due to any superior skills or more importantly more CARING.  I had to be ready.  Looking back, you were the first to test these waters.  Is it any wonder it needed to be nurtured and aged to ripen?  But you were, in fact, the first.  I can’t show you my appreciation now, and to tell you that those sessions of your cajoling (or as I perceived it at the time, ‘pestering,’)  ultimately were successful.

“What a patient and caring soul you were.  How much potential rejection you risked by trying to shock me into self awareness.  The one or two minute dance at the gym was, of course, designed to do that…and for about an hour, it did.  But I wasn’t ready.  Self esteem would have to wait.  I turned out OK, Ruth.  Not rich or famous or especially talented, but OKAY!  I want you to know that.  It took me so long, TOO LONG!  To love and appreciate you.  Please KNOW that!”

Bobby

                            

UNFORGETTABLE #1

                                   UNFORGETTABLE  #1

                                       Charlie Bihm

I think it was an ongoing Readers Digest feature.  “The most unforgettable character. I’ve ever met”  not sure, but it was something like that.

But, at least for me, that is one impossible order.  I can think of so many people I’ve met throughout my life. People who seem to clarify a chapter of that life.  Each is of great significance, and if there is one thing they all have in common is that I learned something from them which has stayed with me throughout my life.  So I’m thinking of this as item one of a series.

I worked in a Naval Dental Department during the Korean War.  (Yes, there are those who remember that time.)  As dental technicians came and went, there was substantial personnel turnover but a relatively stable department.

At least until Charles Bihm from the Bayous of Louisiana showed up.  Charlie was an affable enough fellow.  But his strong Cajun accent made him nearly impossible to understand.  We wondered how he had successfully completed the rigorous study required in that Navy School, in which one of three entrants washed out.  In looking back, I realize we were assuming that his lack of communication skills was somehow a sign of reduced intelligence.  Some assumptions are just bigotry in disguise.  It was obvious that Charlie sensed the discomfort whirling around him.  He probably could feel the fact that he was the center of unease.  But he maintained, at least outwardly, a spirit of ‘belonging,’ and a knowing that he would eventually truly be accepted.

But the job of the technician was to assist the professional dental surgeons, and Charlie went from one to another of the dentists, all of who made their displeasure with sharing space with an assumed sub human known to the commanding officer.

So when Charlie ran out of dentists willing to work with him, the dilemma of what to do with him arose.  You don’t fire someone in the military for real or perceived incompetence.  If you did, half of the personnel would be gone, most voluntarily, 

So the task of what to do with poor Charles Bihm fell to the senior Chief Petty Officer. 

There was a sub specialty called “dental repair.”  We had no one in the clinic who filled that spot.  Mainly in that time’s Navy we didn’t repair things.  When things broke or wore out it simply was easier to buy new ones.  But it would serve to give Charlie something to do, and more importantly in the eyes of some, would save us from trying to relate to him.

So on his first day of being “in charge” of dental repair, Charlie was put in a room and tasked to fix, not a dental device but an ancient mimeograph machine which was not only defunct, but would be of no use even if restored to original specifications.

At the end of the day, the Chief looked in to see what Charlie had managed.  There were about a dozen parts scattered around the room.  But also, there was a perfectly operating mimeograph machine on the table.  It was placed back into use and as far as I know, may still be operating with half of its innards gone.  Don’t ask me to explain.  I know it’s true, but I haven’t a clue on how. Over the next few months, items which had been set aside as no longer of use were, one by one, restored to their former usage in the clinic.

And Charlie was happy in his role.  He even became more willing to engage in conversation with the rest of the enlisted members of the Dental Clinic.  While it was still sometimes difficult to understand him, our ears were becoming attuned to the Cagin Drawl.  And when we did discuss things with him, we came to realize that this man was far from being stupid.  He had deep thoughts on current events like the integration of our base in the deep south, the nuances of our war with half the country of Korea, and the rigidness of military life…even in the benign setting of non combatants performing dentistry.

I was one of a few living in that dispensary’s barracks who had a car.  It was important that it maintained life since it was variously used to go out

on pizza runs, or lent to one of our crew that had achieved a date with one of the women Marines on the base.

At one point, my beat up Chevrolet’s battery would not charge.  I took it to a local garage and was told me there was nothing wrong with the battery, but that I needed a new generator to act as a charger.  This would represent quite a financial shock on an enlisted man’s pay, so I had them charge the battery which enabled me to get back to the base.   I parked the car, intending to return to the garage on payday to have a new generator installed.  I related my tale of woe to my compatriots, advising that the Chevy would be temporarily unavailable.

“Let me look at it.”  It was Charlie.  The next day, armed with a square of emery cloth and a screwdriver, Charlie eschewed lunch.  He took my keys, and returned in about half an hour.  “It’s fixed,” he said.  I re turned the rotor and reshaped the brushes.”  I had no idea what those items were, but it worked as long as I owned that wreck, and when I finally had to junk it, the charging system was one of the very few things that still functioned. I’ve thought of him often when I am on the verge of judging another human.      

I lost touch with Charlie when I was transferred.  After all these years I wonder what he did with his life.  I wonder if that old mimeograph machine continued to work,  (and if it did, would anyone under 70 know what it was?)  Did he open an auto repair shop in Louisiana?  Did he return to school and get a degree in advanced engineering?  Or was he a kind of savant, whose abilities and intellect would be forever submerged by an unaware society?

Charlie was one of many who helped me reconsider stereotyping people.  Jumping to conclusions based on any preconceived notions…race, religion, physical appearance, or even, as in this instance, a limited ability to verbally communicate.

Little Black Worms…Little Green Men

                     Little Black Worms…Little Green Men

The portions of this from the human standpoint are factual.  I cannot verify the worms’ reactions.

Ever since I was a kid, I relished the idea of making contact with beings from other worlds.  I reveled in the stories of those who had seen “UFO’s.”  I stayed up late at night to listen to people who gave accounts of their contacts with Space Aliens.  Of course, I’ve never seen an alien craft.  By definition, I’ve seen lots of photos.  Most of them can be explained, (Once explained, they are no longer “Unidentified Flying Objects.”  They are identified.)  Swamp gas, airplanes, other natural phenomena, and just plain hoaxes.

As to those who claim to have been in contact with aliens, I’ve heard many of them speak. (Not the aliens…the abductees!)  Most are obvious phonies looking for a few moments of notoriety.  But are they all?

And there are many who claim to have seen Sasquatch, or his many equally elusive counterparts.  Maybe some are telling the truth.  I don’t know.  I DO know I’ve never seen one.  I also know that having a Sasquatch, or a Loch Ness Monster or remnants of crashed UFO’s can really be a boon to the local economy. After all, if it wasn’t for little green men or giant sea serpents, or hairy humanoids living in the mountains of Tibet, why would anyone go to a small desert town in the middle of New Mexico or a remote lake in Scotland, or climb a dangerous Himalayan Mountain?

So I have a healthy skepticism, especially about those who claim to have had dialogue with, and been beamed aboard, alien space craft.  Yet…there are a few that have a ring of truth about them. (But sincere and honest people often have delusional episodes which they believe.)  Maybe it’s just so rare that we come into contact with little green men, or gigantic lizards or intelligent Yeti types living in the snow. Even if we did have the experience, who among us would be willing to share it, and suffer the attendant ridicule and disbelief?

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Whenever we get a spell of wet weather, my house is invaded by one or more tiny black inchworms.  They are harmless little creatures to be sure.  But I must admit I don’t like sharing my home with non-domesticated animals.

So when, a while back, I spotted a single specimen making it’s way along my kitchen floor, my first thought was to evict it.  I gently picked “him” up in a piece of tissue (O.K..”him” is an arbitrary gender assignment…I don’t know how one tells the sex of an inchworm!) then conveyed him to the front door and deposited him in a flower bed.  At worst, he would provide a snack for a bird or squirrel.  But maybe he’d wander around until he met up with the friends ands family which comprised inchworm society.

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Upon Joe’s (I think male inchworms are all named ‘Joe.) arrival at the muddy plot, the inchworm president asked.  “Where have you been?  Were worried about you.”   

“I visited a huge structure in which resided immense giants.  You know, the kind we speak about in our myths and folklore. But now I know it’s real.  One of them touched me.”

“Joe, that’s just superstition.  No one has ever seen such things.  Have you been eating lotus leaves?”

“No, no.  Really it’s true.  This colossal beast actually picked me high up. I thought it was going to eat me, but it wrapped me in a blanket and put me outside of it’s home.”

“Joe, Joe, Joe!  You are delusional.  Things like that don’t happen.  It’s all fantasy.  The fact that this imaginary giant set you free is in itself absurd enough to refute your story.”

Other members of the group began to chime in.  “Such creatures have been talked about for generations.  Most don’t believe they exist.  The few worms who make up experiences like this have been totally discredited.  How do you account for the fact that no one else here has ever seen these gigantic structures, let alone the behemoths you claim live there?”

“We live on a huge planet,” Joe responded. “We worms move just a few feet a year.  Doesn’t it seem logical that very few inchworms would ever come into contact with such wondrous things?  I can describe the interior of these cavernous buildings;  The floors are varied from shiny stone to some kind of  multicolored indoor grass, and….”

“Enough! Enough of this nonsense Joe! You are inflaming our most nonsensical  and fanciful insecurities and superstitions…and you are frightening our children with your preposterous and discredited claims.  One more word of this, and I’ll have you committed!” 

Joe never spoke of this encounter again.  After a while, even he began to believe that perhaps it had all been in his mind…a figment of an overactive imagination.

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I wonder if there might be real Sasquatch sighters, or actual viewers of the Loch Ness Monster, or even those who have, in fact, been beamed up to flying saucers by alien beings for experiments.  Might they be reluctant to tell their stories for fear of societal rejection or public ridicule?  I wish, though, that I could have one of those extraterrestrial experiences…But if I did, I’m not sure I’d risk telling my story.  I wonder if anyone would believe me.  And I doubt, whether upon hearing this from another person, I’d believe it. 

The inchworm’s tiny world was too limited and it’s experience too rare to give credence to poor Joe. Might our human world be too limited our human experience too rare to recognize beings and civilizations other than those found in everyday life?  Are we missing something?  Most of those inchworms had never seen a human.  Their vision is limited to a few feet ahead and a couple of inches off the ground. What would the chances be that they would ever see, let alone  recognize a human or a man made structure? No wonder they almost put poor Joe in an inchworm loony bin.  Could we humans have limitations that prevent us from seeing what might be all around us?  Is it possible that a few of us have stumbled upon alien or earthly beings that the maority believes are delusions? Who would have the courage to talk about it?   What if one out of a thousand people who claim to have been taken by aliens is NOT lying? Of course, I don’t know. 

Neither does anyone except those few.

That’s all for now.  I’m off to Roswell.

Bob Meyerson, February, 2016