She Started The Heat Wave

Only one out of the three Jeopardy contestants got Final Jeopardy correct.  “Susan B. Anthony said that it has done more to emancipate women than anything else in the world.”

Correct Jeopardy response: “What is a bicycle?”

Santa Claus brought me my first bicycle.  Santa placed the two-wheel bicycle at one end of the living room.  Our Christmas tree sat at the other end of the room.  On Christmas morning, I went to the Christmas tree to find a present to unwrap.

I unwrapped a toy fire engine.  I turned my back on the bicycle and played with the fire engine.  I kept on playing with the fire engine because I knew what having a bicycle meant. 

Once you learn to ride a bicycle, it means you are growing up. 

I was nine years old and I wanted to delay growing up. 

After Christmas, I made no effort to learn to ride the bicycle until my brother John couldn’t stand it any longer.  He put me on the bicycle at the top of a gentle slope, and sent me on my way.  He promised to run alongside me in case I fell, but I think he forgot about his promise.

After I mastered riding it, the bicycle gave me mobility and independence and became a tool for socializing.  My high school friends and I would go on long bike rides because we were too young to drive cars.  Our bike rides took us to some local beaches where we could frolic.

On these rides, I would always sing my favorite Irving Berlin song.  “We’re having a heat wave, a tropical heat wave”.  I always sang it while I was behind a female bike rider, and I was at my loudest when I came to the lyrics:  “She started the heat wave by letting her seat wave”.

For one bike ride, my friends announced that we were not going to a beach --- we were going to bike all the way to Glen Cove, a town on the other side of the harbor.  

Glen Cove?  That puzzled me.  The only thing I knew about Glen Cove is that Nat King Cole lived there, and he would probably not answer the doorbell if a bunch of high school sophomores stopped by his house on bicycles.

I went on the bike ride to Glen Cove and sang my Heat Wave song as usual.  Then I found out, to my surprise, that not only did Nat King Cole live in Glen Cove, so did Mr. Danowski.

 

Mr. Danowski was our high school geometry teacher.  He had a large collection of bow ties.  He was young and he was single.  Every girl in the sophomore class had a crush on him.

We came to his house, and the group nominated me to go ring Mr. Danowski’s doorbell.  I think that may have been the reason that I was invited along on the bike ride.

Our geometry teacher was at home and answered the doorbell.  He was certainly surprised to find a bunch of high school sophomores stopping by his house on bicycles.

We were invited in.  Mr. Danowski was a gracious host, and then he sent us on our way back to our own side of the harbor.

It is 52 years since I graduated from high school, and bike rides are still social events.  However, when I go on a bike ride nowadays, I sometimes wonder if Susan B. Anthony had a crush on her high school geometry teacher.

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On You Tube, Miss Piggy claims that it was she who started the heat wave (4-minute video)....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y2he3gF5uSM

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com

Jerry Seinfeld And I Lay In Our Beds, Listening

When I was a teenager, my ritual was to be in bed every Sunday night by nine o’clock.  I would tune my radio to WOR, and listen.

At the same time on Sunday nights, Jerry Seinfeld (who lived 21 miles away from me) lay in his bed, listening to his radio tuned to WOR.

And Dee Snider, when he was a teenager, lay in his bed, listening.  Dee Snider would become the lead singer of Twisted Sister

And Harry Shearer, who grew up to write the script for the movie “This Is Spinal Tap”, would lay in bed when he was a teenager, listening to his radio tuned to WOR.

So did Dan Fagen (lead singer of Steely Dan) and Bill Griffith (creator of the Zippy comic strip) and John Cassavetes (director of Alice Does Not Live Here Anymore).

On Sunday night at nine o'clock, we all listened to Jean Shepherd when we were teenagers.

We listened to Jean Shepherd because there was no other radio show like his.  Shepherd told stories.  Actually, he spun stories.

For example, at 9 PM, he would start telling the story about the drum major in his hometown of Hammond, Indiana.  The drum major was a senior in high school and was leading the final parade of his career on Memorial Day, which would remind Shepherd of the two well-dressed women who he saw outside Rockefeller Center on his way to the radio studio, who would remind Shepherd of how his mother always wore her hair up in curlers, which would remind Shepherd that his grade school teacher, Miss Shields, had hair that looked like a Brillo pad, and he would come back to his mother explaining that she kept her hair up in curlers in case something important happened but nothing important ever happened, and he would come back to the two well-dressed ladies who decided to have lunch at a hot dog cart, and he would come back, finally, to the drum major who, in front of the reviewing stand at the Memorial Day parade, tossed his baton skillfully into the air so that it landed across the trolley wires on the main street and shorted out the entire electric grid of Hammond, Indiana. 

Whew, it was 10 PM; it took an hour for Jean Shepherd to tell a story.

But it was more than a story.  It was a journey into the fabric of the mundane things in life, a journey exploring all the quirks of humanity, a journey celebrating people who are unique.

All over the New York City metropolitan area, people shared this journey, listening  to WOR on the radio on a Sunday night.

Luckily, most of America has been on a Jean Shepherd journey, a journey describing the disappointment of  Ovaltine decoder rings, the strange dusting accidents that happen to leg lamps, the agony of getting your mouth washed out with Lifebuoy soap, and the persistent desire for Red Ryder BB guns.  Yes, most Americans have watched A Christmas Story.  Not only did Jean Shepherd dip into his life to write the script, but he narrated the movie as well.  Now most of America is familiar with Jean Shepherd’s voice.

Jean Shepherd's voice entranced me – so much so that I became more observant and I tried to savor all the little moments in life. Jean Shepherd's voice also entranced Jerry Seinfeld – so much so that Jerry named his third child “Shepherd Seinfeld”.

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Here, on YouTube, is Jean Shepherd focusing on the winter night when the family car was stopped at a railroad crossing in Indiana:  (14 minutes long)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Spe7jrDUHBM

Here on YouTube is an excerpt from a typical Jean Shepherd Sunday night radio program, where the focus switches rather frequently.  Shepherd did his radio program without notes; he just sat down and started talking: (44 minutes long)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HDbDXnMkOdo

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com

When The Moon Hits Your Eye

There were a lot of kids in my junior high school with names like Salorio, Fasano, Marino, Salerno, Lamberti, and Subbiando.  

So many people had Italian names, that it did not surprise me that our town had a bunch of pizzarias.  Some were in people's homes where they put dining tables out in the backyard.  As a teenager, friends would get together, pool their coins, and share a pizza pie sitting next to a grape arbor.

It did not surprise me that my junior high German teacher had an Italian name.  He was named Mr. Pascucci.  Or, as we called him, Herr Pascucci.

Mr. Pascucci told us many stories, including the story about when he was drafted into the Army and the Army sent him to Italy.  When he arrived in Italy, he was shocked.  Mr. Pascucci wanted to try pizza in Italy. However, he searched but there were no pizzerias to be found.  

I read Sophia Loren's first cookbook, and I remember her comment about pizza.  Sophia said that in Italy, pizza was food for the poverty-stricken.  

About the time that the Army sent Mr. Pascucci to Italy, a movie studio sent Sophia Loren to the United States.  When she arrived in the United States, she was shocked.  She expected to see evidence that America was a rich country; instead she saw lots of pizzerias.  She felt sorry for us poverty-stricken Americans.

I have been to Italy twice.  When I went to Italy in 1967, I did not see a single pizzeria.  My experience matched Mr. Pascucci's experience.

However, when I went back to Italy in 2010, there were pizzerias all over the place.  Something had happened in the forty-three year interim.

So, I combined Herr Pascucci with Sophia Loren and came up with my history of pizza:

The Italians who immigrated to the United States in the late 19th/early 20th centuries were poverty-stricken.  They were used to eating a baked piece of flat dough with some tomato sauce and cheese on top.  They opened up pizzerias when they arrived in the USA.

My guess is that pizzerias survived in Italy until World War Two.  As Italy recovered from the war, the country prospered and people were ashamed of eating pizza because it was a sign of poverty.  So the pizzerias were shuttered.

Then along came Mr. Pascucci the soldier seeking out pizza.  Then jet airplanes were invented and they flooded Italy with American tourists, all of them seeking out pizza.  When the Italians realized that Americans were willing to pay good money for a baked piece of flat dough with some toppings, they started opening up pizzerias to feed the tourists.  

When the Italians realized that Americans were willing to pay a lot of money for a “gourmet” pizza, they opened up more pizza shops.  Pizza no longer had a stigma, and Italians started eating pizza again.

So, I conclude that that pizza died off in Italy in the 1940's and picked up in the 1950's and has snowballed ever since.  Maybe, just maybe, the snowball was started by Mr. Pascucci, my junior high school German teacher, walking around in an army uniform asking Italians where he could find a pizza.   

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On YouTube, Dean Martin sings about the moon hitting your eye like a big pizza pie (3 minutes):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q22UBqZcB9g

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com

Schneider For Guardian Of The Flag

I ran for political office when I was thirteen and Dwight D. Eisenhower was President of the United States.

I declared my candidacy for Guardian of the Flag.  This was a position in our junior high school; the guardian stood on stage and led the Pledge of Allegiance before every school assembly.  I was eminently qualified: I knew the Pledge by heart.

My opponent was also eminently qualified.  His name was Roger Pitman and he also knew the Pledge by heart.  However, I had an advantage because Roger’s father was a doctor and my father worked for a printing company.

That meant I could get free campaign tags printed up: SCHNEIDER FOR GUARDIAN OF THE FLAG. The tags had strings so people could attach them to a shirt button.

The other offices up for election were student council president, vice-president, treasurer, and secretary.  The school bunched us into two groups of five candidates, forming political parties.  The idea was to make our junior high election more like a national election.

We named ourselves the “Pyramid Party”.  Pyramids are a symbol of wisdom and endurance.

Our opponents were more audacious.  They named themselves the “Rock And Roll Party”.  This was audacious because rock and roll was a new phenomenon.  Only two years had passed since Bill Haley and Elvis Presley had their first hit records.

Members of the Pyramid Party were paraded in front of various social studies classes for question-and-answer sessions.  I was ready for the big question for the guardian of the flag: do you know the Pledge of Allegiance by heart?  However, the social studies classes focused their questions on the big guns: the candidates for president and the vice-president.

Sometimes members of both the Pyramid and the Rock And Roll Parties were in a social studies class at the same time.  Ten people lined up in front of the blackboard.  During one of these sessions, a Pyramid candidate taunted the opposition by calling rock and roll a “baby”.  In response, a Rock And Roll candidate called a pyramid an “antique”.

That candidate was my opponent, Roger, and his comment went viral throughout the school.  He won the election.

However, as runner up, I still got to appear at the junior high assemblies.  My job was to take the flag out of its floor stand and hold it at a respectful angle while Roger led the Pledge of Allegiance.

A new school year began.  Roger and I were ready for our debut.  We stepped out on stage and stood next to the flag. I reached over to take the flag out of the flag stand.  Tug.  Tug.  The flag would not come out.  Tug again, no luck.

Was this some kind of practical joke?  Had someone deliberately tightened the screws holding the flag in place so I could not get it out?  I did some quick thinking and picked up the flag while it was still in the stand and held it at a respectful angle.

My stint as runner-up for Guardian of the Flag taught me that I should always check my equipment in advance --- and taught me that a candidate with a clever comment like “antique” will win an election no matter how many printed campaign tags the other candidate has.

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YouTube video (2 minutes): Eisenhower changes the Pledge of Allegiance in 1954: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=itEeWkB3es0

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com

Aida Should Not Have A Double Chin

I turned to the guy behind me in the ticket line and said: “We learned about this opera in sixth grade.”  He replied that he was impressed that I went to an elementary school where the kids learned about operas.

I had fully expected him to say, “Then why did you wait 58 years to see it?”

The opera was Aida, and the ticket I bought was for a Metropolitan Opera HD simulcast.  Because I had waited 58 years to see Aida, I wanted to see it in a special venue.  I crossed the Mississippi River to a little town with the oldest college in the state of Illinois.  Charles Dickens had visited this little town, and the town looks like it hasn’t changed much since his visit.

My main memories of learning about Aida 58 years ago: trumpets, slave girls, and how to translate “Giuseppe Verdi” into English. 

I settled into my seat in Illinois, and the conductor in New York lifted his baton.  The violins started playing the overture.  My mind immediately thought that this was all wrong.  Our sixth-grade music teacher did not play us violin music, she played us trumpet music.

Act two came to my rescue --- there was plenty of trumpet music.

But I was uncomfortable with the casting.  Aida was a slave girl in ancient Egypt.  In my mind, she should look emaciated and haggard.  The woman singing the role of Aida was well-fed and robust.  I know that you hire opera singers because of their voices, but surely, a woman with a double chin should not be singing the role of a slave girl.

Back in sixth grade, our music teacher, looking for a hook to get us interested in opera, told us that “Giuseppe Verdi” translates to “Joe Green”.

I was a volunteer in the school library at the time.  So was Steve Salorio.  One afternoon, Steve ran over to me and triumphantly announced that he had discovered someone checking out books using a false name.  A fifth-grader was using the name “Joe Green”.

To Steve and me, because we had just come from music class, it was obvious that the fifth-grader wasn't using his real name; instead he was playing off of Giuseppe Verdi’s fame.  Steve felt like he had unmasked an impostor.

The Metropolitan Opera HD simulcast lasted four hours. 

I got to hear trumpets.  I got to listen to a well-fed slave girl sing.  And I was reminded of the time when a fifth-grader was suspected of usurping the name of a famous Italian opera composer in order to check out books from an elementary school library.

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A YouTube video of the 1989 Triumphal March at the Metropolitan Opera (5 minutes).  Trumpets!!!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l3w4I-KElxQ

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com

Yellow Blue Vase

On October 5, 1957, every newspaper in the country had a front page photograph of Sputnik.  The Soviets had launched the first satellite, and America was losing the Space Race.  This meant we were also losing the Cold War.

At night, we turned our eyes to the sky to catch a glimpse of Sputnik passing overhead.  During the day, we turned our eyes to the American education system to see how we could catch up to the Soviets.

At my high school, the students swung into action and asked the school to provide Russian language classes.  The school did.  They chose Mrs. Hunter, a local resident who grew up in Russia, to teach the classes; it proved to be a good choice.

The classes were held twice a week after school.  Mrs. Hunter was enthusiastic and optimistic as we navigated the language.  Russian has a cool alphabet (that’s a plus) and a strange idea of what is plural and what is singular (that’s a minus).

She brought a samovar to class and we got to try Russian tea (not a plus or a minus).  She invited the students to her house for a Russian Easter party.  The class visited the Russian Orthodox church across the harbor from our town.

It is fifty-three years since I took those classes.  I don’t remember much of the Russian language.  I do remember that Mrs. Hunter was delightful.  Most of all, I remember a story that Mrs. Hunter told us and a song that Mrs. Hunter taught us.

The story that Mrs. Hunter told us is how Edward Hunter, an American journalist, proposed to her.  She was sitting on a sofa when he got down on one knee, looked intensely into her eyes, and said, “Yellow Blue Vase.”  She had no idea what he meant.  He repeated, he continued to look intensely, and then showed her an engagement ring.  Then it dawned on her: he must have asked someone how to say “I love you” in Russian.  The phrase sounded like “Yellow Blue Vase” to Edward.  Once she figured out what he was saying, she said, “Yes”.

The song that Mrs. Hunter taught us was Подмосковные вечера ("Moscow Nights").  Here is a 3-minute version in English:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VbZHzF-Av1I

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FOOTNOTE: Mrs. Hunter’s husband coined the word “brainwashing”:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_Hunter_(U.S._journalist)

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com

Frankincense To Offer Have I

I have been in one and only one Christmas pageant.  I appeared on stage at Flower Hill Elementary School with two other guys.  We were the three kings.  I was destined to be king number two, the one who brought the frankincense.

When the music teacher chose me to be a king, I ran home to tell my mother.  Kings wear robes, and I expected my mother to sit down at her sewing machine and produce a kingly costume for me.  Instead, my mother pointed out that I already owned a robe.  Namely, a bathrobe.  That would be my costume…and my mother did not have to sit down at her sewing machine.

What about the frankincense I have to carry?  I expected my mother to go to her craft supplies and whip up something regal.  Instead, she handed me a music box she kept on the top of her dresser.  It held her powder puff and played Believe Me If All Those Endearing Young Charms when you lifted the lid.  That would be my prop…and my mother did not have to use any of her craft supplies.

So, I had my costume and my prop.  I memorized the words to We Three Kings of Orient Are, and I was ready to sing in public. 

The three of us walked slowly on to the stage singing the chorus in unison.  The king with the gold stepped forward and sang his verse solo.  Then I stepped forward and sang my verse solo.  Then the third king, who was bearing myrrh, stepped forward and burst into tears.

We heard a big PSSSSST coming from the music teacher, and we exited the stage at that point while king number three was still blubbering.

The Bible is a bit hazy about the Three Kings, but king number two is believed to be named Balthazar, who lived in Africa.  When I did some genealogical research on my father’s side of the family, I discovered that my family tree has two Balthazar Schneiders:  one born in 1792 and one born in 1828.

I have lived in Africa, in Sokoto State in northeastern Nigeria.  I once discovered frankincense on a list of exports for Sokoto State.  Frankincense is a resin, and I got someone to point out a frankincense tree to me.  I touched the tree.

I am related to two Balthazars.  I have lived in Africa and I have touched a frankincense tree.  I am not shy about wearing my bathrobe in public.

Yes, I was destined to be king number two.

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Here is a 4-minute video of Trace Adkins singing We Three Kings:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yMbn3hb_6y4

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com