An Apple a Day-Part II

My first class as an English Instructor, at Valencia Community College, Orlando, Florida, was Introduction to Literature:

1/3 poetry; 1/3 prose; 1/3 drama. And I did the very best I could to keep an even distribution. One of my surprises during the semester was how well the class responded to Death of a Salesman, Arthur Miller's classic comment on modern life. Since Valencia is a community college, many older students come back to school, and there's always a good mix of ages and opinions, one of the reasons I like the community college setting. The night I went home after the final exam, I wept because it was over, as I wasn't prepared for the kind of bonds that can quickly form in a classroom, but my grief was shortlived as the assignments for the next semester were quickly given out.

I was hired over the telephone, sight unseen, given my textbook the night of the first class, and wished good luck. It wasn't the most auspicious of beginnings, but I got through by doing what I always did -- being myself. A class can spot a phony a mile off, so just be yourself.

I stayed at Valencia Community College as a adjunct instructor, then was hired on a tenure track, full-time position in 1986. By this time I had also spent a year teaching the the University of Central Florida. We part-timers couldn't have enough jobs. A laugh-out-loud thing happened in one of my Valencia composition classes after I told the class to write about anything they wanted. One young woman asked, "Anything?" I said, "Anything." I should've known better. Her paper turned out to be a detailed description of a birthday present she had given her boyfriend -- a threesome. If you don't know what that is, it's okay. Suffice it to say that I never let my classes write about "anything" again.

I left Florida for California in December 1986, and I didn't get another teaching job until 1990, when I was invited to work as an adjunct at Los Angeles City College. This was truly the Los Angeles teaching experience, as I had students from all over the world, all struggling to get a foothold in the land of opportunity. My first class was a remedial English class that from a teacher's point of view was almost perfect. They were hungry to learn, to "do it right," and they worked hard, listened intently, and joined in every discussion. When this wonderful class was over, they gave me a teddy bear and a Lakers' shirt. Of course I still have them.

I would've stayed at City College forever but for the exigencies of working as a part-timer during budget cuts in education.

It was also at City College that I received my all-time favorite student essay. It was entitled "The Village We Left Behind," and it was as sweet a posting as I had ever received before or since. A young Vietnamese woman had had to leave her homeland as the Americans left, and she wrote about it in an honest, evocative way that still brings tears to my eyes. It's good that she wrote it before some idiot writing instructor had ruined her naturally beautiful style forever! I liked the Vietnamese women in my classes, one of whom had been born in an underground shelter in Hanoi as U. S. bombers blasted the earth above them.

One of the things that Chair of the English Department told me when I was first hired was that most of my students will have never been told they can succeed, will have never been encouraged. Part of my job was to convince them that they could. I worked hard at teaching them both English and an attitude, the attitude that they could go out in this big world and have a life. It was difficult at times, especially when their own parents had discouraged them from pursuing higher education. I'm sure that some of them heard me, and I miss them still. It's too bad that intellectual achievement isn't revered in all cultures.

Good news on the education front today is that my son's M. S. Thesis in Psychology has just been appoved by the Provost of his university. He's 44 years old and has earned this degree while working full-time and being a father and husband. I received my M. A. in English at the age of 43, having worked full-time and having tried to be a husband and father. I'm really proud of my son because I know how hard it is. Way to go!

Who's Your Daddy?

If President Bush really wants to commit to Iraqui freedom, he should send those two useless daughters of his to Iraq, if he can sober them up, that is.

Your Table Is Ready

One of the things I miss most about Los Angeles is the food, any kind of food you could possibly want. Since there are over 90 languages spoken in L. A., one can rest assured that the choices in cuisine are many. But it wasn't haute cuisine that gave me the most joy in this multi-cultural city

First of all, I'll address the obvious. There aren't many American cities that can offer the quality of Mexican food that Los Angeles can, and one of my favorite meals was in East L. A. at a mom and pop restaurant the name of which I can't remember. They spoke no English, but fortunately I was brought there by a good friend whose surname was Ruiz. It was a fine meal in an authentic atmosphere.

Another spot for Mexican food is a chain called Baja Fresh, one location of which was only minutes from my home, on Sunset Blvd. near Crescent Heights. The food was prepared as one waited, and it was not only fresh, it was delicious. I enjoyed taking the food home, as there were just simply too many Hollywood "wannabees" any time I went in.

Let me not forget the best individually owned Mexican restaurant that I patronized, El Coyote on Beverly Blvd. The crowds speak for themselves, as the quality is excellent, and the portions are large. If you go during the dinner hours, you'll probably have to wait for a seat. A friend of mine once celebrated a 20th anniversary here, and he paid for everybody's meal! Great food, great friend.

An institution in Los Angeles is Pink's Hot Dogs. There's always a line around Pink's, which has been serving the public for over 64 years. My favorite was a chili dog with cheese. You can see Pink's in a new Volvo commercial and in a commercial featuring the guys from "Entourage."

Of course there was quite a variety of seafood in this port city. One famous place, Gladstone's, was located on the beach at the very end of Sunset Blvd on Pacific Coast Highway. It's worth the trip, especially if one can be seated at one of the windows overlooking the beach and the Pacific Ocean. The food is well above average and priced within the reach of working folks. The portions are large, so prepare to take something home with you.

Just north on Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu is a smaller, less fancy place called The Reel Inn. I prefer it over Gladstone's, as the food is better and no more costly. You order, wait, then take your basket to a seat inside, or outside on the patio. I could eat here at least once a week. It looks like a shack from outside, but don't be fooled.

Deli food is also easily available in this food heaven, The City of Angels. Canter's Delicatessen, in the Fairfax District, is open 24/7 and has been satisfying local palates since the 1930s. I simply adore their Reuben sandwich. It's so large that it's hard to get my mouth around it. Add some cole slaw or potato salad as a side, and slide into a kind of fugue even better than drugs! This is one of the reasons I'm "slightly" overweight.

I'm adding another deli, Jerry's Famous Delicatessen on Ventura Blvd. in Studio City. I must, as it served the best Cobb Salad I've ever had and also provided desserts that were truly magnificent. I'm sure you can get a good pastrami sandwich, too.

Being a southerner, I love good meatloaf. And the best place I found for this was Kate Mantalini's, an upscale eatery on Wilshire Blvd. in Beverly Hills. Add the garlic mashed potatos, and feel true southern comfort. After the world premier of "Driving Miss Daisy," which I attended, at the Academy of Motion Picture Arts & Sciences, I tasted Kate's food for the first time. A close friend who worked for the producer of the film, Richard Zanuck, invited me to one of the most enjoyable evenings I had in my time in California. When one of my old college professors from 1970 came from Alabama to visit his daughter, a local attorney, I picked Kate Matalini's to break bread with him.

To complete my tour, I take you over Laurel Canyon Blvd. from Hollywood into Studio City. At the corner of Ventura and Laurel Canyon Boulevards is the home of the best pancakes in the world, yes, in the world, DuPar's Restaurant. Add a side of "crisp" bacon, and you know that God is a chef. I had my first DuPar's pancakes in 1980 during a visit to one of my oldest friends who had left Alabama, my early home, to become a professional actor, which he did. When I could think of no place I really wanted to eat, DuPar's was always the answer. When I first enjoyed these wonderful pancakes, I could eat a full stack, 5 pancakes. When I left L. A. in 2006, I was able to finish only a short stack, 3 pancakes. But it wasn't for lack of trying.

How I miss the good eating in Los Angeles! An addendum to the variety of food in L. A. is the fact that one could order almost anything delivered to his home. What wonderful culinary memories I have.

First Date

On December 1, 1980, I picked her up right after she finished a 3-11 nursing shift. We went out to eat at T. G. I. Friday's. We laughed. We've been together ever since.

Our 25th wedding anniversary is now fast approaching, April 3, 2007. It has been a not always blissful 25 years, normal I'm sure. However, there's been one constant in our time together -- our love for each other. Even though each of us split for a short period, the love was there, even without the understanding.

The understanding has come rarely quickly, most of the time slowly. One of the things I learned during our early years was that being right is highly overrated. Most things people argue about aren't worth the time or energy it takes, anyway. But I know people who would rather be right than be happy. I'll take happy anytime.

I've also learned that if one does the loving thing, no matter what the other person does, he can't lose. That came to me in the shower one day, and though I admit I'm not perfect at it, I try to do the loving thing when the opportunity arises. One can always walk away from the situation knowing he did the best he could.

Another important lesson for me has been the realization that if another person wants to argue, I can choose not to participate. What a shock that is for the one who wants to argue. It can't happen if his target doesn't join in. It makes me chuckle to think about it.

I've learned, too, that my wife's day-to-day behavior is pretty much none of my business. I'm not her daddy; I'm her husband and partner. Of course I have a responsibility to prevent harm to her, but she was an adult when I met her. And she doesn't need life lessons from me, especially from me. If she needs those lessons, there are professionals who'll be glad to take her money.

Finally, it hit me some years ago that 99.9% of what happens in the world doesn't require my attention. And I'm not sure about the other .1%. Nobody really cares about my opinion anyway. My opinion is usually least valuable to my wife! So unless I'm asked, I just don't give it. Keep your mouth shut. Try it. It's not that hard.

And by the way, we've laughed a lot together since December 1, 1980.

Truth

It seems that Republican has become a synonym for liar. These people simply can't tell the truth about anything. And they try to smear, even destroy, anybody who does tell the truth. If there were a burning hell, each of these despicable right-wing nuts should roast in it slowly, on a spit, like a turkey, whether feathered or suited.

Sea World Right At Home

I'm a cat lover now, have been since I last married in 1982. It wasn't so much a conscious choice as just going along with the program. It has turned out to be such a wonderful program.

Have you ever heard of a cat named Shamu? Well, we had her for 14 years until the day she died with her head in my hand on December 14, 2004. It was as bad for my wife, Jane, and me as either of us could have expected. I howled in grief as Jane's tears fell somewhat quieter.

Shamu had been named by her original human, Dotsie, a nurse with whom Jane worked at a clinic which specialized in H. I. V. and A. I. D. S. patients. That two years for my wife is another story to be told at another time. Our Shamu was born about the time that a real baby Orca was born in San Diego. Dotsie said that the kitten looked like a tiny gray and white Orca that could be held in your hand. When Shamu was about a year old, she was given to us, as her first human decided that she could no longer take care of an animal.

We had one cat at the time, Flower, who was rescued off Ventura Blvd. in Sherman Oaks, CA. Flower was content enough to be in a home, but she was never the holding kind of cat. In fact, she'd howl if you picked her up, so we just let her go her own way, as if we had a choice.

But Shamu was the most loving cat I'd ever seen before or since. She loved any kind of contact: laptime; being slung over my shoulder and worn like a folded coat; being rubbed behind her ears; being scratched on top of her head, all while I listened to the steady rhythm of her deep, contented purr. And both of us gave her all the attention that she seemed to want. Flower desired little contact, so she missed out on a whole lotta love.

One of Shamu's delights was shrimp. As if I were talking to a baby, I'd raise my voice and say, "Does the baby want some shrimpies?" Almost immediately she reacted to the first few words of my baby tone. Her response was loud and clear, and very excited. We bought those tiny shrimp just for her, but we'd cut up larger ones if she needed a treat. And she ate her shrimp as if she'd just come off a long diet.

Her eyes were so special. She looked at both of us as if she knew us well, which she obviously did, but she looked at us with genuine affection. She was as much a member of our little family as anyone could have been. And for over 14 years it was Jane and I, Flower and Shamu. We lost Flower first, almost two years before Shamu died, and so for a time there were just the three of us.

As we all do, Shamu finally began to go downhill. Our wonderful vet in Beverly Hills told us it was normal for a cat's kidneys to finally just wear out, and that's one of the ailments Shamu had to fight. She lost weight, had a difficult time eating, and often simply missed the cat box. On the final afternoon of Shamu's life, Jane wrapped her as gently as possible in a thick towel, held her close and I drove us to the vet's office. There was no postponing, no miracle cure, just that last, awful act that would relieve her suffering. But of course we asked if anything else might make her better.

It was very quiet as the vet filled the syringe. Shamu put her paw over onto my hand as she waited, and she looked me right in the eyes. I could see her pain, her fear, and her desire for relief. Then it was all over.

We had her cremated and her remains will stay with us until the end of our time. I miss her still. In fact, last night the picture of her last look came into my consciousness, and I wept once again. Was it all worth it? Absolutely.