I'm generally not much for buying flowers for women.
But once upon a time, in a life long ago, I was told it would be advisable.
My college president had the misfortune (or fortune, as the case may have it) to get divorced from a woman whom I'll call Barbara. They had been married for some time, and he came to the college with her. She was by his side at ceremonial events, and she presided over parties and other social obligations. But she started to lose her mind. She attributed this to the pressure of being a college president's wife, but she was probably going to lose her competence anyway.
Several years later, the president remarried--a woman whom I'll call Judith.
I am notoriously lackadaisical about names (I shouldn't be), and I happened to call his house after he had been married to Judith for several years. I had met her and talked to her. She was a tall, rather harsh-looking woman, who seemed to have to try to be pleasant. But she also came from money and seemed impatient with people who did not (like myself). When I called the house, she answered the phone, and I inadvertently addressed her as "Barbara."
The conversation went something like this, me being chipper and friendly, her becoming more angry and impatient:
"Hi! Barbara, it's good to talk to you."
"Harry! What planet are you on?"
"Wha---?"
"I'm not Barbara. Barbara is gone."
I hesitated, confused. But I persevered.
"Come on--we've met. We've talked. I know you're Barbara."
I enlarged my mouth as my foot enlarged to fit into it. My insistence on being right astonishes me now, and should be a good object lesson: whenever I'm absolutely certain of my ground, I have no ground whatsoever and should back off.
But no, I forged merrily on, insisting that she was Barbara, though she was, in fact, Judith, and had every right to be perturbed with me.
Finally, not admitting defeat, I asked to talk to Jerry, and she huffed off. I began to think something might have been wrong and asked Jerry what his wife's name was:
"Judith--we've been married a couple of years now."
"She sounded pissed."
"Send flowers."
I got the address and squeezed out about $50 for a bouquet to be sent to the house.
I don't know if she remembered the incident, but years later, when I happened to be near their new home in Naples, Florida, she and Jerry invited me and my girl friend to the house for dinner. The evening passed pleasantly enough, though she recalled, with some acerbity, that another refugee from the college, the former chair of the photography department, Bob Vigiletti, had also dropped in, unannounced, a year earlier. They seemed to have gone underground. Jerry was running a gallery connected to a large hotel in Naples, and Susan (that's her name!) was occupying herself in various charitable pursuits, including a throwaway newspaper about local arts activities. She was quite bitter about events in Detroit, and I only put my foot in my mouth once, relaying what I thought would be well-received greetings from another colleague--Diane Voss. Susan spat out that Diane had savaged Jerry mercilessly as he was getting ready to resign. I decided there were stories that I didn't know and was better off in my innocence.
Flowers. They weren't roses. I couldn't picture what the florist told me the bouquet would consist of. But I thought I'd better trust his judgement, since mine had betrayed me so effectively.
Monday, July 30, 2007
A Tale from the Crypt
At first, I thought I remembered this incident for no particular reason. I was returning home from UCLA around 10:30 pm after delivering a baritone sax to my wife, who was playing a gig at Ackerman Union. The band's bari sax player, who shall remain nameless for tonight, failed to show--he's a notorious flake--so she needed a horn for the leader to use.
I thought of my first faculty party at Center for Creative Studies in Detroit. Here I was, a new faculty member at an art and design college. It was December, end of the semester, and time for the big Christmas Party. I knew some studio faculty, but not many--there was not extensive communication between the academic department and the studio faculty. In fact, academic faculty were tolerated, at best, so the college could offer a bachelor's degree. "Academic" had a particularly ugly ring in the mouth of the fine arts chairman.
I showed up at the front door of the new president. He had a large-ish house in Grosse Pointe. What I remember most about the house was an extensive collection of African masks he and his then wife had accumulated, and a pool table on the second floor. My then-wife was with me, a reticent person entering the forbidding world of "artists"--people who think strange thoughts and do strange things. I at least had been teaching there for awhile. This was her first glimpse.
Vaguely familiar faces turned in our direction. The president must have been up playing billiards. Behind us, outdoors, was snow and chill. Indoors were a big fireplace, bright lights, a tree with Christmas decorations, a mix of people in the living room, some appropriate music. I was aware of my wife boggled by it all. Then I was aware of the chairman of the ceramics department--Gordon O'Rear. He and I had said hi in a friendly manner several times on campus. He left his wife's side and approached us with a welcoming smile. I started to extend my hand and introduce my wife. Instead of taking my hand, he grabbed my shoulders and kissed me solidly on the lips, then held me at arms' length. I'm not sure what I said or did, but I must have passed muster because he laughed and brought the two of us into the living room, where we proceeded to enjoy the party, though I think my wife's first introduction to the surreal happened that night, and she may never have recovered.
There were many lessons here, but the first was: take the unpredictable in stride. I think I passed a test that night--I was generally accepted into the Art College milieu after that evening. The other lesson is The Test itself. Fortunately, I passed.
Perhaps I remembered the incident after dropping off the horn because that, too, was a test, though neither my wife nor I would have thought of it that way. She needed the horn--I had the time to drive it out. She's done the same for me when I forgot cymbals or mallets, or music. The unexpected kiss, the instrument transport: such tests are meaningful because they have real-world consequences. They result in better collegial or domestic relationships-- compared to the "testing" that God is often said to do to certify one's faith. Husbands and wives do favors for each other--that's wonderful. Colleagues test one's ability to handle the unexpected. That's fine.
An earthquake comes, and the house collapses. Or the doctor gives us the news that we have cancer. Or we trip on a raised sidewalk and break an arm. These are random occurrences and have no connection to what we deserve, so they are chalked up to God's divine wish to "test" the faith of his creatures. This glib, specious speculation is intended to keep one from questioning. But it's easier to recognize the circumstance for what it is and leave God out of it. The circumstance is random. One is lucky, or unlucky. No self-respecting god (or no God that a self-respecting human could respect) would waste his time ingeniously creating sufferings. If the testing theory were true, God would be awfully mean-spirited: essentially, He would be thinking it's a good idea to make people suffer to see if they continue in their faith. That's a form of entrapment--tempt them to defect by making life unendurable, and when they defect, punish them.
So, my wife and I will keep doing favors for each other because it's a good thing to do, and we give each other plenty of points. And, I'll be a good colleague. But don't mention God to me--my life works fine without Him. And if things go wrong, I won't speculate that I'm being tested, I'll do some trouble shooting.
I thought of my first faculty party at Center for Creative Studies in Detroit. Here I was, a new faculty member at an art and design college. It was December, end of the semester, and time for the big Christmas Party. I knew some studio faculty, but not many--there was not extensive communication between the academic department and the studio faculty. In fact, academic faculty were tolerated, at best, so the college could offer a bachelor's degree. "Academic" had a particularly ugly ring in the mouth of the fine arts chairman.
I showed up at the front door of the new president. He had a large-ish house in Grosse Pointe. What I remember most about the house was an extensive collection of African masks he and his then wife had accumulated, and a pool table on the second floor. My then-wife was with me, a reticent person entering the forbidding world of "artists"--people who think strange thoughts and do strange things. I at least had been teaching there for awhile. This was her first glimpse.
Vaguely familiar faces turned in our direction. The president must have been up playing billiards. Behind us, outdoors, was snow and chill. Indoors were a big fireplace, bright lights, a tree with Christmas decorations, a mix of people in the living room, some appropriate music. I was aware of my wife boggled by it all. Then I was aware of the chairman of the ceramics department--Gordon O'Rear. He and I had said hi in a friendly manner several times on campus. He left his wife's side and approached us with a welcoming smile. I started to extend my hand and introduce my wife. Instead of taking my hand, he grabbed my shoulders and kissed me solidly on the lips, then held me at arms' length. I'm not sure what I said or did, but I must have passed muster because he laughed and brought the two of us into the living room, where we proceeded to enjoy the party, though I think my wife's first introduction to the surreal happened that night, and she may never have recovered.
There were many lessons here, but the first was: take the unpredictable in stride. I think I passed a test that night--I was generally accepted into the Art College milieu after that evening. The other lesson is The Test itself. Fortunately, I passed.
Perhaps I remembered the incident after dropping off the horn because that, too, was a test, though neither my wife nor I would have thought of it that way. She needed the horn--I had the time to drive it out. She's done the same for me when I forgot cymbals or mallets, or music. The unexpected kiss, the instrument transport: such tests are meaningful because they have real-world consequences. They result in better collegial or domestic relationships-- compared to the "testing" that God is often said to do to certify one's faith. Husbands and wives do favors for each other--that's wonderful. Colleagues test one's ability to handle the unexpected. That's fine.
An earthquake comes, and the house collapses. Or the doctor gives us the news that we have cancer. Or we trip on a raised sidewalk and break an arm. These are random occurrences and have no connection to what we deserve, so they are chalked up to God's divine wish to "test" the faith of his creatures. This glib, specious speculation is intended to keep one from questioning. But it's easier to recognize the circumstance for what it is and leave God out of it. The circumstance is random. One is lucky, or unlucky. No self-respecting god (or no God that a self-respecting human could respect) would waste his time ingeniously creating sufferings. If the testing theory were true, God would be awfully mean-spirited: essentially, He would be thinking it's a good idea to make people suffer to see if they continue in their faith. That's a form of entrapment--tempt them to defect by making life unendurable, and when they defect, punish them.
So, my wife and I will keep doing favors for each other because it's a good thing to do, and we give each other plenty of points. And, I'll be a good colleague. But don't mention God to me--my life works fine without Him. And if things go wrong, I won't speculate that I'm being tested, I'll do some trouble shooting.
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