Cantankerously Yours
Clueless for 82 Years
By Wendell Abern
Dear Readers,
Many people believe that wisdom comes with age. In my case, that may be true, but only because I had so much to learn. In fact, looking back over my 82 years, it’s clear I never had any idea of what was going on.
Because I was so clueless, I have learned many lessons over the decades; I will share some of the more painful ones with you.
Omaha, 1941.
I was eight years old. After short stints in Bismarck, Fargo and Sioux Falls, I was entering my fourth school in three years. I had already learned that on my first day of school, I had to have a fight with the bully of my age.
The Omaha bully – a very large bully – confronted me at recess with three of his minions.
“You da new kid?”
“I just started today.”
“Whashyur name?”
“Wendell.”
“What kinda name izzat?”
“Same name as the man who ran for president last year.”
“Big deal.”
“So what’s your name? Barbara?”
Fight. I sensibly yelled, “I give,” very quickly.
Lesson I should have learned and never have: know when to keep your mouth shut.
Minneapolis, 1942.
The bully was my size. His cortege consisted of two behemoths.
“You’re the new kid.” Not a question.
“Yeah.”
Bully turns to his followers and says, “He’s pretty ugly, don’tcha think?”
Turns back to me. “Whashyur name, new kid?”
“Terry. Terry Dactyl.”
“What kinda name izzat?”
“My parents named me after a dinosaur.”
Fight.
The bully said, “I give!” Then his lumbering cohorts beat the hell out of me.
Lesson learned: do not resort to humor if your opponent is too dumb to understand.
Chicago, 1945.
I was twelve years old, a very good student and read at least four books a week.
Then I discovered girls. Over the next five years, I read two books.
Until eighth grade, I had thought girls were just sort of, like – well, soft boys. Suddenly, they were attractive! Curvy! Sexy! My hormones, constantly in avalanche mode, tumbled pell-mell if a girl so much as smiled at me.
I had no idea what to say or how to act with girls. The first time I kissed a girl, I asked her to marry me. I was thirteen.
And then I met Jackie, this bubbling, straight “A,” beautiful brunette who sat across from me in freshman English. I had to call her! An absolute must!
I came home from school one day, determined to make my first phone call to a girl. I made a list of subjects to discuss and called Jackie.
Our conversation lasted about 45 seconds.
Lesson learned: When you call a girl, don’t start by asking her who her favorite baseball team is.
Chicago, 1948.
I had been taking piano lessons for about a year and-a-half. I wanted to. I thought I would be a hit with the girls.
At fifteen, I went to a birthday party at Iris Nudelman’s house. Big party. Lots of kids. Iris had a piano.
“She’s got a piano!” I said excitedly to my date, luring her into my trap.
“Oh. Do you play?”
“Sure,” I said, seating myself on the piano bench.
I stumbled through a mistake-riddled version of “Ol’ Buttermilk Sky.”
“That was, um, good,” my date said among polite applause.
Then Ronnie Goldman sat down and whipped through “The Polonaise” like Vladimir Horowitz.
Lesson learned: Before playing the piano in front of a crowd, check and see if anyone else plays; then slip a laxative into his drink.
Newport, Rhode Island, 1955.
I had been in the Navy for two days. I went to my first inspection. Our Chief marched down the line of sailors standing at attention and stopped when he came to me.
“Whaddayou tryin’ to be funny?”
“No sir!”
“Uh huh. Go change your shoes. And after an hour of marching, you can run a mile around the track. And then report for KP duty.”
Lesson learned: Never report to a military inspection wearing blue suede shoes.
Chicago, 1958.
Married four and-a-half years. First child due any minute. I had become the quintessential nervous new father, a basket-case cliché.
Carol, my wife, called me at work and said, “Guess what! My water broke!”
“What? Why?
“What do you mean, ‘Why?’ Get to the hospital, you idiot.”
Later, as I waited in a small room with two other expectant fathers, a nurse walked in carrying a small bundle. “Mr. Abern,” she said, “you have a perfect little daughter!”
“Wonderful!” I shouted. “What’s her name?”
Lesson learned: To not make a fool of myself, keep my mouth shut.
Chicago, 1965.
For our tenth anniversary, I planned a special surprise for Carol: a weekend downtown at a fancy hotel, with reservations at two of her favorite restaurants and the theatre.
And just to give the weekend a spicy little twist, I registered us at the hotel, the restaurants and the theatre under a phony name: J. Quigley Sandelmaier. My in-laws, who were baby-sitting, knew the phony name and loved the idea.
When we went to sign in at the hotel desk, the clerk asked for my credit card.
“No credit cards,” I said. “I want to pay in cash.”
“I’m sorry, sir. We have to see a credit card.
I turned and grinned at the seven or eight guys lined up behind me. Then I said to the clerk in a loud whisper, “Look, I don’t want my wife to find out about this. I have to pay cash.”
Many chuckles behind me as Carol turned a shade of red never before seen on this planet.
“He’s just kidding,” she said. “We’re married. Really.” Lascivious grins. “Really!”
Carol seemed to take it all in stride, and we had a delicious week-end. However, when we got home, I spent the next three nights on the couch.
Lesson never learned: Know when to keep your mouth shut.
Cantankerously Yours,
Wendell Abern
Wendell Abern can be reached at [email protected].