Student Teachers
Dear Diary:
One morning when the weather was inclement, I called the gym downstairs in my Riverdale building to check whether the usual aerobic dance class was still on.
Yes, but by a substitute instructor, I was told.
When I got to the class, the tall man who was filling in glanced at me, called out my surname, ran over and gave me a big hug.
I did not recognize him.
“You were my seventh grade English teacher,” he gasped.
“Now you are teaching me!” I said.
— Eileen Langer
Ordering
Dear Diary:
When I was an undergrad at Fordham, my older brother came to New York for a short visit. I met him at Penn Station to spare him having to navigate the D train to the Bronx by himself.
He had been living in California for a while and he walked through the station as though he had brought a West Coast fog with him.
After allowing almost everyone to push past us up the stairs to Eighth Avenue, I suggested we step into a nearby deli. The line at the counter was not short, but it was moving swiftly.
Protectively, I stepped in line first. I noticed my brother studying the menu on the wall and felt a sudden panic.
“Decide what you want before you get to the front,” I blurted out.
He looked at me as if I had told him that he needed to take off his clothes. Unfortunately, I had no time to explain or get his acknowledgment. It was my turn.
In an effort to show him what I had been trying to say, I stepped up to the counter.
“I’ll have the No. 1,” I said.
My brother was next. I held my breath.
To my horror, he did not just reveal that he was not ready but went further than that.
“Do you recommend the tuna salad?” he asked.
— Kathy Eppright
Meshuga
Dear Diary:
Maybe I might be a little bit meshuga,
As twisted as a pretzel on a cart.
I never could have dreamt,
That I’d be so damned verklempt,
I broke my lease and then I broke your heart.
I had to quit the city when it shuttered,
Packed up all my bags and made the break
I was clearly off my rocker,
Just a frightened alter cocker,
I made the move and also a mistake.
The restaurants here all close too friggin’ early,
Gotta kvetch about the deer and the raccoons.
I left the whole mishpocha,
Please forgive me, mea culpa.
Cider doughnuts (oy) are never macaroons.
Maybe I might be a little bit meshuga,
Kick me in the tuchus, not my schnoz.
It’s a shame and it’s a shonda,
When a schmo decides to wanda,
Far away from New York City,
Or, is that Oz?
— Lou Craft
Spilled the Wine
Dear Diary:
I love airports. No matter how crazy they can be, to me they are the ultimate in glamour.
When I was growing up in Bayside, Queens, my family did not have much money. My father saved change in a giant glass jar for over a decade so that he could afford to take me and my sister to Disney World.
By the time he had saved enough, I was 14 and had long since lost interest in Disney World, and my parents had been separated for a number of years.
Still, Dad brought me and my sister to LaGuardia and off we went. He was so excited and once we went through those rotating doors, we were too.
It was definitely a budget vacation in every regard, but I will never forget stepping into that airport and experiencing what to me was how the other half lived.
Someone had accidentally broken a bottle of white wine on the floor, and the exotic aroma of Sauvignon Blanc or some other lush varietal filled the air. To me it was the smell of luxury, and I was going on an airplane. Thanks, Dad.
So I will always love airports and I will always love to fly. I will also always love Florida and was thrilled to be flying there recently from, you guessed it, LaGuardia.
— Pamela Primi
Well Worn
Dear Diary:
A few years ago, my friend Adrienne was in an Upper West Side coffee shop when she looked down into a stroller. Then she looked up at the woman standing with the stroller, who happened to be my babysitter.
“Is that baby named Wyatt?”
Our babysitter was surprised.
“Yes,” she replied. “Why?”
“I thought he must be,” my friend said. “I knit that sweater for his brother two years ago.”
— Sarah Pinneo
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