I've talked about some of the kids here before. You'll note that I'm easy to find with that damn purple mistake of a shirt. I see my friends in the class. Smirky Russell who played "war" in my back yard and wound up with a lifetime career in the Army. There are my wonderful friends reunited on Facebook. Diane is in the back, wearing the glasses. Cheryl is on the other side with the long blonde hair.
And then there was our teacher. Mrs. Rita Popper. Fresh out of teacher college. New to the game. And she reminded me of Laura Petrie on TV and that certainly got the attention of this small boy.
Other
than her resemblance to the TV character I most wanted to have as my mother, there are two things I remember distinctly
about Mrs. Popper. Inexplicably, our homework one night was to watch
the Academy Awards. Why? Who knew? Except the next day we spent an
hour in class discussing who won, who lost, and whether the winning
movie was really the best picture of the year. We had never done
anything so interesting in school yet. This was not math or English or
social studies. My very first notion that learning, yes, could be fun.
One
day, I had aced a test. Mrs. Popper was particularly pleased with me
and let my mother know when she came to pick me up after school. Out on
the playground, Mrs. Popper was telling my mom what a model student I
was. She was so enamored that she gave me a bear hug and then kissed me
on the cheek.
You're kidding, right??
I
blushed at the attention. The shade of red darkened when I immediately
realized that half my class had seen this display of affection.
"WHOA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
I
dreaded going back to school the next day. I would be getting all
sorts of shit about this. In the middle of the night, I started to
sweat profusely. Was I that worked up?
No, I was coming down with chicken pox. My next day back at school wouldn't happen for another two weeks.
And,
then, there was another nagging thought. It was the first time ever
that a teacher had kissed me and I wound up with a disease. During my
nighttime prayers, I asked for God's help.
"Please don't let Mrs. Popper get the chicken pox, too."
Yep, I know what you're saying. Tell me something new about this story, Len.
Your wish is my command. As they say on CNN or Fox, we have this into our newsroom...
When Cheryl, Diane, and I had our annual summer reunion this year, our memory bank withdrawals once again included Mrs. Popper. I had Googled her name previously and found some connections to a lady in Manhattan, which sounded right. But, I stopped myself from going forward because I started to feel creepy about it all in a John Hinckley-sort-of-way.
Still, we were feeling nostalgic and full of remembrances of this teacher that we all recalled in the fondest of ways. So I went home and headed back to the virtual private investigating firm that is our computer keyboards. Once again, Mrs. Rita Popper in Manhattan was easy to find. There's a lady with that name who's a community activist there, championing the cause for senior citizens and battling with the city over cracked sidewalks and rent increases. But, as I Googled a little further, I ran across a neighborhood association newsletter that included a story about this Mrs. Popper.
And it included a photo of her pointing to one of these screwed-up sidewalks.
I studied it closely. I looked at the third grade class photo. I looked back at the current picture. Class photo, current snapshot, class photo, current snapshot.
Hmmm. That's her. Okay, I didn't have the total matching technology available to most police departments, but I was pretty sure it was her. Plus the story included her current mailing address. Not only could we send her a letter, but also a badly needed one-year subscription to Lifelock.
I still deliberated my next move. It seemed a little weird to me. I sought the counsel of friends. One was a writer pal of mine who saw the screenplay possibilities.
"Well, if you had this crush on her, she's now only 15 or so years older than you. What if you started dating..."
Shut up. Next.
I also spoke to a good friend who herself was a teacher for many years in one of the most prestigious private schools in Los Angeles. She's been in constant contact with many former students who had very well known parents. She told me that, whenever she hears from somebody in one of her classes, she is touched all over again.
Okay. Got it. I crafted a letter that I would first run by Diane and Cheryl for their blessing. I enclosed the third grade class photo as well as a recent photo of the three of us. I needed Mrs. Popper to know that we were legit and not three shysters trying to sell some old lady an acre of swamp land in Florida. I also included my e-mail address.
Okay, so I guess it was the right lady. This began a long e-mail exchange between the four of us. Catching up on way too many decades of silence. And learning that our letter had arrived on a day when she had to give some tenants bad news about their rent controlled status. It had lifted her spirits on a downer of an afternoon and I suddenly realized that there might indeed be a plan to this life thing after all.
Of course, after "on-line dating" for a few months, we all had to meet on my autumn visit to New York. An Italian restaurant in White Plains was centrally located for all of us and I knew that I would not wear sneakers on this day. Indeed, as Diane, Cheryl and I awaited the arrival of Mrs. Popper...I mean, Rita...we all confessed to a little nervousness. Hell, it's not like she was going to alter our report card grades after all this time. Right?
Of course, our teacher arrived and it was as if time had melted away for all of us. We spent little time rehashing our moments together years ago. It was about everything that has happened since. We were no longer a teacher and three students. We were now four adults. And a conduit to a world where it was all simpler.
It was 90 minutes before we realized we hadn't even looked at the menu yet. That's partly due to our compelling catch-up time and partly due to a lazy wait staff. Cheryl, Diane, and I had previously discussed that we would have gifts for our teacher. Since Mrs. Popper...I mean, Rita...had told me of her subsequent career as an advertising agency copywriter and a current notion for a screenplay, I bought her one of the famed Syd Field's screenwriting handbooks. Oddly enough, he had passed away the day before. Our teacher was touched by it all. I chose not to tell her about my own friend's script idea. That would be the chicken pox incident all over again.
Meanwhile, Diane herself presented me with a gift. Her dad is the only one of our parents who is still with us and that's a daily present for Diane and her family. Over the year, he has fashioned some wonderful pens. Made from scratch and a beautiful thing to share. There are only a limited amount of them and, given my writing, Diane wanted to present one to me. I was incredibly touched one more time by this day. Indeed, this was a connection to a time and an era and some folks that we miss to this day.
We eventually ate and naturally the afternoon concluded with a photo or two. I mean, that's what waitresses are for.
We pledged to do this all again and again. There are no doubts that we will.
I have thought about it all since. I wondered hard about what we had done. And, more importantly, why?
I was curious to this fascination with the past. Old classmates. Former teachers. A life where you were still in your most developmental stages. Guided by adults, many of whom are no longer here.
Indeed, Cheryl, Diane, and Mrs. Popper...I mean, Rita...tie me to memories that I don't want to let go. They remind me of my childhood and, more importantly, my family. These are people that knew my mother. Their moms were friends with mine. We knew each other's families, played at each other's homes, and enjoyed each other's company.
Some would say this is about not letting go. I think it's all about holding on.
Truth be told, several friends have pressed me over the years to take these Sunday Memory Drawer pieces and tie them up into a single screenplay. I mean, who wouldn't want to see my grandmother up on the big screen? But I've been frankly stuck in writer quicksand on this. I have lots of good scenes from the past but that's all strong body muscle without a spine to mount it on. Fascia is great. Where is the bone holding it all together?
I found it. Not letting go. Holding on. And why does somebody do that?
I went home after this reunion and scribbled down how to work this all through. I used the pen that Diane gave me to draft a scene in long hand. That was the right thing to do.
INT. - THIRD GRADE CLASSROOM.
And so it goes...
Dinner last night: Pepperoni pizza at Stella Barra.
Yep, I know what you're saying. Tell me something new about this story, Len.
Your wish is my command. As they say on CNN or Fox, we have this into our newsroom...
When Cheryl, Diane, and I had our annual summer reunion this year, our memory bank withdrawals once again included Mrs. Popper. I had Googled her name previously and found some connections to a lady in Manhattan, which sounded right. But, I stopped myself from going forward because I started to feel creepy about it all in a John Hinckley-sort-of-way.
Still, we were feeling nostalgic and full of remembrances of this teacher that we all recalled in the fondest of ways. So I went home and headed back to the virtual private investigating firm that is our computer keyboards. Once again, Mrs. Rita Popper in Manhattan was easy to find. There's a lady with that name who's a community activist there, championing the cause for senior citizens and battling with the city over cracked sidewalks and rent increases. But, as I Googled a little further, I ran across a neighborhood association newsletter that included a story about this Mrs. Popper.
And it included a photo of her pointing to one of these screwed-up sidewalks.
I studied it closely. I looked at the third grade class photo. I looked back at the current picture. Class photo, current snapshot, class photo, current snapshot.
Hmmm. That's her. Okay, I didn't have the total matching technology available to most police departments, but I was pretty sure it was her. Plus the story included her current mailing address. Not only could we send her a letter, but also a badly needed one-year subscription to Lifelock.
I still deliberated my next move. It seemed a little weird to me. I sought the counsel of friends. One was a writer pal of mine who saw the screenplay possibilities.
"Well, if you had this crush on her, she's now only 15 or so years older than you. What if you started dating..."
Shut up. Next.
I also spoke to a good friend who herself was a teacher for many years in one of the most prestigious private schools in Los Angeles. She's been in constant contact with many former students who had very well known parents. She told me that, whenever she hears from somebody in one of her classes, she is touched all over again.
Okay. Got it. I crafted a letter that I would first run by Diane and Cheryl for their blessing. I enclosed the third grade class photo as well as a recent photo of the three of us. I needed Mrs. Popper to know that we were legit and not three shysters trying to sell some old lady an acre of swamp land in Florida. I also included my e-mail address.
A week later, I was powering down my phone before a movie at the Arclight Cinemas when my e-mail buzzed.
OMG (that’s to show you that
I am an up-to-date senior citizen) of course I remember all of you. You were
the cutest blonde hair boy and your smile just lit up the room. In fact all of you were so engaging and
from your enclosed photo I see that nothing has changed. Connecting is so incredibly
wonderful!
Who could forget Diane with
the memorable last name and Cheryl with the long blonde hair? I loved all of
you and I want to hear all about all of you.
I would love to keep a running
dialog with all of you.
First we have to start by you calling me, “Rita.” What did you do after High School? Did you
all end up in CA? If not, where do you live? What is going on in your life? If
you work, what do you do? Do you
have families? I want to know everything.
After you all tell me about
yourselves, I will tell you what I did after Grimes and am currently doing.
I must tell you that
receiving your letter is absolutely thrilling. This is exciting.
Take care and I am looking
forward to hearing from all of you.
Okay, so I guess it was the right lady. This began a long e-mail exchange between the four of us. Catching up on way too many decades of silence. And learning that our letter had arrived on a day when she had to give some tenants bad news about their rent controlled status. It had lifted her spirits on a downer of an afternoon and I suddenly realized that there might indeed be a plan to this life thing after all.
Of course, after "on-line dating" for a few months, we all had to meet on my autumn visit to New York. An Italian restaurant in White Plains was centrally located for all of us and I knew that I would not wear sneakers on this day. Indeed, as Diane, Cheryl and I awaited the arrival of Mrs. Popper...I mean, Rita...we all confessed to a little nervousness. Hell, it's not like she was going to alter our report card grades after all this time. Right?
Of course, our teacher arrived and it was as if time had melted away for all of us. We spent little time rehashing our moments together years ago. It was about everything that has happened since. We were no longer a teacher and three students. We were now four adults. And a conduit to a world where it was all simpler.
It was 90 minutes before we realized we hadn't even looked at the menu yet. That's partly due to our compelling catch-up time and partly due to a lazy wait staff. Cheryl, Diane, and I had previously discussed that we would have gifts for our teacher. Since Mrs. Popper...I mean, Rita...had told me of her subsequent career as an advertising agency copywriter and a current notion for a screenplay, I bought her one of the famed Syd Field's screenwriting handbooks. Oddly enough, he had passed away the day before. Our teacher was touched by it all. I chose not to tell her about my own friend's script idea. That would be the chicken pox incident all over again.
Meanwhile, Diane herself presented me with a gift. Her dad is the only one of our parents who is still with us and that's a daily present for Diane and her family. Over the year, he has fashioned some wonderful pens. Made from scratch and a beautiful thing to share. There are only a limited amount of them and, given my writing, Diane wanted to present one to me. I was incredibly touched one more time by this day. Indeed, this was a connection to a time and an era and some folks that we miss to this day.
We eventually ate and naturally the afternoon concluded with a photo or two. I mean, that's what waitresses are for.
I have thought about it all since. I wondered hard about what we had done. And, more importantly, why?
I was curious to this fascination with the past. Old classmates. Former teachers. A life where you were still in your most developmental stages. Guided by adults, many of whom are no longer here.
Indeed, Cheryl, Diane, and Mrs. Popper...I mean, Rita...tie me to memories that I don't want to let go. They remind me of my childhood and, more importantly, my family. These are people that knew my mother. Their moms were friends with mine. We knew each other's families, played at each other's homes, and enjoyed each other's company.
Some would say this is about not letting go. I think it's all about holding on.
Truth be told, several friends have pressed me over the years to take these Sunday Memory Drawer pieces and tie them up into a single screenplay. I mean, who wouldn't want to see my grandmother up on the big screen? But I've been frankly stuck in writer quicksand on this. I have lots of good scenes from the past but that's all strong body muscle without a spine to mount it on. Fascia is great. Where is the bone holding it all together?
I found it. Not letting go. Holding on. And why does somebody do that?
I went home after this reunion and scribbled down how to work this all through. I used the pen that Diane gave me to draft a scene in long hand. That was the right thing to do.
INT. - THIRD GRADE CLASSROOM.
And so it goes...
Dinner last night: Pepperoni pizza at Stella Barra.
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