"Epitome of Refinement"

     My neighborhood is normally very quiet, a polar opposite of the neighborhood where I lived previously.  In my former town, car alarms were ringing constantly (one night I counted-the same car alarm went off ten times in the first hour after I arrived home from work.  A disgruntled neighbor poking us with a stick, perhaps?)   Additionally, horns were used in lieu of doorbells, music blasted at all hours of the night, and it was not uncommon for folks to start barbequing at 10:30 P.M., usually with a charcoal grill, right under my bedroom window.  One night a few years back, actually the night before Easter, my neighbor, a clean cut, albeit rude, young man, started grilling at 10:30 P.M., and by 12:30 A.M.  I couldn't stand the noise or the toxic fumes any longer.   I called the police to complain about both,  a complete exercise in futility.  Not only did the cops take their time getting there, but they indicated to the neighbors that the noise was "not so loud", helped themselves to a hamburger, and promptly identified the neighbor who called to complain-yours truly.  

     Since plan A didn't work, I progressed to plan B-I tried reasoning with the offensive neighbor.  Well, he promptly informed me, in no uncertain terms, that it was his yard (he rented) and that he would make as much noise as he wanted, whenever he wanted.  I promised to return the favor when I got up at 5:00 A.M., which was daily, weekends notwithstanding.  By the way-did I mention that he was deported two weeks later?  He was illegal...  Talk about nerve!  

     Fortunately, my current neighborhood has far fewer inconsiderate residents, and the police are not nearly as unscrupulous.  Recently, a young woman was leaning on her horn at 12:30 A.M. on a Monday, right outside of all the bedroom windows in my unit.  After the third time, I hurled open my window, and, epitome of refinement that I am, I screamed at her to quit blowing her horn.  Epitome of refinement that she was, she ignored me as if I weren't there, and continued, unabashedly.  I subsequently called the police, and while I was on the phone, Horatia Hornblower continued with her offensive tirade.  The officer inquired if the noise was my doorbell (Heaven forbid that I would have a doorbell that loud).  It wasn't, I replied.  She assured me she would send a squad car promptly.  Next thing I know, the boyfriend comes ambling out, and Amy Vanderbilt (me) screamed again to knock off the noise.  He in turn started hurling obscenities at the young woman at the top of his lungs, ordering her to "shut the fudge up because", and-you're going to love this- "I told you old people live here".  Talk about adding insult to injury!!!  He promptly left when I told him the cops were on their way.   Miss Refinement , apparently as bright as she was considerate,  hung around and became even more insistent with the horn blowing.  Luckily, the police (two squad cars) arrived to hear her, and they took care of the situation.  They promptly escorted her out of there (hopefully in cuffs) without divulging my identity.  

     In the past year since I've been in this apartment, that was only the second incident where tenants (or their guests) awakened me in the middle of the night. Not half bad, in my estimation.   I love my little town, and I appreciate my town's "finest".

"The Beat of My Own Drum"

     The Winter 2014 semester has come to a close.  I am proud to report that I have earned another "A", and believe me when I tell you, it was a challenge.  It is not easy for a 50-Something to learn a new language.  Thank God I studied French in High School, or I might not have done so well.  Despite the fact that I graduated over forty years ago, I remember a good deal, mainly pronunciation, and a measure of vocabulary.  My teacher in High School was from France, so we got the real deal with her-she provided a strong foundation.  That is not to impugn my current professor's command of the language.  She is an excellent teacher, and her pronunciation is impeccable.  I simply could not have done so well  without the influence of my first teacher.  It also helps that I love the language. 

      I was discussing speaking French with a friend recently, and she indicated to me that when in France, she had to learn to "think" in French, as opposed to thinking in English and then translating.  Her statement was like a revelation, and I realized she was spot on.  I have found myself that, when reading articles in French ( I subscribed to a French magazine), I do just that.  It's an interesting and challenging concept.  There are words and phrases that I don't have to ponder or reach for in my fuzzy brain.  Then again, there are some I do.  For example, my friend asked how to say "have a good day" in French.  My mouth, moving faster than my mind (not uncommon for me),  quickly replied that I didn't know.   She in turn asked did I really get an "A"...  Oh, yes I do, I blurted out: bonne journee!  This was a perfect example of my not thinking in French.  I also need to put the brakes on my mouth until  my aging brain catches up.  

     There are many words in French which closely resemble their English counterpart.  While studying for my final exam, I was wracking my brain trying to remember the French word for continent.  In utter exasperation, I reverted back to my textbook: le continent.  Duh!!!  

     Toward the end of the semester, we learned continents, countries, states, and cities, and it was beneficial to know a measure of geography.  Well, one of my classmates didn't know which coast New York is on, and another didn't know that Michigan is a state! When she inquired "wasn't Michigan a city?",  I had to restrain myself from turning around and shouting that if you would simply fermez la bouche (shut your mouth) that you might actually learn something.  

     At this stage in my life, I am a dedicated student, eager to learn and excel, despite my advancing age.  I wonder to myself how my professors feel about me as a student.  I am the kind of student a teacher loves to have in her class, as I am punctual, my attendance is good, I pay attention and participate in class, I complete assignments by the due date.  In other words, I really apply myself.  But does my age get in the way of her perception?  I question in my mind do the professors consider the old student a kind of exercise in futility...  In the beginning of the semester, I don't believe my professor took me seriously.  As the course progressed, however, I could see a change, and I knew that as a student, she appreciated and respected my efforts.  The degree I am pursuing is mostly for self enrichment.  It's not as if I am going to embark on establishing a new career for myself.  In the end, how others perceive my quest for a college education is immaterial to me.  Still, I can't help but wonder...

     In physical appearance, amongst my classmates, I stick out like a sore thumb.  I often feel as out of place as a snowball in a desert, and sometimes wish I could likewise melt away and not be seen.  But alas, I carry on, and march to the beat of my own drum.  Hopefully, before too long, I will be marching to a stage to collect my diploma...