It’s Saturday afternoon and I’m on the train headed to NYC for an all-day Adoption Conference tomorrow, which I love. I’m an adoptee who also understands the frustration of not knowing when (or if) something is going to happen, so I can relate to the people who attend. I enjoy helping them, listening when they need it, and sharing their joy when they find a child.
I have a heavy heart, though, because yesterday morning I opened the Albany Times Union, and on the front page was an article about the passing of Ned B. Fleischer, my high school chorus teacher – the man who nicknamed me “The Winklett” at age 14 when I was a geeky, awkward, skinny freshman at Shaker High School, class of ’87. I’ve been winklett everywhere ever since. That article didn’t say how he died; another one only said he was “stricken.” Stricken. I wavered on my feet, shaking, put the newspaper down on the counter, and realized I’d been holding my breath. Stricken. Gone.
Frustratingly, there was no wake/funeral/obituary I could find, even though I called the reporter who wrote the article, hoping he’d have the contact number of someone I could ask. I left a message for him to please call me back. I’ve yet to hear from the guy, and that was Friday of last week. Well who the hell am I, anyway? Nobody. Just one of hundreds – maybe thousands – who’d really appreciate a way to mourn a man who made a tremendous difference in their lives. Before I left Facebook, I was in the “Ned Fleischer Fan Club” and understood exactly why everyone else was too.
Mr. Fleischer was one of those rare individuals you can’t pigeonhole or categorize (I can’t help but revert to what I called him when he was my teacher; I never could refer to him as Ned). He was perpetually tanned – a swarthy, slight figure with an aura of mystique. He could be peevish and moody. You’d ask him a question and he’d nod and say “no” simultaneously, just to throw you off. He had this uncanny way of figuring people out – discerning what he could expect of you and demanding exactly that, without cruelty or condescension. High school kids’ egos are frail. He knew not to crush sensitive youth but rather to build us up, through persistence and integrity and damn hard work – work to which he was unfailingly dedicated. Equally dedicated because of it, we rose to his expectations.
He nicknamed us. He reveled in the process of orchestrating a new combination of people every year – a new set of personalities and voices to blend into songs. We gave him our all. Something made us want to please him – perhaps the confidence he bestowed upon us as both trophy and duty – perhaps the way he’d lend an ear when you needed one, because he genuinely cared. He was counselor and confidante to me more than a few times.
He’d sit with me in his office, cigarette lit in the ashtray, gifting me with his full attention until the cigarette had a four-inch ash on it because he hadn’t smoked it at all. He was too busy listening. Finally, he’d take a final puff, press it out in his glass ashtray, and utter something wise – sometimes soothing, sometimes not at all. But after a talk with him, I always felt validated. He made me feel like I was somebody.
Every one of us learned the language of his looks: Sarcastic. Angry. Proud. A heavy glance from him could mean anything from Nice pitch to Enunciate! or Smile!
To let him down was unthinkable. It simply wasn’t an option.
While I understand his family’s decision to hold a private funeral, I know I can’t be alone in longing for a way to gather, mourn, and honor him. So many of us loved him. And while I respect Shaker High School’s request for mourners to refrain from placing memorabilia or candles, etc. on the school grounds, I long to return to the chorus room, sit at his bench behind the big black grand piano, cover its surface with flowers, and cry my eyes out.
I was lucky enough to sing in Melodies of Christmas all four years of high school; back then, it was always the Shaker High School Chorus who did Melodies. Even in the subsequent years when they chose kids from various high schools to perform, Mr. Fleischer remained their leader.
During I think three of the four years we sang Melodies, we ended the show with The Halleluiah Chorus. There was nothing in this world more beautifully fulfilling, more excitingly breathtaking than singing that amazing piece of music with a full chorus, orchestra, audience, and Mr. Fleischer’s let’s do this intensity at the helm.
The Halleluiah Chorus was a climactic apex of all the hard work, of months of singing-while-smiling, learning, laughing, memorizing, struggling – of doing it all over and over and over again. Melodies of Christmas was a long performance in front of a live audience, 60 of us or so collectively standing tall and singing full, from the diaphragm, diction trained into sharp consonants and cool vowels, eyes and mouth smiling despite heavy red chorus robes under hot lights. By the last song, Handel’s Halleluiah Chorus, we were exhausted…and yet exhilarated. It was this final, from-the-gut push upward into flight – Mr. Fleischer in the lead, all of us lifting and v-ing out behind him on wings of The Messiah. God it felt good. Like magic.
To be honest I was a decent singer at best. My voice peaked around age 10, then settled into a mediocrity which was on pitch, but breathy and limited. Shaker High School had a special “select chorus” of 10 or so of the best voices in the general chorus. Select Chorus had special rehearsals and performances, and we all wanted in. I tried out too, auditioning for a position among the elite. Mr. Fleischer never encouraged me not to, and he never implied I couldn’t do it, even though I knew I couldn’t. With blind hope and stubborn persistence, I auditioned every year. Though I did my best, I never did make it into the select chorus.
It didn’t help that two girls in particular, P.D. and A.E., both one year ahead of me, had voices like angels –and not only led the select chorus but won all the leading roles in every musical as well. I couldn’t even be upset about that. These were girls you’d pay money just to hear sing something. Anything. They really were that good, and were pretty and stylish too. I envied them not only for that, but also for the extra time they got to work with Mr. Fleischer, who must have loved such incredible vocal instruments to shape into maturity. I still think about them sometimes. I can still hear their rich, clear, beautiful voices. I wonder if they continued to sing. I hope so. Damn, they were good.
I went back to visit Mr. Fleischer only a few times. He’d recognize me immediately, greeting me with a joyful shout — The Winklett!
I hope I can find out where he is buried so I can visit his grave, at least, just to sit with him. I always took it for granted I’d see him again. One more time. One more visit. One more Melodies.
Goodbye, Mr. Fleischer.
You are loved, and you will be deeply missed.
“Look around you. There is not a life in this room that you have not touched, and each of us is a better person because of you. We are your symphony. We are the melodies and the notes of your opus. We are the music of your life.”
~ Mr. Holland’s Opus
The Never Normal 
What a beautiful testimonial for a beautiful man. No wonder he was excited to see you after graduation, Winklett.
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That’s beautiful. I’ll keep an eye out for his obit. Strange how nothing has appeared yet. Love ya and hope to hear from you soon.
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What a beautiful tribute. Though I never sang choir at Shaker (I was a band girl), everyone knew who Mr. Fleischer was. I hope this tribute makes its way to his family.
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There is a special gift that not all people have. That is to make to make a person feel that they matter in this world. Amy, you are that person to me. Happy Holiday!
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Amy,
That is one of the most beautiful, well-written things I have read about Ned. (I did call him Ned from the first time he said we could; that made him more than a teacher to me.)
Thank you so much for sharing this.
Ken Offricht, ’85 (and it’s okay if you don’t remember me)
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Amy,
This article is not only well written, expressive and beautiful, but it is a healing of sorts for me in so many ways. First of all, I miss Ned so deeply, and the way you capture the emotions that are bottled up in my heart and head, well, brings me to tears of release.
Secondly, I have been a single mom of 2 girls for 6 yrs and escaped a brutal marriage that knocked my confidence to an all time low. It has not been easy since making that decision, but my entire life has been dedicated and devoted to my children. Somedays, it was hard to merely lift my head, get up and keep us all going, but I have. During that time, I gave up my singing and acting, despite the ever-present feel of it, always tugging at my heartstrings. My children meant more. So, here I am, just turned 43. Ned would want me to sing, plain and simple and his passing was the voice I needed to not wait any longer, but share the gift. Then this. This beautiful, poetic piece with me (my initials) mentioned. My God…had Ned been right all along? Was I really given this amazing gift and talent that I never really thought I had, nor deserved? Yes, yes indeed, he did and Nedwin, my beloved mentor, father-figure and friend spent hours trying to nurture it. He knew this gift would be the saving grace of a person who would continually endure pain, yet rise up again to sing.
All week I have been using my tool again. All week, I have had breakthrough moments that have inspired me more and more to perform again. Through each song, I hit that spot in my voice Ned adored so much, and I crack, choke and fall to pieces. Oh how I long to hear him again, but because of you, sharing, I now have…Each voice, each tear someone sheds for him, IS his voice coming through loud and clear. How amazing you are Amy Wink…how much this girl you once envied now owes you so very much. Thank you..from one mother to another…thank you.
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Amazing tribute – thank you for your awesome words!! I attended Shaker at the beginning of Mr. Fleischer’s career – I don’t call him Ned either and I’m 53 years old!! While I didn’t have the relationship with him that it seems so many of the students did later in this tenure at Shaker, I can relate to all you write. And he had a keen eye, seeing tings and being concerned for others and letting you know without interfering without being consulted. As a parent of high schoolers and college kids I can say we NEED more teachers like this who inspire our kids. Well done Mr. Fleischer.
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Wow, you just said it all. As I read, it was like being back in high school. It helps that we were there at the same time, but your descriptions of him are right on the money also. I believe there will be a memorial for all of us. I think Mr. Fleischer’s (I could never call him Ned either) sister and cousin are planning it. I hope to see you there.
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Very nice, Amy.
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I was in band and theory a year ahead of you. He was such an interesting person. Inviting and intimidating and GOD I coveted his car. I know exactly who the two angels you wrote of are (so good). I didn’t know about this loss until now. Thanks for a truly wonderful piece of writing on such a sad subject.
@Anne…Told you before and I’m telling you now…sing!
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What a beautiful tribute to Ned!
I’m saddened by the news of Ned’s passing.
I grew up in Merrick, NY, around the corner from Ned and knew his family. We also sang in our high school’s acapella choir. When I read all of the students’ descriptions of Ned, I can’t help but see our choir director, Tal Thayer….with just a stare, Tal Thayer could manipulate you. Sound familiar? Ned appears to have followed the lead of his admired director.
This weekend, my choir is having a reunion (I wonder if Ned would have come?) and will be honoring our beloved director. I will be giving Tal a copy of the tributes written by you and your fellow choir alum.
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Thanks to everyone who conveyed these tributes to Ned. He was our friend, although we hadn’t seen each other for almost 40 years. We didn’t know he was gone until today. Ned & I (John) were roommates in college, freshman & sophomore years at Syracuse University, He always graced the dormitories where we lived with music; typically he would play the piano for hours, with his cigarette going to ash because he wouldn’t take his hands off of the keys. Music was his gift, his passion, his solace.
I was privileged to be a guest of the Fleischers in Merrick during one happy occasion. Ned was a guest of honor at our wedding. Several years later when Ned & we parted to go on to graduate school and build our lives elsewhere he held our 2 children, and with tears in his eyes wished us all happy lives. We tried to “find” him a few years back, and sent him a letter. We hope that he received it. Our regret is that we didn’t try harder to reach him…a common thread among his students in life it seems. Our consolation is that we were enriched by his life. Goodbye, Ned.
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John
I knew Ned at Syracuse as well…could you email me to discuss him?
Dan Cohen
bartoct99@aol.com
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John,
Feel free to reach out to me as well. I knew Ned from 1980 until he died. Lots to share with you if you wish.
Ken
ken@keychanges.com
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Wonderful. It’s amazing that we all have the same fabulous memories of him even though we knew him from all different decades! What a beautiful legacy he has created that we can all still connect because of him.
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I came across this tonight in searching for articles about NBF because I always find myself missing him more around this time of year. I sang in Melodies in high school, and recently moved back home to the Albany area. I’m a voice teacher now and find myself so often wishing I could reach out to say hi to him, to catch up or to talk shop. Thank you for this beautiful tribute to him. Did you ever find out where he is buried? I would love to be able to pay my respects. If you do, could you send me an email? From one loyal NBF fan to another — again, thank you for this beautiful testimonial.
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Hi, Megan, and thank you. His memorial service was at http://levinememorialchapel.com/. I am sure they can tell you where he’s buried. E-mail me if you like. winklett@hotmail.com. I’m sure NBF is smiling every time he hears you teach!
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Hi Megan,
I am not sure about the burial, but here is another article too:http://www.silverpenproductions.com/nedfleischer/
Have you seen the Facebook group dedicated to him and his kiddies? If not, you may want to join that and ask around there. It is a great place to not only share memories but to connect with all his kiddies from all the years, and there are several people on there who were quite close to him in the end and may be able to give you some additional advice on where to visit him, etc.
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I knew Ned in college for just a few months, but he was very memorable, would love to talk to anyone who knew him well in years afterwords.
Dan
bartoct99@aol.com
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Ned Fleischer was an amazing person – he brightened up my 4 college years as an engineering student at RPI. Each week I’d always look forward to the musical breaks from problem sets as the Rensselyrics gathered with him for our weekly rehearsal. Ned was a person that left you better off for knowing him, not just overall, but after each meeting.
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