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Posts Tagged ‘Mr. Ned Fleischer’

My article for the next Capital District Parent Pages is due on the 10th and I haven’t written it yet.  Puts you right back in a school mind frame, with deadlines for essays.  Since I love to write it’s actually cool.  In college I used to amaze my fellow English majors by completing my essays the night they were assigned, though the professor had given us 2 weeks.  I never told anyone, but the thing is I wanted to write the essays.   (Plus there was the added benefit of getting it done when everyone else waited until the last minute).

Then I think further back, to high school, and I remember about Mr. Fleischer, and can’t stop thinking of Mr. Fleischer, and I say to myself he is gone, he is gone. 

After 4 years of chorus in high school, I sang in college chorus all 4 years as well.  And yet, God help me, I don’t even remember our college choral director’s name.  Of course that was 20 years ago, but still it underscores the impact of Mr. Fleischer on my life.  Every online moniker I’ve had has been winklett because it is the name he gave to me.  That choral director in college….he was pretty good, but that’s it.   Funny how I expected him to be more.   Mr. Fleischer set that bar very, very high.

Now that I am thinking of Mr. Fleischer, all these memories wash over me.  Like how I loved being in the chorus room and spent as much of my day in there as possible.  I even ate my lunch there; Mr. Fleischer never minded (unless we left a mess behind).

In the chorus room I could avoid people who made fun of me for being skinny.   The kids who hung out there were fun – even the cool ones.   There were these boys who formed a comedy routine/band:  The Four Neat Guys.  They were awesome.  I remember they did George of the Jungle….there’s more, on the tip of my memory.  I remember a kid who could recite the entire movie Monty Python & The Holy Grail.   But there weren’t any bullies.  It was a sanctuary.  I want to crawl back in.  I haven’t seen Mr. Fleischer in years, and yet I’m mad that he’s been taken away from me.

I’m mad about Jonah, too.   Mad at my helplessness.  Mad that I couldn’t raise him anymore.  Mad that I can’t smother him with kisses.  I think of the kid in that book The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time and how he would only touch the tips of his fingers to his father’s – it was the only physical contact he could stand.  Andy gets frustrated with me when I get too close to Jonah right away – and I know he is right – but  I want to hold him, hug him, squeeze him tight.  I want to put out wings and cover him.

He’s an only child, now one of 8 kids in a family of rotating caregivers.  I want them to love him,  unconditionally, and that’s an unreasonable thing.  I can’t help wanting it.  I don’t care.  Some days I think this has all gone on too long now.  Some days it is all I can do not to drive there and snatch him away.  But I know I can’t take care of him either, and it would be doing him a terrible disservice.  I need this to be the case and I hate that it’s the case.

Most Saturdays he and I will sit in the back of his dad’s SUV and sing “Cranberry Guster” songs, and always after a while his eyes silently ask why, mama?  Then a few moments later, he begs me in his little-boy voice:  “home?”

Sometimes he asks it two or three times.

I think he is beginning to ask it out of habit and not so much as something he can actually hope to expect.

Here are some pictures I took of him this past Saturday:

my face against the window

beloved bath-time

swinging with his silly hat

gazing into the mirror:  jonah is closer than he appears…

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