I like a good bargain as much as the next guy. Okay, maybe more than the next guy.

There is something satisfying, even life affirming, about getting a good deal. It makes me feel smart, clever, and resourceful.

So when the banner ad for the XYZ Shave Company (not its real name) came up on my Facebook page, it caught my interest.

I’ve been shaving for over 40 years, and while shaving is sometimes a short escape from the drudgery of life, it is, in reality, a big part of the drudgery of life. So any way to “keep it fresh” by trying a new product, especially if it’s free or at least a bargain, usually grabs my attention.

The XYZ Shave Company had a deal. They would send a sleek, colorful, well-crafted razor, with a can of shaving gel, for – follow me here – $15.00 plus $3.00 shipping minus $15.00. Now I went all the way up through calculus when I was back in college, so I took out my abacus, and concluded that I could get a cool new razor for $3.00 with a can of shave gel. I double-checked my math on my old slide-rule, and it reconciled. So I clicked the link, and my nifty new men’s grooming tools were on their way.

A few days later, the box landed on my doorstep, and I retired to the laboratory (my bathroom actually) to conduct the experiment, and savor the new experience. The razor felt good in my hand, and the shave gel had a nice smell (not the least bit important, by the way), and off I went.

After taking care of my neck and face with a different razor, I lathered up my head with the new gel, rinsed off the new blade, and went to work. I made my first round (front to back), rinsed, and re-lathered for the second round (back-to-front).

Like a pitcher in his wind-up, I reached back, got a grip, and brought my left arm forward. Suddenly there was a flash of lightening! I saw colors I had never seen before! The sound of a metal car hitting a metal guardrail screamed through my inner ears, and that feeling you get when outposts of your nervous system are suddenly on fire, filled my brain. I had taken off a chunk of skin the size of Wisconsin!

I mentioned how smart and clever I feel when I get a good deal. This kind of incident makes me feel like a bonehead. “Seriously, Dude! You’ve been shaving for decades and you still cut yourself!” (Sometimes, when I am rude to myself, I address myself as “Dude.” It annoys me even more.)

With great trepidation, I examined the razor. I really couldn’t see the blades on account of the huge piece of skin in the way! After calling a tow truck to unhook and haul away the former body part, I attended to the pool of blood that might have excited a Red Cross volunteer at a blood drive. (I’d never considered having a professional boxing “cut man” in my bathroom before, but I could have really used one.)

I gingerly finished the “beautification” process, and then hit the shower. I survived, but had to endure the horrified questions when my friends inquired about the divot on the back of my head. I still have a scar as a memento from the adventure.

Shortly thereafter, I received an e-mail from the company, alerting me that it was time for my automatic refills of blades and shaving gel. I immediately clicked, “Do Not Send.” A couple of days later, I received notification that I had not responded in time (not true at all), and the package was on its way, for $30.00. ($30.00 for shaving gel! Like I’m buying this stuff for future generations?)

I e-mailed the company to advise them that I didn’t presently need any more blades and shave gel. Partly because I had barely received the first shipment, and partly because I was waiting for my scalp to heal before even thinking of shaving again!

I received an e-mail from a nice young woman, who apologized profusely and repeatedly for the injury. She told me that she would credit my account for the $30.00, and even was going to refund my original $3.00 fee for the trial package. (Oh yeah, the $3.00 refund totally made up for the missing skin and blood!)

She asked me to share with her the details of my shave when the “event” occurred. I gave her some details, and shared with her a few of my observations that would make their product better. (I wasn’t angry at all. I generally support independent start-up companies, and admire the moxie it takes to get a business off the ground.) I even offered to test any future products they cared to send my way, for an honest and thoughtful evaluation, and thanked the young woman for her customer service, her kindness, and her concern. I felt she was genuinely sorry for my discomfort, and like Bill and Hillary, she “felt my pain.”

The moral of the story: there is no moral. Things happen. A shocking experience turned out to be an opportunity to see that some people do care, and a reminder to examine a new razor before it makes a landing on my head!

And, when they start embedding microchips in our skulls, I already have the notch!

By Keith Douglas Kramer
Photo by Keith Douglas Kramer
(Photo from another bloodletting episode. During the above episode I would not have been able to stop my hand from shaking long enough to take a photo. LOL)

I could have gotten a swollen head if I took all the compliments from dentists over the years to be a real measure of self-worth. Via genetic roulette (and fluorinated water), I raised a crop of twenty-six perfectly aligned teeth. When my wisdom teeth came in perfectly, quickly, and with a minimum of pain during my late teens, my stock rose to thirty-two, the legal limit. To further add to my all-star dental credentials, I had no cavities through my first eighteen years.

It was with quite a bit of heartbreak that I learned before I headed off to college that I had five cavities. We had just switched to a new dentist after our former dentist’s decision to drive his Rolls Royce to his office really chapped my parents. It appeared that the show-off dentist had missed a couple of spots. (He was in and out of the examination room so quickly, my mom used to say he wore roller skates.) The new dentist gave me the laughing gas, and filled the five little craters in my dental piano, and I was on my way. (My youngest brother alerted me that if I purposely hyperventilated when they told me they were turning off the gas, I could get a quick high. He was thirteen at the time. Following his advice, I must have been so buzzed that I didn’t see the mule that kicked me in the forehead, and left me with a headache so bad I almost crushed the remaining teeth in my mouth.)

There was little dental drama for the next few decades until I had pain in the back corner of my right jaw. I visited my dentist, and she prescribed an antibiotic, explaining that I might have a crack in my lower right wisdom tooth, which led salivary bacteria to reach my jawbone and cause an infection. The antibiotics worked, and when the dose was finished the pain returned, essentially confirming my dentist’s theory. She referred me to an endodontist who, using a blue fluorescent light, agreed with my dentist. He said the tooth would have to come out.

“What?” Extractions, crowns, root canals, even fillings, were for peasants! I was dental royalty! He informed me that they didn’t do repairs on wisdom teeth because they were too far back in the mouth, and we didn’t really need them. Really? I inched away from the doctor, not wanting to be too close when he was hit by the lightening bolt for arrogantly second-guessing the work of the great architect of the universe who, on the sixth day of creation, said, “Let there be teeth!” (Genesis 1:24)

He arranged an appointment with the dental surgeon next door, who pointedly asked me whether I wanted to have my wisdom tooth removed. I told him pointedly that I did not, but that this was recommended by the endodontist, and my own dentist. I insisted he call them both and work this out. Meanwhile, he showed me a cartoon video of a caveman with a cracked wisdom tooth who actually died from the same infection I was having. How grateful I should be that I am not a caveman!

The issue was resolved and I agreed to have the wisdom tooth removed. I expected that a small contraption, similar to an elegant corkscrew, would be slid over my tooth, and with firm but gentle leverage the tooth would be eased from my gums. The doctor gave me a few shots of Novocain, and told me he was, “Just going to poke around and make sure I was numb.”

In a flash, he had clamped a pair of pliers onto my tooth. He began pulling, twisting, and wrestling with me! He screamed at me, “Fight back! Fight back!” Having never been mugged before, I was quite surprised (perhaps the greatest understatement in dental history). Before I could process what the hell was happening, I heard the sound a ’69 Buick makes when it hits a guardrail on a bridge at two o’clock in the morning (another story for another time). It was a hideous metal-on-metal, scraping, and shearing wail that had me convinced half of my skull had just been liberated from my head. The grand torturer gleefully jumped back, holding my wisdom tooth in his pliers over his head. “We got it!” For a moment I thought he would spike it as if he had just scored a touchdown. He laid the tooth on the examination tray, and there it sat in all its pristine beauty, the epitome of a perfectly formed tooth. “It was cracked,” I said. “I expected it to come out in several pieces.” He said sometimes the crack is so deep the tooth doesn’t break. “Or maybe the tooth wasn’t cracked at all,” I thought. He went on to advise me that since there would be no partner against which it could push, we might as well remove the upper right wisdom tooth to prevent it from ultimately slipping out of my jaw. I said, “No,” and hastily beat a retreat from his dungeon. (Fourteen years later, and the upper “orphan” wisdom tooth is just fine, thank you very much.)

I returned to the oral surgeon for a follow-up the next week. I told him I was still shocked at how barbaric the procedure had been. “Barbaric?” he said. “I never thought of it as barbaric.” I actually hurt his feelings.

A week later, while visiting New Jersey for my twenty-fifth high school reunion, I felt something scratching the back of my tongue. Something white appeared to be protruding from my gums. A local dentist informed me it was a sliver of my jawbone that must have come loose during the extraction.

I now have my extracted wisdom tooth in a little glass jar of alcohol, which I keep on my desk. (If I ever go missing my parents can use it to find me, or what’s left of me.) Maybe in the distant future a dental healer can gently fit it back into my jaw, jingle some magic beads, and the tooth will resume its place in the “Mount Rushmore” of my mandible.

In the meantime, I’m brushing and flossing like a madman.

By Keith Douglas Kramer
Photo by Keith Douglas Kramer

Several years ago I was diagnosed with a condition called “sleep apnea.” According to the world-famous Mayo Clinic (www.mayoclinic.org), “Sleep apnea is a potentially serious sleep disorder in which breathing repeatedly stops and starts. You may have sleep apnea if you snore loudly, and you feel tired even after a full night’s sleep.” (It’s good to point out here that the phrase “breathing repeatedly stops” is not a good thing.)

Mayo goes on to add, “Complications may include: daytime fatigue, high blood pressure or heart problems, Type 2 diabetes, heart disease, high blood pressure, abnormal cholesterol, high blood sugar, liver problems,” and really pissed off bed partners. (“Pissed off bed partners” isn’t really a quote from the Mayo Clinic; I was paraphrasing.)

The real fun of having sleep apnea is hearing horror stories from your friends, family, and significant others about how freaked out they became when you suddenly stopped breathing, then, after a long pause, started gasping for air. (Oh, the looks on their precious faces when they recount how they thought you were almost dead, and were about to call 911. It’s a riot, really.)

It’s tons of fun for a while, but when you are constantly exhausted, falling asleep at work, while driving, on the toilet, and everywhere else, and realizing how short your life will be, the joy of terrorizing your loved ones wears off.

So, a few years ago I was prescribed a “sleep study,” to diagnose whether or not I had sleep apnea. The treatment options are:

1.) having surgery to remove your tonsils, your uvula (the little “bean” in the back of your throat), part of your palate, and maybe some other incidental cutting in your mouth, throat, and nose, or,
2.) using a CPAP (Continuous Positive Airway Pressure) machine during sleep, which makes you look like a space-age elephant with a hissing trunk. (I do love the looks when a new girlfriend spots the CPAP machine on my night table, and is almost afraid to ask, thinking it might be an extremely kinky device she might be invited to experience.)

Lots of people who want to live shorter, painful lives bitch, piss, and moan (again, not Mayo clinic descriptions) about using a CPAP machine, but I find it works well, and actually delivers cool air to my face, which is kind of refreshing. (I also enjoy the peace of mind that although I might still get hit by a rogue asteroid or a runaway school bus, I won’t choke in my sleep.)

So all was okay until a couple of months ago when I felt I wasn’t sleeping well, waking up with headaches (yes, sometimes two headaches at once), a dry mouth, and several other unpleasant symptoms.

It took only two months to strong-arm my way into a sleep clinic for a near-emergency sleep study so I could put an end to the symptoms. Before 10:30 last night, I arrived at an office building in a mostly commercial part of town, like I was pulling some kind of “bank job.” I rode the elevator up to the laboratory, where I met a twenty-something female respiratory therapist who told me to put on my pajamas and sit on the bed. (I knew that the fact that I don’t usually wear pajamas in 100 degree plus weather was irrelevant, so, of course, I played along.)

The young therapist approached me slowly, putting her hands around my neck. (“Now THIS is service!” I thought.) Before I could even savor the experience, she stuck an electrode behind my right ear with a wet glob of a putty-like substance. She then pulled at the collar of my T-shirt (“Oh, you like it rough, I see!”) and shoved down a cluster of wires. She pulled up the bottom of my T-shirt (exposing my 6-pack abs) and pulled out the wires, telling me, “Stick these down your pants until they come out at the bottoms.” (She was relentless with her sweet-talking charm.)

I’m not a choirboy, nor am I a prude, but electrical wires running along some of my sensitive body parts, especially while I was beginning to perspire in my “pjs” was giving me a cause for concern. Before I knew it, I was covered in yak spit and tape, with wires running everywhere. The wires converged in a black box, which she handed to me like it was a dirty diaper.

She escorted me into the laboratory bedroom, told me to get in bed, and connected the black box to some machinery attached to the wall. “Sleep well,” she said, without even a goodnight kiss.

I find it amazing that in order to prove that I have trouble sleeping, I was basically wrapped in electrical wire, plugged into a transformer (right beneath a sprinkler head), all in front of a camera, and, under pressure, expected to sleep. Each time I had to use the bathroom in the middle of the night (my bladder IS older than thirty!) I had to buzz her, ask permission, and wait until she unhooked me from the power grid. (There’s nothing like being a fifty-six-year-old man having to ask a twenty-five-year-old gal if you can pee to make you feel like life is a blast!)

When she rousted me at 5:30 in the morning, I got the sense that with all my trips to the bathroom I might not have slept well enough to show how poorly I sleep.

It will probably be only seven to ten more days of headaches and fatigue until I receive the results of the sleep study, only to learn I might have to repeat the entire test, but next time without the bathroom trips.

Maybe choking to death in my sleep isn’t as bad as it sounds.

By Keith Douglas Kramer
Photo by: Adrienne B.

On any given Saturday or Sunday morning, in the days before GPS, my family and I would find ourselves on our way to visit Aunt Bea and Uncle Harold, Cousins Dorothy and Charlie, or some other beloved relative. Dad always did the driving, and Mom usually had the directions, written on a small piece of colored paper, in her own naturally calligraphic handwriting.

On one occasion or another, when an unforeseen detour took us out of our way, or when a cutoff had been missed, we would need to stop for directions. This was something I secretly loved. (Even the free Texaco or Esso road maps were no match for a real person. It was “people” before “technology.”)

Mom or Dad would spot somebody working on his car, or walking her dog, and Dad would pull over, roll down his window (yes, actually hand crank the window), excuse himself for the bother, and ask for directions. This was when the character act would begin and I, in the back seat, would be fascinated.

The local would stop what he or she was doing, walk over to our car, and in a friendly, neighborly, kind, and interested manner give those ethereal, timely, ever-so-valuable gifts to get us back on course. They were given very generously, with thoughtful detail, in the idiosyncratic style of the personality of the character we were fortunate enough to meet.

Usually Mom didn’t write a word, and even though we were out of our element, Dad would remember every detail.

“So you’re heading up to Waterton. Got family there?”
“Yes, we do.”
“Well, you’re not too far off course.”

This was the pre-amble to the coming gem.

“Okay, you’re on Route 72, Hartsville. You take this for about four miles. At the apple orchard you make a right. You go about another two miles, over the bridge over the railroad tracks, and you make a left turn by the old blue water tower onto Throckmorton Lane. That takes you into Waterton Township. In a couple, three miles the road curves past a dairy farm and an old electrical supply warehouse with broken windows. A little after that, the road becomes Main Street, and then you’ll come to Downtown Waterton. You’ll see the red brick post office on your right.”
“Great! I know where to take it from there! Thanks!”
“Sure enough. You take care now.”
“You too. Goodbye.”

We’d pull away as our guardian angel resumed his or her life as if we had never been there. I would get a little sad when my father would say, “Goodbye” to the Good Samaritan, because I realized that we would never see that nice guy or lady again. We never knew the names of the men or women who helped us, never got to know them, and were never able to pay them back for their kindness. (You were just expected to do the same when another lost traveler asked you for help.)

I would absorb the accent, the cadence of the speech, the grammar, the posture, and various other distinguishing characteristics or marks. (“I wonder where she got that scar.” “What did his tattoo mean?”)

As nice as those folks seemed, you didn’t make friends over brief interactions like these, even though as a young boy I wished I could meet and be friends with everyone in the world. But that was a part of life back then. You didn’t “friend” someone on Facebook, or snag an e-mail address, from a two-minute interaction in the 1960s and ‘70s. It has been said, “People come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime.” And so it was.

Armed with valuable information, we went from feeling like lost sheep to wise souls in a matter of minutes, but like the tape recorded instructions to Mr. Phelps on the old “Mission: Impossible” television show, the directions turned to smoke as we found our way and went on with the rest of our trip. Upon arrival there was nothing remaining of the gift we had received; it vanished into thin air. It seems fitting that those momentary friends would give us such a valuable and essential gift that was as intangible and fleeting as they, themselves, were.

Today I try to savor every moment, every chance encounter, and especially those people and gifts that might too soon be gone without notice.

So, please, ask me for directions! And stay awhile!

By Keith Douglas Kramer
Photo by Keith Douglas Kramer

My beloved maternal grandfather, Arthur, was born in Roxbury, Massachusetts in 1901. As a boy, his Jewish, Lithuanian-born parents moved him and the rest of their eight children to The Bronx, a borough of New York City.

My grandfather finished high school, and went on to become a sheet metal worker. He began as a young apprentice, learned his trade, and eventually became a master craftsman. Grandpa Artie worked on the Empire State Building when it was being built, plying his trade on the sheet metal heating ducts. He helped build the tallest building in the world.

The Empire State Building was completed in 1931, and it is still standing 85 years later. (The Kingdome in Seattle, for instance, was torn down twenty-six years after it was built.) The reason the Empire State Building is still standing is that it was built by skilled workers with quality tools, using good materials, and following proper and proven methods.

Everything my grandfather did was quality. He worked as though he personally signed each piece of metal or wood he used. (In Medieval times, the stonemasons who built the great cathedrals of Europe placed their personal mark upon each stone they had hewn.) Grandpa always counseled me to use screws rather than nails whenever possible. “Unlike nails, screws can be removed without damaging the wood, and they hold better.”) And you drilled a small pilot hole before you put in a screw, so that it went in straight. After my grandfather retired, he and my grandmother moved near us in New Jersey, and my grandfather frequently did work around our house. (My dad used to joke that if a bomb were to hit our house, only the parts my grandfather had built would remain standing.)

Grandpa Artie built a workbench in our basement, then brought over his tools, many in toolboxes he made himself. Some of his tools were odd-looking. Grandpa explained that if a task had to be done, and there was no tool available, he and his workmates would modify an existing tool to create the tool needed to get the job done. Of course, he would save the newly devised tool in case the same need should arise again.

My grandfather was a quiet, easygoing, loving man. He was a bit over five feet tall, and had biceps that would put Popeye to shame. I remember watching him walk to work, a metal toolbox in each hand, along with the banana sandwich Grandma made for his lunch lovingly tucked into a brown paper bag. I’d bet anything that Grandpa brought that paper bag home so he could use it again and again.

My grandparents were the American-born children of immigrants who came to America for a better life. Tired of living in Eastern Europe among the Russian and Polish thugs whose main form of entertainment seemed to be burning down Jewish villages, and raping and murdering their way across the countryside, my great-grandparents set off for America. As a young couple my grandparents survived the Great Depression, whence came the seeds of the greatest sin known to anyone in our family: waste.

Grandpa kept extra drill bits in metal coffee cans. (I have his blue and orange “Maxwell House” can on my desk.) He kept extra nails, screws, nuts, and bolts, and even more drill bits, in old metal Johnson & Johnson “Band-Aid” boxes, and small corners of sheet metal (shims?) in very small “Cocomalt” cans (“A Delicious Food Drink” “Chocolate Flavor” Davis Baking Powder Co. Hoboken, NJ), which I still have today, among the various repurposed containers he would use. It seemed that Grandpa never threw anything away if it could be used again.

I remember a particular occasion when after moving to Los Angeles to begin my career in film production, during a return visit to my parents’ New Jersey home, I went down to the basement and reacquainted myself with the treasure trove of tools my grandfather left behind when he passed away. There was no urge to get rid of the tools, and they often came in handy. I came upon my grandfather’s old drill, the kind with the wooden handles, which you cranked by hand. I suddenly became overwhelmed, a flood of tears clouding my view, as I realized that I was able to grow up in a five-bedroom house in the suburbs, go to college without paying a dime myself, and pursue a dream of moving to Hollywood to make movies, on the backs of my grandparents and parents whose hard work to survive precluded any consideration of embarking on a self-indulgent fantasy career. Their selfless labor and frugal existence were the saplings from which grew the sturdy trees that bore the fruits of my relatively luxurious childhood.

I’ve taken some teasing, not all of it good natured, about some habits I’ve picked up from my grandparents. (I even credit Native American Indians and the Amish for inspiring me as well.) I re-use old salad dressing bottles for my bedside water. I store my ice tea in glass olive jars, which I occasionally toss into my briefcase if I have to hit the road before breakfast. And I have a ton of rags under the kitchen sink that used to be clothes I wore. I also begged my parents, when they were moving to California, to put Grandpa’s tools on the moving truck. I keep them now as family museum pieces, amulets, talismans even, of a bygone era from which the roots of my personal ethos took purchase.

While most people get a new car every two to four years, I’m pushing 200,000 on my nineteen-year-old Ford Explorer. I used my old 19” Zenith television for about thirty years before a buddy of mine insisted I take one of his Sony castoffs, and I bought my briefcase (messenger bag) back in 1986 when I started my job at Disney. It’s been repaired several times over the years (by the nearby Armenian shoemaker from Greece), but I have still not found anything that could adequately replace it.

It’s sad to me that many people I know leave half of their food on their plates when they go to a restaurant, that 120,000 miles ago I had relatives telling me I ought to junk my car and get new one, and that a fraction of my former students could even be bothered to write their names on their papers, would even dream of cleaning up after themselves, or even understood the point of engaging in anything that even remotely resembled quality and authenticity.

Now it seems we are bombarded on a daily basis by reports of monumental government waste, an epidemic of useless and dishonest politicians, junk science keeping people from vaccinating their children, homophobia, campus rape, racism in law enforcement, exceedingly mindless and violent entertainment, and surly celebrities inspiring young Americans to live the “thug life.”

This is not what my grandfather and his generation thought they were building with their own hands. Do we, as the builders of today, have what it takes to craft a future that is worthy of our past? Can we come together for the common good and make decisions that will help us all, rather than our own special “interest group”? I think we can. We have the tools.

And I still have Grandpa Artie’s tools to remind me.

By Keith Douglas Kramer
Photo of Grandpa Artie – Photographer unknown
Photo of Drill & Flag by Keith Douglas Kramer

Several years ago, while visiting my parents back in New Jersey, my father and I ended up at ShopRite in search of some summer peaches. I noticed my dad carefully squeezing and inspecting each piece of fruit before slipping the good ones into the plastic bag.

I asked, “Hey Dad, are you going to squeeze every one?”

His response, replete with Yiddish inflection and syntax: “The sh*t they can keep!”

I instantly knew that remark was destined to become a family classic, not only because it was vintage Dad, but also because it summed up an enormous part of my upbringing in five words. (My dad is the “Baron of Brevity.”)

My parents have always worked hard, tirelessly providing for my brothers and me, as well as for our college educations, and their future – with a strong emphasis on not having their children support them in their golden years.

My parents have always provided quality work, expected fair wages, and used their money to buy quality things, because good things last and provide a certain quality of life. If my parents are going to spend their hard-earned money on a house, a car, clothing, or fruit, they always expect their money’s worth.

To waste was the biggest sin in my family. My parents never preached about daily religious worship, or warned against “impure thoughts” (thank God), but to waste was a sin! Time, resources (especially food), and money were never to be taken for granted.

What kind of schmuck (Yiddish for “penis,” more accurately … you get it) works his tuches (Yiddish for “buttocks,” more accurately “ass”) off only to throw his money away by paying too much, or buying second-rate goods?

Even more important was that this pursuit of quality should extend to our behavior, our work, our word, and to all things in which we are engaged.

After thirty years of teaching public school in Los Angeles (and fifty-six on the planet), I can say without equivocation that the quality of our public behavior, discourse, manners, and communication skills in general, fall far short of what was expected and accepted in my youth.

Whether you consider the abject surliness of the 2016 presidential campaign, the chronic obnoxiousness of certain celebrities at awards shows, or the Olympic-level depravity of the title characters of “reality” shows, it is clear that we have incorporated classlessness into our daily culture.

The only way to change that is by solid determination to expect and accept better!

Squeeze the fruit in all things that involve you!

“The sh*t they can keep!”

By Keith Douglas Kramer
Photos by Keith Douglas Kramer

Hand Model: Keith Douglas Kramer
Manicure: You’re kidding, right? 

One day a young male student of mine came into the classroom bursting with glee. It seemed he had his first experience with political protest and was excited to share the details with me.

Having been fed up with being followed by security guards while shopping, this young “freedom fighter” desired to make a statement, one young man against the giant and powerful machine. He was going to stick it to “The Man.”

With great pride, he recounted in delicious detail that he grabbed a cart at the local market, apparently the scene of so much abuse to those of his ethnic group, and went aisle by aisle, shelf by shelf, selecting enough items to fill his cart to the brim and above, all while glancing at the security guard who followed him step by step. At the end of his “freedom march,” he made a dramatic gesture of abandoning his cart near the registers, saluting the security guard with his middle finger, and walked out of the grocery store, leaving the uniformed man, or some other unfortunate worker, to re-shelve all of the items that this young “Simón Bolívar” had used as props in his “rebellion.”

He paused to receive my praise, since he, like all of my students, well know that I abhor the brutality of bureaucracy, the misuse of management, and the pugnaciousness of many in power. I admired his determination to try to make a change in his world, but I simply had to tell him that he was terribly wrong in the execution of his plan to achieve his ultimate goal.

“You did the exact opposite of what you should have done,” I told him with a gentle smile, endeavoring to not hurt his feelings and embarrass him. In the field of education, this is referred to as “a teachable moment.”

He was surprised that his expected praise turned out to be a roadblock.

I explained, “That security guard followed you, and follows others of your racial group, because he believes that you cannot be trusted to behave properly in the supermarket. He feels, by virtue of prejudice or by experience, that you might be expected to steal something, cause damage, or perpetrate some other negative act. And you proved him right.”

The boy sat stunned, but reflective.

I continued, “What I believe you should have done was waved and said a sincere hello to the security guard when you entered the market, acknowledge him politely (or ignored him), as you made your rounds through the aisles selecting the grocery items you legitimately needed, paid for your items, and wished him a sincere good rest of the day when you left.”

The young rebel almost had the “dots” connected.

I concluded, “What that would have done was told him he might have been wrong to suspect you, and the countless others who bear your physical resemblance. The next time another member of your ethnic group entered, he might have been less inclined to follow. At the very least, when YOU entered the market in the future, and said hello to him again, he almost certainly would have treated you differently, and so the long healing process would have begun. Instead, YOU made the problem worse; you proved to him that he was right to follow you, and you now made it worse for the next person like you who enters that market.” With true humility and confidence, my student admitted that he had erred. In this instance, my offended student missed an opportunity to educate the security guard about his feelings about being followed when he enters the market.

To witness learning, in others and especially in myself, the collecting of true “light,” is a wonderful, life-affirming experience; it is nothing less than a blessing. I often tell my students, “I probably learn more from you than you learn from me,” not out of a sense of false modesty, but out of the knowledge that I am a much more experienced student than they are. I also realize the importance of learning whatever I can from whomever I can, especially by listening to the experiences of others. I never fault my students, or my fellow men and women, for making mistakes. Very often learning, certainly experience, is the “phoenix” that arises from the “ashes” of mistakes. (Believe me, I have “crashed and burned” more times than I care to recount.) In this case, my student, and I, learned a valuable lesson. For days like this I will always be grateful that I have had the amazing experience of being allowed to be a teacher/student.

Many of those among us have traveled, and continue to travel, over a rough and rugged road. We cannot presume to know how our brothers and sisters are affected by their individual journeys. We can only try to do our best on our own journeys and not make the journeys of others more difficult.

It is my wish that those of us who feel conflicted about the issues of the day would take a step back. Maybe we could all try to see each situation from the point of view of those on the other side. Maybe we could eloquently explain what we have seen on our journeys without demonizing those whom we hope to educate. When we demonize we alienate, and when we alienate we push away those whom we need to bring closer so that they can understand what we are feeling, and that we can likewise understand them.

And I’m sure if we do that, from the heart, “by the better angels of our nature*,” we will be able to reap the benefits of the peace and harmony we all seek and so desperately need.

By Keith Douglas Kramer
Photo: Alexander Gardner (November 8, 1863)
Public Domain Dedication (Provided by WikiImages)

*Abraham Lincoln’s First Inaugural Address (1861) Closing Paragraph
I am loath to close. We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battle-field and patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.

On a day I would otherwise not remember, I found myself about an hour from home and not having eaten lunch. Luckily one of my favorite authentic taco and burrito chains had a place nearby, and so I decided to fill up for my trip home.

I worked my way to the front of the line, and asked the cashier for a “carne asada” (grilled beef) burrito, no rice or beans, and no tortilla. Just the meat, cebollas (onions), cilantro, and salsa verde on a plate.” (I’m an unabashed carnivore, but I could do without the carbs of the rice, beans, and the tortilla, especially since I monitor my blood sugar.)

“We can’t do that,” she responded.
“Sure you can,” I reassured her. “Just put the meat, cebollas, cilantro, and salsa directly on a plate, not on a tortilla.
“We can’t do that,” she repeated.
“May I speak with your supervisor?” I asked.

None too pleased that some troublemaker was jamming her daily routine, she trudged off in search of her shift captain.

“Can I help you?”
“Yes. I would like a carne asada burrito, cebollas, cilantro, and salsa verde, no rice or beans, on a plate, without a tortilla.”
“We can’t do that,” she responded.
“Sure you can,” I reassured her. “Just put the meat, cebollas, cilantro, and salsa directly on a plate, not on a tortilla.”
“We can’t do that,” she responded again.

I tried a touch of rational thought.

“If you make the burrito the normal way, I am going to unroll it, dump the meat on the plate, and throw out the tortilla. Let’s not waste the tortilla. Just put the meat, cebollas, cilantro, and salsa directly on a plate, not on a tortilla.”
“We can’t do that,” she tried to assure me, as if I were trying to violate a local municipal code, or perhaps, dios mio, one of Isaac Newton’s sacred Laws of Motion.

Now I swear, I do not leave my home trying to be a pain in the nalgas (Spanish for “buttocks,” more accurately, “ass”), and I’m pretty good at being sympathetic of other people’s limitations, but this was loco.

“May I speak with your manager?” I asked. “The manager of the whole restaurant.”

The two of them went off in search of the head honcho (Cowboy talk for “boss”). Clearly there was a cabrón in the house (Spanish for “big goat,” or … an unflattering body part – through which my burrito would ultimately pass, if I ever got to eat it.)

When the “queso grande” (Spanish for “big cheese”) approached the counter, the befuddled burritistas (I just made that up) relayed to him what bizarre, out-of-this-word, science-fiction piece of craziness I was trying to order.

He pondered for a moment. (I think he actually rubbed his chin, or scratched his head, or both!) He was deep in thought. The kind of thought that inspired Isaac Newton to come up with his Laws of Motion in the first place.

Suddenly, like King Solomon of the burritos, he declared, “I think we can do that.” Then he turned, arched his back, and with the two young ladies stared at the menu.

“I don’t know what I would charge you,” declared King Solomon. And he seemed genuinely confused.
“Just charge me the same as you would for a burrito,” said I, happily sharing my own talmudically-inspired wisdom.

The manager accepted the terms of this very intricate negotiation, and gave the staff the approval to form into teams to complete this massive project before them.

I received a takeout container of beef, on top of which was another takeout container of onions and cilantro. When I reminded them about the green salsa, I was given some in a handful of tiny to-go cups.

Back at the table, after taking my Master’s Degree diploma out of my pocket, and rereading it to give me the courage to gird up my loins (I think that’s from the Bible), I poured the cilantro and onions onto the beef, and followed suit with the green salsa.

Nobody was injured during the process (except for the cow who gave her all), the meal was consumed, my belly was full, and my head was pounding with a migraine born of the complete disbelief that I share the planet with at least three people for whom my simple request was more challenging than the Final Jeopardy question in the Tournament of Champions.

I felt bad for them. And for the rest of us. And for the future.

Please don’t incorrectly assume that this particular example of a lack of critical thinking skills is indicative of any particular ethnic group, gender, or industry. It is everywhere! (These young folks were born and educated in the United States.)

As a teacher, I have promised myself that I would never show impatience with a student who had difficulty grasping a concept. I promised myself that I would explain it ten different ways, if necessary, and would consciously modulate my voice to be sure to show no traces of impatience or irritation. I believe I have achieved that during my thirty-year career as a public school teacher. I was patient with the trio who tried to decode my extra-galactic request, but it left me winded.

Has anybody else in this country realized that disemboweling the quality of public school education is going to destroy everything that requires an educated workforce? (Is customer service anything like what it was in the last half of the Twentieth Century? “To speak to a representative, press “9.”) Are we still leading the world in producing the best products? (How did Japan, Korea, and Germany virtually take over the auto business in the last thirty years?)

Are our youth, our future leaders and inventors, engaged in thought-provoking and character-building extracurricular activities (Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, the 4-H Club, Indian Guides, chess clubs, athletic organizations, drama club, student government, etc.) or are they umbilically connected to violent video games, “Reality TV,” and drugs?

Are charter schools, controlled by billionaires to fulfill their several agenda, the answer to the decline of public schools? Is removing teacher tenure and eliminating teacher representation going to yield better, more experienced teachers, or further empower nefarious school administrators? Is ending teacher pensions the way to keep older, more seasoned teachers in the profession?

Is anybody really contacting his or her local, county, state, or federal representatives to demand the kind of public education that made this country great in the first place?

Never mind! Just give me the damn tortilla!

By Keith Douglas Kramer
Photo by Keith Douglas Kramer – Self-Portrait
Photo by Keith Douglas Kramer – Instructions for hand washing, with diagrams!

During one of my earlier trips to a Chinese Hot Pot buffet, after feasting on beef, chicken, vegetables, and all the other “non-traif” items that I enjoy (and keeping everyone else’s creepy-crawlies out of my hot pot broth), I decided to be bold before I left and try the most objectionable item I could find at the buffet bar.

It was the baby octopus, whole.

I asked my friend Melinda to snap a few photos documenting the process, and relished the fact that I would zip them to my kosher mother as a little affectionate poke in the ribs, just to make her shudder a bit.

The octofiend tasted like a wad of rubber, and that was only until the head exploded in my mouth.  I am loathe to pry anything out of my pie hole once I start eating, for fear of offending my fellow diners, so this little eight-legged monster was going down the pipes no matter what.

I instantly felt that the nausea and overwhelming urge to gag was some kind of celestial payback for violating the rules of my tribe and flaunting it to my mom.  The biggest slap in the face to me was that my mother didn’t believe I really ate it!

The joke was on me.

By Keith Douglas Kramer
Photos by Melinda Chiu

Several years ago, on one of my self-guided excursions through Mexico, I arrived at the city of Guanajuato, about three and a half hours east of Guadalajara. When I saw my old friend Socorro (“Coco”), she sadly informed me that her father had died in a car accident earlier in the week, and his funeral had been just the day before.

When I met Coco on an earlier trip to Guanajuato, she took me to the Museo De Las Momias (the Museum of the Mummies), and explained to me that in her native state, because of an apparent shortage of usable cemetery land, unless one paid for perpetual burial, the interred person was allowed to rest for five years in his grave, and then was exhumed to make room for another occupant. (The bodies that were mummified by the minerals in the soil would be placed in the local museum, whereas those that were not received some other fate.)

I expressed my condolences to my friend, and then asked whether I could ask a somewhat delicate question.
I referenced the burial practices she had taught me before, and asked whether her father, who seemed to be a man of some means, had previously reserved burial space for himself.

Coco told me that he had not, but that she and her family opened the grave of their grandmother, and since she was “nada más de huesos” (nothing more than bones), they stretched her out in her shroud, and laid her father in the same coffin alongside his mother.

The color draining from my face, and the attendant grimace, elicited a laugh from my friend, even at such a rough time for her. “You Americans,” she marveled, “have a very different view of death than we Mexicans have.”

I confided that the idea of opening my grandmother’s grave was beyond the scope of my imagination, and handling her bones to make room for another family member was simply inconceivable.”

The sentiments of my friend actually brought me comfort. It was clear that while my friend mourned the loss of her father, she had a less grim outlook on the finality of his death than most of us have.

On another one of my journeys to Mexico, I visited a cemetery, on top of a mountain, on an island, in a lake, in the state of Michoacan, to observe and partake in the festival Día de los Muertos (“Day of the Dead”). While most of the visitors were cramming themselves into the small chapel in the cemetery to observe the Christian religious service, I had occasion to meet a handful of indigenous women who were sitting on top of the graves of their loved ones. They graciously invited me to sit down with them, and proceeded to point out who was buried where. They shared their cider and bread with me, and explained that the foods they brought were the favorite foods of their departed family members.

From my previous research, I had learned that this was the day of the year when they believed the spirits of their bygone relatives ascended from the graves and communed with them. They felt that the souls of their departed family members were literally above the ground and among them. I asked whether this was a sad day for them. One of the women replied simply, “No.” I asked whether it was a happy day for them. With almost no emotion, the same woman replied, “Yes.”

My own views on death have evolved since my early youth, when I sometimes cried myself to sleep after realizing that one day I would not be here anymore. Life would go on, but I would not be here to experience it. In time, nobody would even visit my grave, and I would be forgotten. Yet, I could not believe that as complicated beings as we are, that the end of the life of our bodies was really the end of us. Would I really just burn out like a light bulb, and spend forever in a box underground?

I have photographs, and countless memories, of my grandparents. I share them, and the lessons I have learned from them, with my niece and nephews who were born after my grandparents passed away. So, are my grandparents really “dead”? I acknowledge that I cannot meet them for lunch, but are they really “dead”? They most certainly live on in my life, and they are a part of the lives of my brother’s children, even though their physical lives did not overlap in time.

Here is what I have surmised, and what I believe:

The beings that we are, inhabit the body we were given. We are complicated, deep, and beautiful beings. At some point our bodies (like our cars) stop working. When that happens the person/mind/personality that we are (call it the “soul,” if you like) leaves the body. Per our anthropological customs, we bury (or otherwise dispose of) the body we used to inhabit (or “drive”). The soul, the true essence of who we are, goes to a much better place (call it “heaven” if you like) where all the trials and tribulations, and the heartaches and physical pains of our terrestrial lives are gone. It seems logical to me that we would cross over to be with our family members who departed before we did. This would be the perfect time to meet the ancestors we never met, but heard about, saw pictures of, and whose blood we carry in our veins.

The final aspect of this scenario, for me, is the belief that in that limitless realm, we are able to look back at our earthly loved ones from a place of unimagined comfort and joy, only lamenting that we cannot let them know how beautiful the new place we inhabit is, and how happy we are. Our ancestors inform us that when they left, and we mourned them, they too wished they could tell us that everything was beautiful, but alas they could not.

They inform us that our earthly loved ones will join us in that better place when the time is right. Until then we watch over them, share in their happiness and feel sad for their sorrow. At that later time, they will join us and we will be lovingly reunited. And when they lament that their survivors are painfully missing them, we will, in turn, explain the cycle to them.

So, my earthly loved ones, especially those of you who have dealt with loss, please heed my beliefs. Your departed loved ones are well. They are blissfully happy in their pain-free world, communing with their ancestors in an eternal family reunion. They can see you. They are watching over you. They are rooting for you. And you will see them again, when the time is right and not before.

In the meantime, live your life. Don’t despair and make them sad. Carry your beautiful memories with you. Be the model of the kind of person they taught you to be. And talk to them, for they are truly with you.

By Keith Douglas Kramer
Photo by Keith Douglas Kramer – Headstone of Great-Grandparents