Sunday, April 10, 2011

He-ros and She-ros

A few evenings ago I went with Roberta to see a folk singer at a church coffee house in Rockport. The singer is David Roth and one of his story-songs was about "he-ros and she-ros;" teachers, in fact. And while he sang the song I wondered about my own he-ros and she-ros. Here I am; still wondering.

Since he sang about a teacher, the one that always comes immediately to my mind is Sam Datlof, my home room teacher in 8th grade at P.S.99. Mr. Datlof was very small in stature. To compensate (to try anyway) he wore shoes with lifts and combed his hair into a pompadour. He wore over-large black rimmed glasses. We were an innocent, naive bunch of kids; we didn't see the humor in any of it. A good thing, too; no wise-guys in our class to pick on Mr. D. The only ribbing I recall was when he became engaged to the lovely Claire Zaslow (my third grade teacher -- I think it was third grade). There was no end to the chants and limericks about the relationship. "Claire and Sam went for a ride; Sam asked Claire will you be my bride...." etc. etc. etc. Love comes to P.S.99! But that's not how he became my "he-ro."

The first day of school in his class -- I was 11 years old when I entered 8th grade. That first day Mr. Datlof, recognizing my surname, asked if I was related to Matt Coburn. I told him that Matt was my older brother. Mr. D. then asked if I was as smart as Matt (who was academically very bright) and I told him "No; I'm the dumb one." No more was said. At the end of the day, Mr. D. requested I stay for a minute. He wanted to know what I liked to do. I told him that I liked to write -- stories, poetry, whatever way the words chose to hit the paper. The next morning when we entered the classroom, there was the skelton/template of a newspaper painted on the blackboard at the rear of the room. Mr. Datlof announced that I was the newspaper editor and main writer. And if anyone would like to contribute, they were to let me know. That would have been enough to change my world, but Mr. D. also went to speak with my English teacher, Miss McDonald. He apparently let her know that I wanted to be a writer. And, in retrospect, probably told her that I had a poor self-image and needed propping. Miss McDonald put a list on the board: poem, novella, essay, article, play, -- I don't remember what else. There were 10 varieties. We were to turn in one per month. If I recall correctly, I turned in one a week. She was delighted. Mr. D. was pleased. And my academic world changed. I went from being a B- student to winning the scholastic medal at graduation. I was also chosen to be the principal on Student Teacher day. Who I was and whom I could become was changed dramatically by the caring of an elementary school teacher. Years and years later when I returned to the school looking for Mr. Datlof, I learned he'd gone on to be principal of another school. Then in the early 1990's I learned that he had passed away. I never got to really thank him. I suspect he always knew.

He-ros. Pete Jones arrived in my life on the eve of my marriage to Don Beaman. Our "best man," Claud Thompson taught English at Carnegie Tech, our alma mater. Claud was moving to Canada; Pete was his replacement. We became immediate best friends. I don't think I'd ever had a true "best friend." Pete was there during the hard times: we were living on a shoe string, and I got pregnant very early on. Don's paycheck would runout by Thursday of every week. Every Wednesday evening, Pete would phone to tell me he'd purchased a package of minute steaks and could only eat one. (this became a weekly script!) I'd respond that I had some nice baking potatoes. And every Thursday for over a year, Pete showed up with the steaks, a can of his favorite tiny peas; sour cream for the potatoes; and dessert. Once our son Alex was born, Pete would also bring a bottle of milk claiming he needed it because of his ulcer. Of course he always left it behind. On Sundays Pete would come by with the New York Times and pastries. I'd put on the coffee. We'd spend several hours struggling with the cross word puzzles. Don was typically at the Pittsburgh Playhouse where he was resident designer. Then, if it was the season for it and the weather was good, Pete and I would push Alex around Pittsburgh in his tram.
Anything I needed to say I could say to Pete. Not only in those Pittsburgh years, but for years and years in letters, phone calls (long phone calls), the rare meetings in Pittsburgh when I could get there for Alumni events at Carnegie. (Don't fantasize that this was a hot love affair -- Pete was gay. It was a very different kind of love. Unconditional.) Just two more stories: Don was away at State College where he'd accepted a job. Our second son, Jamie, was ill with chicken pox; the summer night was awfully hot and sticky, and I was having the terrors. I phoned Pete -- it was like 11:00 at night. Pete showed up with a trenchcoat over his pj's, a bottle of vodka, and the manuscript of his unfinished novel. We sat up all night while he read the book to me.
The topper was in 1998 -- a long, long time later. Pete was fighting a losing battle with bladder cancer. We had met a few years before right after his first long struggle. Friends were taking care of him in Maine. We met in Ogunquit and walked the Marginal Way together; sat in a pub in front of a fireplace (a cold, rainy October day) drinking hot chocolate. I tried to be there for him through the next few years. In February of 1998 he phoned me to invite me and my son Jamie to take a trip to Europe with him. He wanted to show me Venice -- my fantasy destination for all my life. He wanted Jamie along so I'd have someone to share the memories with. When spring and the time for the trip arrived, Pete was too ill to go but insisted we take the trip. He planned it from his hospital bed and we phoned him from each destination along the way. He passed away while we were in Saltzburg, his favorite place in the world. I will never stop missing him.

I can't think of a she-ro right now. But there is one more unlikely he-ro -- my dad, who passed away when he was 50 years old. I say "unlikely" because he was a paradox: when I graduated college he published my first poetry collection, presented the book to me as a gift and said, "you probably don't deserve this." Okay. That was confusing. He didn't want me to be studying theatre, but found out about a summer graduate program in Stratford-on-Avon in England and told me that if I could get into the program he'd send me over. I did and he did. I sailed round trip on the Queen Elizabeth I. That summer studying Shakespeare and Elizabethan drama -- well, I remember every day of it. I had just completed my junior college year, so this wasn't yesterday. I learned more about myself that summer than in all of my years at college. There's a silly song from an old Disney movie, BONGO. The song is called Bears Say it With a Slap. I've always thought of my dear, brilliant father in terms of that song -- although the "slap" was never physical. I don't remember that he ever raised a hand to me. Nor was he always supportive. But I knew that if/when my back was up against the wall, when I'd run out of solutions, he would be there for me. Always with the good answer -- not that I always took his advice. And, sadly, he died before we could be adults together. I believe we'd have been excellent friends.

So when you're writing your blog or log or gratitude pages, make a list of your he-roes and she-roes. One is good; three is -- I think -- an amazing gift.