I will admit to cheating at cards when I was young, but it was solitaire, so I wasn't cheating anyone else.
Read More

At this point I had to make a split-second choice. I could stop and tell Mr. C or just let it go.
Read More

It’s hard to explain to my grandkids what honesty looks like. And I certainly can’t tell them that cheaters never prosper.
Read More

“What happened?” The woman in charge of Introduction to Clinical Medicine seemed concerned.  I had failed the course’s written exam.  “I don’t know.”  And really, I didn’t.  I had never failed an exam.

We second-year medical students had been farmed out in small groups to assorted ophthalmologists and ENT physicians in practice to learn eye and ear exams, with the classic DeGowin and DeGowin physical exam book for reference. I assumed any exam would be based on our clinical experiences and assigned text.  The questions on the multiple-choice test seemed to have come out of nowhere.

After we had ruled out failure to show up, pay attention, personal crisis, substance use or other breakdown, she finally asked with wonderment—hadn’t I studied the old tests?  I was shocked.  Wasn’t that, umm, cheating?  Oh no—everyone does that.  You must look at the old tests.

Turned out, they were indeed on file in the library.  As expected, the topics had not been covered in my small group or reading. I dutifully studied the answers, retook the test, and passed no problem.  So that was how the game was played.

I was disillusioned.  If that was what passed as education, who was being cheated?

 

 

Basement Kitten

Always crazy about animals,  I’ve written before about some of my beloved pets over the years,  even my two attention-deficient goldfish!   (See Missing Pussycats,   The Puppy in the Waiting Room,  Fluffy and the Alligator Shoes,  ASPCA and Naval Funeral)

When my husband Danny and I were newly married we lived in Westchester in a lovely small apartment building with garages out back for us tenants.

One afternoon I had to pick Danny up at the Pelham train station and I was running late.  I cut through the basement on my way to the garage,  and as I hurried along I spotted a tiny black kitten curled up on the basement floor.

Barely slowing my pace I scooped up the kitten and continued out to the car.   Then,  steering with my left hand and holding the kitten in my right,  I drove to the station.  When I saw my husband walking toward the car I held the kitten up to the windshield for him to see.

My favorite childhood cat had been gray in color and was appropriately named Smokey.   Although this kitten was all black I decided nevertheless to dub him with the same name.

”Look who I found in the basement!”   I told Danny as he got into the car.   “Let’s keep him and call him Smokey!”

And so we did!

– Dana Susan Lehrman 

My Beloved Basement

I’ve written before about 2026 McGraw Avenue,  the house in the Bronx where I grew up,  and  in my mind’s eye I can still see every room, nook and cranny.   (See Parkchester, Celebrate Me Home,The Puppy in the Waiting Room,  and  Mr Bucco and the Ginger Cat)

And now I even think wistfully about the basement!

Our basement had no TV or “entertainment center”,  no wet-bar,  and no fancy exercise equipment.   In those days if you wanted exercise you took a walk around the block.

To get down there you descended a steep,  rickety flight of stairs leading to a large unfinished space that marked the footprint of our house.   There we had a washing machine but no dryer.  Instead there were two long clotheslines strung from wall to wall.  If you went down on laundry day you had to duck under the sheets and pillow cases,   and everyone’s underwear and PJs.

And next to the washing machine was a big laundry sink where my mother bathed the dog.  (Not an animal lover herself,  she  tolerated pets in the house for our sake.  See Fluffy and the Alligator Shoes)

My father’s work bench and tools were on one wall,  not so much for carpentry work which was not his forte,  but for his art hobby.   My dad made what he called his  “constructions”.    He built models of the Montauk Lighthouse,  the Parthenon,  and the Brooklyn Bridge to name just a few,  as well as fanciful structures that could only have existed in his imagination –  and all created from found and discarded objects.

Actually they weren’t all found or discarded.   If my dad spotted something he thought he could use for his constructions  he unceremoniously took it – a toy of my sister’s,  a hand mirror from the top of my dresser,   a knick-knack prized by my mother,   and once he even took the finials off the living-room lamps.   Years later I discovered there was a name for my father’s constructions –  Outsider Art!    (See My Father, the Outsider Artist)

And in one corner of the basement were often bags of used clothing collected by an organization my mother belonged to that distributed them to recent arrived refugees.

At the back of the basement was a door that opened to a few steps leading up to the garden,  and once on those basement steps our cat delivered one of her litters.  Where else that cat birthed a litter is another story!

And in anticipation of winter every year,  stored in another corner were the snow tires for our car and for the cars of relatives who didn’t have a garage or basement of their own.

And now,  all these decades later,   I can still hear my footsteps running up and down those rickety stairs.   For home – even the basement –  is where the heart is.

(And also where we kept the snow tires.)

– Dana Susan Lehrman

The house I grew up in had many wonderful features, including an attic and a basement, and both were put to good use.
Read More

The basement looked bright and cheery, and the wall added a lot of color. Alas, the sentiments on the wall remain relevant today.
Read More