Part Four
A Stream
of Consciousness
Memories of the Stylers
It wass in 1968 that I first met the lovely and kind Mrs. Fran-
ces Styler. We were both teachers at PS 41, on West 11th Street
in New York City’s Greenwich Village. I was in my first year
of teaching, and I was assigned a K-1 class. Mrs. Styler was
there to help. We became fast friends, and she seemed to want
to cultivate an out-of-school friendship with me. Mrs. Styler
was married to a highly respected physician, and they lived in a
brownstone on a leafy, quiet street not far from the school. Mrs.
Styler invited me to lunch at her home on a school holiday, and
I accepted. This experience is another that sticks with me, and
today... on this unusually warm winter Saturday, memories are
flooding back to me.
I remember it was on a Tuesday afternoon when I walked
down from Chelsea to visit the Stylers for lunch. I rang the bell,
and the door was answered by a member of her staff. I had never
been to a home with a butler before, but he took my coat and
showed me to the parlor, where I waited for Mrs. Styler. She
entered, wearing exquisite formal attire.
She greeted me, and then Dr. Styler entered to be introduced.
He shook my hand and apologized that he would not be joining us
for lunch because he had an emergency with a patient.
Mrs. Styler asked me if I needed to use the washroom, and
she told me it was on the third floor to the left. I climbed the two
long, steep flights of stairs and entered an elegant bathroom that
appeared to be her personal boudoir. There was a chaise lounge
and dressing tables filled with creams, perfumes, and dusting
powders. Feathered robes and dressing gowns hung on the back
of the door. And next to the sink were pink guest soaps in the
shape of seashells.
I descended those long stairs and was escorted to the din-
ing room table that could easily have seated twenty people. Mrs.
Styler rang a bell, and her cook (in retrospect, she was straight
out of Downton Abbey) entered to serve the appetizer. We dined
on some fancy, prepared gourmet meal, and I had “paté.” Mrs.
Styler was very attentive to my level of comfort, and every time
I made a request, she would ring the little soft bell, and her cook
would appear and handle all the needs.
We discussed teaching and life. Mrs. Styler spoke about
her daughter, who was about my age and whom she adored. We
talked about many things. It was the first time I had been sur-
rounded by such elegance.
It has been over fifty years since that day. I Googled around trying
to find out where some of the many people I’ve crossed paths with
during my long career are today.
In my search, I sadly learned Mrs. Styler passed away in 1999,
and her husband passed away in 2004.
Manhattan was a quieter city forty years ago. There was a
less rushed and congested atmosphere. People were less angry
and not as confrontational. There was less noise. People seemed
to treat each other more kindly.
And everybody took time… to just breathe.
Michael Gazzo Asks Permission
The year WAs 1974. I was teaching at a small school on West
45th Street. I had a wonderful sixth-grade class. The students
were bright, creative, and they had a real sense of humor. The
school was not far from the Actor’s Studio; the Manhattan Plaza
had just been completed, and on nice days I could walk home. I
loved going to work.
One day, a student named Chris came to school a little bit
late. I asked him the reason for his tardiness, and he told me that
the night before, he had attended an opening of a movie in which
his father had a role. I asked him the name of the film, and he
replied, The Godfather Part II.
“Oh,” I said. I asked, “What part did your father have in
the movie?”
He replied, “Frankie Pentangeli.”
I knew that Chris’s father was the well-known playwright,
Michael Gazzo, but I did not know that he was in the film, The
Godfather Part II. So! Chris’s father was Frankie Pentangeli,
interesting...
The Godfather Part II was released, and it opened at a
Loew’s theater on Broadway. It received phenomenal reviews,
and I couldn’t wait to see it. Mr. Gazzo had written a note to
me during that school year asking permission for his son to be
excused early on an October day, and I saved the note. It was not
just a signed note; it was an autograph.
A few months later, the Gazzo family moved to Los Angeles.
Chris kept in touch with all of us through letters he sent
to the school, addressed to me. In one letter, Chris asked me
if I was still singing because I was awful. I was a teacher who
sang while she taught? (My “bad singing” has developed into
my personal brand of performance art on my current internet
broadcast). Chris said he was going to a school twenty times
better, but he would rather be going to our school because he
missed all of us.
I think about all of the students I had in so many classes
over the years. I loved being a teacher: Every day, I had a place
to go.
Intermission: Lighten Up!
My stand-up comedy was so bad I was rejected from The Gong
Show.
I wrote a book and in a week it was on the dollar table at The
Strand.
I sucked on a salt stick, and my blood pressure soared, and that
triggered my OCD and I started cleaning the fire escape.
I am so germ phobic I put on plastic gloves to use my own tooth-
brush.
I took Home Economics in high school, and I got an A in Ele-
ments of a Successful Marriage and I am still single!
I had two students who were real inventive. Every sunny day
they took seats near the window and used magnifying glasses to
see who could burn the fastest hole into my left eyeball.
In high school, I failed a history final exam with a 63 and I went
to summer school and got a 41. Who could learn in such heat?
A student signed his homework with the name The Seed of
Chucky and another used the name Rosemary’s Baby. I wrote on
the chalkboard: My name is Carrie.
