Myrna and Bert
Myrna taught in the history department at the university. Once or twice a month she would show up for FAC. Her conversation was delightful, precisely because she clearly knew what she was talking about. Getting a seat at her table was a treat. And if you disagreed about something she’d ask questions to determine the reason; more often than not, she’d smile and thank you for giving her something to think about. Her enviable depth of knowledge was accompanied by a sparkling wit that never ever veered into the cutting or unkind. Myrna, all 5’1” of her, was disinclined to yelling and pounding her fist on the bar to make a point; she once told me that she had no desire to either look ridiculous or lose credibility. We were always glad to see her walk in the door, and not just because she was a generous tipper.
Bert was one of Myrna’s colleagues in the history department, every bit as knowledgeable even though he was a few years younger. He could be a boatload of fun, especially if he woke up in a good mood that day. On other days, you learned to keep your mouth shut if you disagreed with him. Unlike his more diminutive counterpart, Bert had no aversion to pounding his fist on the bar to punctuate his comments; he seemed to enjoy watching the glasses bounce while the other patrons backed away. He learned to read the bartender’s signal to the bouncer, and he’d shut up long enough to finish his drink before throwing your tip at you along with a colorful expletive.
That bar was torn down many years ago, the space now occupied by a high-rise apartment building. I’m told that Myrna died a while back, surrounded by her grandkids. Bert is spotted in the stands at a ball game now and then, but he’s managed to avoid speaking with anyone from the old gang. I always envied Bert’s knowledge, but Myrna taught me more.
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