THE MAMALOSHEN

Posted on May 19, 2018 by Jim

In 1791 Catherine the Great created the Pale of Settlement.  It was the territory within Russia where Jews were permitted to live. It included all of Belarus, Lithuania and Moldova, much of present-day Ukraine, parts of eastern Latvia. And with Second Partition of Poland in 1793, the Pale included much of Poland and all of Lithuania.

My maternal Grandmother, Sophie was born in 1880ish Warsaw, then still part of the Tsarist Empire.  She spoke Polish, understood Russian, both Slavic languages; but the lingua franca for Jews, spoken in the home, and amongst their co-religionists was Yiddish (the mamaloshen – “mother tongue”), which was and is a Germanic language.  When she moved to America at the turn of the 20th Century, she added another Germanic language, English to her verbal skill set (although she never gained literacy in it).

My Mother was able to pick up Yiddish from my Grandmother (we called her Mommie Sophie).  Mom developed a decent facility with Yiddish, and as a kid I would sometimes hear Mom and Mommie Sophie having extended conversations in Yiddish.  Drawing the camera back, I think it was their language of “disagreement.”  I couldn’t understand what was being said (and I am sure that was the idea), but words were exchanged in a hurried and excited manner, in a somewhat elevated volume. It wasn’t as if they were telling dirty jokes in Yiddish, either.  It wasn’t, “chubdah, chubdah, chubah, chubdah”; and then a bunch of laughter. Yeah, I think they were disagreeing about this, that or the other thing. Probably something family related, and not whether the flanken was too dry.

My Dad knew a few words and phrases, too.  More than anything, he put Yiddish into play as a vehicle for humor.  Which brings to me to the following.

Zack has sent me a book: The Encyclopedia Blazertannica, which is an alphabetic listing of subjects that, by and large, relate to things soccer. However, under the letter “Y” is this off-topic entry:

YIDDISH: No language does spite more creatively.

Two of the examples contained to illustrate the point.

“Ale tseyner zoln bay dir aroysfaln, nor eyner zol blaybn – af tseynveytok!”

 Or, in English, “May all your teeth fall out except for one – so you can get a toothache!”

And my personal favorite…

“Zol dayne fis vern farholtzzene dayne bokyh ful mit vaser un dayn kop gamakht fun gloz azey ayer fis farbent, vet ayer boykh zidn un dayn kop vet plastn!”

Or, in English, “May your feet be made of wood, your stomach be filled with water, and your head be made of glass so when your feet catch fire your stomach will boil and your head explode!”

Lest you guess otherwise, I never heard such horrible words from the lips of Mommie Soph, or my Mother!

Yes, I know a few words and can get the gist of a couple of phrases.  And it shouldn’t come as a surprise that you know a few words, too!  English is a voracious language, gobbling up vocabulary from languages across the planet… including Yiddish.  Among the terms that have crept into our tongue… bagel, blintz, chutzpah, glitch, kibitz, klutz, lox, nebbish, nosh, schlep, schlock, shnook and tushie… all are derived from Yiddish/German that entered into this country via Ellis Island… just like my Grandmother did!

L’chayim!

 

Posted in Life | Leave a comment

Chuck’s

Posted on May 18, 2018 by Jim

A few years ago I joined a group on Facebook: “50s & 60s Westville”.  And with all the mishegas about Facebook and privacy issues, I still enjoy the good things that there… love the jokes, the animal oriented stuff.  And of course pictures of family and friends.  And I include this Westville Group in the “good” column.  And as an aside, judging from the folks who actively post and comment within the site, you’d have to think that Westville had the highest concentration of Jews outside of Jerusalem.

Many of the posts deal with school stuff and folks trying to find other folks “Anyone know where Cynthia Scheinberg is these days?  We were friends in Sheridan.”

Businesses also pop up, “Who remembers Jackson Marvin’s in the Village?” Or, places… “Loved going to summer concerts at the Yale Bowl.”

But most of the posts spin around places to eat.  And as you can imagine there is a ton of posts on the Wooster St “pizza shrines” and of course Jimmies of Savin Rock.  No, not part of Westville per se; but definitely within our orbit.  

Something else you should know, most of the folks who are connected in the Group no longer live in the area.  The chief archivist, who posts most of the old photographs, lives in Colorado. But everyone seems keen to hop in with a favorite deli, hamburger joint, pizza parlor… or to debate the finer points of Jimmies’ lobster roll versus Chicks’. I submitted Whitey’s in Guilford (by the water tank, just off of I-95) for roasted clams and corn.

A place that often surfaces is Chuck’s. My experience there was limited to less than a half dozen times. So it’s hardly as memorable for me as it was for you.  A recent post included a picture, and here it is… Enjoy!


Posted in The Small Pictures | Leave a comment

So, Felicity it is

Posted on April 29, 2018 by Jim

Felicity?  I know, I know… not a great name for a Guinea Hen!  But what could we do?  The fancy, shmancy breeder had already named her Felicity!  I wanted to name her Margaret, or Elizabeth, or Eleanor, or Sacagawea, or Dolly. {Stop right there!  I know what you’re thinking!!  “Yeah, Jim! Sounds just like something sexist that you’d think of! Dolly Parton & big breasts!” Well… Margaret Meade had breasts, too!  Although maybe not as impressive.   And besides, I was thinking of Dolly Madison!}.

So, Felicity it is.

Yes, I detect puzzlement in your expression.  Wherefore Guinea hen?  OK, so I was leafing thru a past issue of Smithsonian and there was an article that caught my eye: “The Uncommon Intelligence of the Guinea Fowl.” It turns out that these birds are more than your next dinner!  Smart as a whip, they are!  As smart as mynah birds, ravens, cockatoos… and according to the Director of Animals and Society Institute of Ann Arbor, Guinea fowl posses the intelligence on par, or better, than an octopus or a common house cat. Although further study is needed, he said, and I quote, “I wouldn’t be surprised after additional testing that a Guinea hen will be seen as intelligent as a bonobo ape, just lacking opposable thumbs.”

I admit that Sandy, while intrigued, was not keen on adding a Guinea Fowl to our household.  I pointed out that she had previously excluded dogs, cats and silverback gorillas from our home… but no prohibitions about Guinea hens or wolverines.  Would she rather have a hen or a wolverine?

So, Felicity it is.

The breeder, Mrs. deVargas, was a total whack-job, she insisted before signing the papers for Felicity, that Sandy and I prove that we had college degrees. We also had to sign a statement that we didn’t smoke, and that we were vegan (yes, we lied about the vegan thing). We then all sang the Star Spangled Banner. Ceremony and  paper work taken care of, Mrs. deVargas (I think that she was probably in covert-ops, and breeding Guinea fowl was just her cover), bid us farewell and sent us off with an “alphabet board”, instruction pamphlet, well wishes and, oh one more thing… “Felicity doesn’t like reggae music.”

Alphabet board?  Let me explain.  It turns out that Guinea fowl can be trained to understand commands and actually spell common words.  This is done by placing food treats on squares on the alphabet board… each square containing a letter. I used pistachio nuts as an inducement to peck at specific letters. She actually preferred the shells to the nuts.  Go figure.

She was a quick study.  Although she had trouble with vowels.  After a particularly exhausting training session, I just lost it and asked her, “Why did the chicken cross the road?”  She glared at me and then pecked out, ”G fck yrslf.” She came within an eyelash of being turned into Felicity ala Marsala!

This problem with vowels had gotten the gears in my mind spinning.  Biblical Hebrew was written without vowels!  Maybe Felicity was some sort of Orthodox hen? I tinkered with the idea of creating a Hebrew alphabet board and seeing if I could train her to peck out the kiddush (the blessing for wine).  After some thought I decided against it, and put the alphabet board away.  The entire exercise was proving too stressful for both Felicity and me.

I have moved onto other avenues with her.  Music.  Did you know that female Guinea hens can chirp? Well, not really chirp… more like half way between a chirp and a hum.  This behavior is not meant to attract males, but as a means of communicating and keeping track of new born chicks.  After six months of training, Felicity had the Canon in D down! Although she prefers Irish drinking songs!  And the best part is that mimicking music comes naturally to her, no need of going thru bags of pistachio nut treats.  As it turns out, pistachios, the nuts or the shells, give Felicity a world class case of gas.  And heaven help you if you are at “ground zero” when Felicity cuts a fart!  One time Sandy missed the early warning sign — Felicity raises her left leg, always the left.  Unlucky, Sandy strayed too close to the blast zone and before she could retreat to safety the knee-buckling stench cracked the crystal on her wrist watch (and other gruesome things, too nauseating to mention here).

In spite of this unfortunate gastric reaction to pistachios, I have to smile… Felicity is part of our family.  I now use shredded mini-wheats instead of pistachios for treats. The grueling training sessions are past, and Felicity now enjoys being read to.  She loves John Irving novels and Shakespeare.  Shakespeare!  I have to shake my head… it took me decades to begin to love Shakespeare! Oh, one last note – Mrs. deVargas had it right!  Felicity does not like reggae! If she hears a Bob Marley track, she begins to raise her left leg and Sandy and I have to scramble to kill the song!  Who is training who?

Felicity… she is in command.

Posted in Stories & Brief Tales | Leave a comment

The Feathers Were Ruffled in the Den

Posted on March 18, 2018 by Jim

Although the classification of pickles at first glance has little bearing on the brief tale I am about to relate… but in so much that I experience that is the “now”, there is a story from the “then” that is imbedded therein that shines like a jewel.

On February 2, 1963 I was Bar Mitvahed. Mommie Soph looked for an appropriate gift to honor the occasion. Perhaps the gift of stock that could improve in value? And in this matter she adhered to Aunt Tiny’s advice that there was only one stock worth purchasing: IBM. Whether Mom’s opinion was also consulted, I can’t say. But Tiny’s position was followed, and 2 shares of IBM stock were purchased for me.

Then the day arrived when the stock certificate arrived at 25 Alston Avenue. And on that day, or perhaps the day after, Aunt Clara happened by for an afternoon visit. I can imagine Aunt Bella was there, too – she usually was. With pride Mommie Soph took out the stock certificate to show around. “See what I got for my Jimmy! Two shares of IBM stock, and Tiny says this is the best! THE BEST!”

Well, Clara carefully inspected the certificate and declared that this was the wrong stock! “Sophie! You purchased the wrong stock. Look here!” And of course Mommie Soph couldn’t read the words! “This says: International Business Machines! NOT, IBM!” And Clara was insistent on this!!

Now if Clara intended to make a joke it would have been one thing. But that was not the case, she truly believed that Mommie Soph had made a mistake, unfortunate maybe, but an egregious mistake nonetheless!! The feathers were ruffled in the den!

Yes, it took several minutes to sort this out. I am sure Mom was called in to referee this dispute (and maybe even Tiny had to be called to confirm the facts!). The dust settled, and the Chatzek sisters could continue on to a satisfying cup of tea. Peace had returned to the den.

And pickles? Well, and this issue has not been completely resolved to the interested parties, Sandy and I just spent the better part of a half hour discussing the difference between jars of pickles labeled “full sour” pickles & “kosher dill” pickles. For me, it simply a matter of marketing. Pickles are: sweet, half sour or full sour – and that Kosher Dill are full sour unless otherwise noted.

So, what can I say. Somehow this debate brought to memory a quiet afternoon that took place in the den at 25 Alston Avenue fifty-five years ago.

    Posted in The Small Pictures | Leave a comment