TALK TO ME

The Arizona Superintendent of Schools wants to do away with the requirement that, upon graduation, children should be able to speak a foreign language. She thinks it’s “racist.” However, she does want to, “Give kids more time for lunch.” How long does it take for a kid to throw mashed potatoes at his friends or stick a green bean up his nose?

In Europe, most people speak more than one language. That’s because when you cross the street, you are in another country. Jarod Kintz said, “What does it matter if you can speak two or more languages, if you have nothing original to say in any language?” He might be right. Politicians all over the world speak gibberish in different languages. To paraphrase one American Congressman, I find those people “untrustable.”

Recently, in the Houston airport, I had a conversation, in my fractured Spanish, with a woman traveling to Honduras. She said her flight was going to take three hours. If my Spanish numbers were wrong, that flight would take either 13 or 30 hours. Spanish is not the only language that I butcher. I speak menu French and can say, “Bonjour, Merci, Au Revoir and Toilette” Toilette is a most important word. When I was in Viet Nam, I asked a sales lady for directions to the bathroom. She couldn’t figure out why I wanted to take a bath in the department store. That’s when I found out that Charades is a very good game in any language.

Unless I am reading the words very slowly, Hebrew is still a dead language to me. But reading from right to left has to surprise my brain a bit---which is supposed to be a good thing. My German is the German language of a three- year- old child, because that’s when I was thrown out of Germany. I took German in college and brought tears to my teacher’s eyes.  I’m not sure if it’s because I used some words I had learned from my Grandmother, or because my linguistic skill was so bad.

When I studied conversational Spanish (for the third time) my teacher would ask me a question in Spanish. Then when I replied, she usually said, “Whoa! Where did you get that word?” And, I’d have to admit, “I made it up.” What’s the difference? No one usually listens anyway when people talk. 

English is one of the most difficult languages to learn. Yet, so many people, other than Americans, speak it well. George Bernard Shaw said, “England and America are two countries separated by the same language.” He was right. The English always sound so intelligent.  How smart are they? It was cold when I went to London, and I wanted to buy a sweater. No one knew what I was talking about. A saleslady finally said, “You want a jumper!”  I said, “I didn’t know you sold horses at Harrods.”

Here’s what I have learned about language:

1. Everyone has an accent. It depends where you are when you are speaking.

2. Toddlers can speak Chinese.

3. A foreign language is helpful, if you don’t want children to know what you are talking about.

4. For some people, speaking the truth is a foreign language.

5. Talking to teenagers is impossible in any language.

6. It’s fun to speak another language, and the more languages you speak the more friends you can make. So, learn a foreign language. It’s good for the brain and the funny bone—especially if you are misunderstood.

In a Budapest Zoo the sign read:

“Please do not feed the animals. If you have any suitable food, give it to the guard.”

 In a hotel lobby in Bucharest:

“The lift is being fixed for the next day. During that time we regret that you will be unbearable.”-----However, I may add, not as much as the Superintendent of Schools in Arizona!

Esther Blumenfeld (“Ladies are requested not to have children in the bar.”) Cocktail Lounge in Norway.

   

BLACK PUDDING, HAGGIS AND OTHER STUFF (Part Two)

BLACK PUDDING, HAGGIS AND OTHER STUFF (Part Two)

Leaving Southampton, the ship sailed toward Guernsey, England. I chose to take a ferry to the beautiful Island of Herm. Less than a square mile in area, Herm, the smallest of the Channel Islands, has a population of 77 adults and 6 children. The guided walk uphill and downhill covered the entire island, and I learned much about the archeological discoveries as well as the German occupation in WWII. I also learned that you really have to like your neighbors to live on Herm. 

The next day, we berthed at Cork, Ireland. I took a ride into the beautiful rolling hills of the Irish countryside, and this Desert Rat almost overdosed on all that Emerald Green.  Next we visited the Blarney Woolen Mill, where you could buy whatever Irish goods your heart and pocketbook allowed.  In Glendalough, I explored a 6^th Century monastic settlement founded by the gentle priest, Saint Kevin. All he wanted was quiet solitude, but the Vikings and Celts messed up the place and left one heck of a ruin. 

Then on to the Liverpool Lake District that I explored by bus, boat and vintage train. I learned that when sheep lie down in a meadow, they are keeping a dry spot for themselves for the forthcoming rain. It’s true, but luckily it didn’t start to rain until we returned to the ship.

Belfast was one of my favorite towns, because our guide was definitely a Leprechaun---if not, he should have been. He was full of Irish wit and blarney and promised us gold at the end of the rainbow. But first, we did a city walk, and visited Belfast City Hall, which is as grand as a castle. The Titanic was built in Belfast, and I saw a sign that said, “The Titanic was okay when it left Belfast.”

The gold at the end of the rainbow was a 300-year-old tavern, where most of the people on the tour enjoyed a glass of Guinness, but I conned the bartender into making me a genuine Irish coffee. I went back to the ship and took a nap

We sailed on to Scotland. The next morning, I awoke to the sound of a goat being poked really hard. I was on the 15^th level of the ship. That was one loud goat! I opened my balcony door, looked down and saw a piper puffing on his bagpipes. That was no goat, but it was a man with really good lungs. I was in Scotland. Naturally I wanted to do the Scottish thing, so in Glasgow, I visited the Glengoyne Distillery, established in 1833. It produced the favorite Scotch whiskey of the old British Queen Mum, and she lived to be 101 years of age, so naturally I had to try a shot (or two). The secret of the Scotch is in the water and the air-drying of the barley---so I was told. And sips of the 17-year-old single malt made everything really “Bonnie!

Next stop was Invergordon, gateway to the Scottish Highlands. I knew I was in the Highlands when I spotted a sign advertising, “Famous Black Pudding and Haggis>>>>this way.” I quickly went the opposite direction. I decided that I needed to tour at least one old castle while in Scotland, so I joined a group going to Dunrobin Castle, “one of Britons oldest continuously inhabited houses.” The ancient Earldom dates back to the 1300’s. I don’t know who lives there, but they obviously weren’t home when I arrived.  The castle tearoom had the best fresh scones I have ever tasted---obviously not dating back to the early 1300s.

My last stop was in Honfleur, a charming 13^th century Norman fishing village at the mouth of the Seine River. It looked like an Impressionist painting. The map was in French, but that was okay, because I can never read a map in any language. Luckily, I didn’t get lost or I would have had to move to Honfleur.

All in all, I had traveled 2,208 nautical miles, learned a lot, ate more than a lot, and loved every minute of it (once I had escaped from Heathrow Airport). But no matter how one loves an adventure, as the Irish would say: “Nil aon tintean mar do thintean fein.

Esther Blumenfeld (“There’s no place like home”)

BLACK PUDDING, HAGGIS AND OTHER STUFF (Part One)

You know you’ve been on a plane too long when you start watching a Bulgarian movie with English subtitles. It was the middle of the night and I was on my way to London. After a long layover in Houston, a 4-hour nap seemed appropriate. I probably could have slept longer, but the flight attendant hit me with her cart and insisted that I have something to drink.  That’s when I discovered that the, “Friendly Skies of United” aren’t really that friendly at all, because when I woke up, I jerked and dumped a glass of water onto her feet.

The plane landed at Heathrow Airport on time, and I hustled on the 20-minute walk to the Customs Station, where I joined people from all over the world snaking their way up and down the roped off rows for 45-minutes. Finally I reached the custom officer’s desk. She looked at me a few times, but finally decided that my passport photo remotely resembled my face, and sent me on to the luggage area that was only two electric stair rides, and a 10 minute walk, away. My flight number wasn’t posted, but luckily I found my bag that I had festooned with bright colored scarves. I arrived at Terminal 2 with my 35-pound suitcase and my 20-pound carry-on. Hip, Hip, Hooray! Then I remembered that my limousine was waiting for me at Terminal 5.

Not knowing where the lift was located, I juggled 50 pounds of suitcase on the electric stairs (escalators), and then walked another 20 minutes into the catacombs of Heathrow Airport where the “train” was to take me to Terminal 5—and this was an honest-to-God real train! After a 5-minute wait, a distinguished man from Berlin was so thrilled that I could speak German that he helped me get my suitcases on and off the train.  A person can fake almost anything under duress, and I found out that a, “Bitte” and a, “Danke” can go a long way.

Finally, I walked another 10 minutes and reached my destination, and I asked a nice flight attendant (she wasn’t armed with a cart) to direct me to the pick-up area. It had now taken me approximately an hour and 45 minutes to get to my destination, and now there was no driver anywhere to be seen. Since my little cell phone wasn’t an overseas phone, the kind flight attendant called the limo service for me. The voice on the other end of the line said, in that cultured accent, “The driver left.”  My response was, “Well, send him back.” After my playing, “The Ugly American,” she advised me to take a taxi and I would be reimbursed. “That better be in American money,” I yelled. The flight attendant put me into a cab, and I assured her that she didn’t have to be nice to anyone the rest of the week.

Luckily, I had 100 British pounds in my pocket, because the cab ride to my hotel cost 80 pounds. My driver was so angry that my limo driver had left me stranded that he said, “I will write a receipt for 100 pounds, so you can make some money off of those Bloody Blokes!” I told him, “No. If I’m going to begin a life of crime, I will knock over a Royal Bank.  I’m not going to steal a ‘Bloody’ 20 pounds. Since I had been safely delivered to my hotel, I figured that I might as well begin to speak the Queen’s English. Things were looking up. I got settled in my room, took a stroll to Buckingham Palace, ate an early dinner and went to bed---at the hotel--- not the Palace.

The next morning, I rendezvoused with my friends, who had arrived 3 days earlier, and we took a limo to South Hampton, where our over-sized ship was waiting for us. She was a year old, a very big, but beautiful girl. Embarking was relatively easy, once the staff picked up an old lady whose flip-flops had gotten caught in the escalator. Watching her bounce, head first, down the up escalator, took awhile, so I found a chair. But she got up and headed for the bar, so I knew she was okay.   

My vacation had begun---(To be continued.)

Esther Blumenfeld

UNFORGETTABLE (Part Three)

It didn’t take long for my Father to play an integral part in the life of Michigan City, and he spent the next 25 years of the rabbinate in that lovely community situated on the shores of Lake Michigan. In the beginning years, there was an exclusive lakeside neighborhood called Long Beach. It was a favorite spot for summer homes for the Chicago Mafia, and driving through one could see men with big guns patrolling those homes.  Mafia was welcome, but no Jews could buy homes there. It was a remnant of the old Indiana Ku Klux Klan thinking. However, the permanent residents admired and loved my Father, so this was a true conundrum for bigots. One day, my Dad was speeding through Long Beach, when a policeman stopped him.  He said, “Rabbi, Do you know you were speeding.”  “Yes,” said my Dad.  “This is a restricted area, and I wanted to get out of here as fast as I could.”  He didn’t get a ticket. Eventually, the barriers came down.

When Dad visited one of his congregants, Mrs. Cohen in the hospital, he said, “I asked her how she was feeling, and she said, ‘I can’t complain,’ and then proceeded to do so for the next 30 minutes.”’  “However, in the next bed I saw Mrs. Ida Johnson, and visited with her for a few minutes.  She told me, ‘Rabbi, I am so proud of my Jewish blood.’ I said to her, “Mrs. Johnson, I didn’t know you are Jewish.”  “I’m not,” she replied, “But I needed a transfusion and Mr. Siegel, who volunteers at the hospital, was the same blood type as me.”’

Dad was invited to speak at a Catholic School. The woman who introduced him was quite flustered, and after a few nice words, said, “And now, I’d like to welcome Father Richter.”  Dad stood up, faced the audience and said, “Biologically, Yes.  Theologically, No.”

Shortly before he retired, he was asked to officiate at a funeral, but the deceased was to be buried in a cemetery in Chicago. Mr. Carmichael, the funeral director, picked up my Father, and they drove to the cemetery in Chicago where Dad conducted the burial service.  On the way home, Mr. Carmichael said, “Karl, I am really hungry. Let’s stop for dinner at that famous restaurant where the waiters are rude but the food is really good.” Dad agreed, so they proceeded to the Rude Restaurant. As luck would have it, Mr. Carmichael found a parking place right in front of the restaurant. Before he could turn off the engine, the waiters ran out of the restaurant, shouting, “No! No! No!  You can’t park that hearse in front of our restaurant.” Whereupon, Mr. Carmichael said, “If you give us a good table, I’ll move.”  It was a done deal.

After my Father retired, he and my Mom moved to a Senior Residence in Florida, and for awhile, Dad became a “Cruise Rabbi.”  In those days, every ship gave a free cruise to clergy and their spouses. My parents were fortunate enough to take a cruise around the world. On this cruise, my Dad befriended a young priest. One day the young priest came to my Dad quite upset. The night before he had participated in some lively group dancing, and some busybody had criticized him for doing so. He said, “Karl, do you think I did something wrong?” Dad said, “Did you have impure thoughts?”  “Not at all,” said the priest.  “I was just having fun.”  “Well, then,” said Dad, “You go to your priest and tell him you had special dispensation from your Rabbi.” 

An elderly lady, called my father to come to her cabin.  He really didn’t want to do that, but she insisted that she needed him. So reluctantly, he went.  He was very relieved when he returned and told my Mother, “She needed someone to help her flip her mattress.”

And, when the ship got to the China of Mao Te-Tung, where the crew was treated better than the passengers, because they were part of the proletariat, a crew member urged Dad to put on a sailor hat and join them. When they left the ship to attend a banquet, a Chinese official pointed to Dad and said, “He doesn’t look like crew.” An officer, replied, “He is our Celestial Navigator.”

Always the Celestial Navigator, Dad was the first person to comfort a woman at their new Senior Residence after her husband died.  He said to her, “Would you like me to say a prayer for you?”  “Karl,” she replied, “You know I am an atheist.” “Well,” he said. “I could always say, To whom it may concern.”

When he died, a busload of Catholics, a busload of Methodists, and many Episcopalians from his Senior Residence arrived at the synagogue for the funeral. He was a man for all people--- a man of mercy and justice---and a man who walked humbly with his God.

Esther Blumenfeld  

UNFORGETTABLE (Part Two)

Although my parents had applied for United States citizenship, their paperwork had not yet been processed. So, as much as he wanted to, Dad could not get a commission in the military. However, he became a civilian chaplain at the Army/Air Force Base where they trained all the radio operators for the Flying Fortress bombers. Dad joined three clergymen to travel to various installations to speak to the troops.

On May 7^th, 1945 Germany surrendered to the Allies, but we were still at war with Japan, so the whole 8^th Army/Air Force was transferred to Sioux Falls expecting to go to the Pacific to fight the Japanese. Thousands of additional troops were coming to Sioux Falls. Three additional Jewish chaplains came with the Division as well as Christian clergy. Our home was a welcoming place for all clergy and many priests, rabbis, ministers as well as soldiers walked in our doors that were always open. One solider from the South came regularly to take a bath, which was a luxury not afforded him at the base. On August 6^th, 1945, the Enola Gay dropped the atomic bomb, named “Little Boy” on Hiroshima, Japan. Three days later, another bomb was dropped on Nagasaki. The war was over and we celebrated VJ Day on August 15^th.

Being the only Rabbi in South Dakota meant that Dad flew hither and yon when called upon by an isolated family in the hinterlands. Called to Deadwood to conduct a funeral, he was flown there in a small plane by Joe Foss a wartime hero and ace, who shot down twenty-six Japanese planes and was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor. He later became the Governor of South Dakota. Naturally, it was snowing in Deadwood when Dad arrived, and he had to don hip boots, and trudge through the snow, past the graves of Calamity Jane and Wild Bill Hickok at Boot Hill, to reach the Jewish Cemetery.

When he returned home he had a call from the President of Augustana College who said, “Our French Professor had a nervous breakdown. Can you fill in for her?” Dad told him, “I studied French when I was in high school.”  “Good enough!” said the President.  So, a rabbi from Germany, who recently learned English was teaching French at a Norwegian Lutheran College. Where but America?

Finally, my Father was notified that his citizenship papers had arrived, and went to pick them up. However, in true governmental fashion, there had been a glitch in my Mother’s paperwork and hers would not arrive until the following year. Naturally, she was very disappointed, but she said to Dad, “Now that you are back, I need to go to the grocery store. Could I have ten dollars please?”  Dad responded, “That’s the trouble with you foreigners, you are always asking for money.”

I loved Sioux Falls, but my Father had been offered another pulpit in Michigan City, Indiana near Chicago, so it meant starting over again.  I asked him, “Dad, will it be difficult for you to move again?”  And he responded, “Not as long as I have my books. My books are my portable homeland.”

Esther Blumenfeld---(To Be Continued)