Blessing #1

I often tell the story about how Debbie and I came from a different tribe of Jews. When I introduced her to my parents, I told my mother and father that they were not like us. 

Eyebrows were raised. 

"Yeah, " I said, "They're from Minnesota. They're nice Jews. "

That cultural difference was a function of geography. 

In Minnesota, you only have to fight off the snow, the mosquitos and the humidity. In NYC, where I was born, as well as my father and his father, you had to fight off EVERYTHING: crowds, thieves, density, never-ending noise, rude waiters, cockroaches bigger than your fist and now, apparently, supersized pizza rats.

This geographical and environmental difference explains the wildly divergent usage of Yiddish. 

My paternal grandparents, both descendants of Litvaks, a small corner of Belarus wedged next to/or in between Poland, both spoke Yiddish well. I was too young to understand any of it. When visiting their tiny apartment in the Bronx, I was always in search of an open window to escape the blue cloud of 2nd hand Kent cigarette smoke.

The only phrase that stuck with me was, "Gey coxen hoist."  Translation -- "Go shit in your hat!"

Further translation - - my father, a scrappy street kid from Jerome Ave. and easily-given to anger, used that Yiddish bon mot quite a bit. Often yelling it out the car window.

Deb's lineage is rooted in the same Eastern European area, shtetl country, where Kossacks and vodka-swilling villagers often harassed and stole from the local Jews who were busy working, reading, learning and creating colorful Yiddish phrases.

Bob and Marilyn Weinblatt, Deb's parents, also spoke Yiddish. But again, it was of a different nature. It was kinder and more nurturing. It got passed down and took on new life in our household. 

When our daughters were young and climbing over the furniture and still revved up on found candy, Deb would often coax them to the couch and say, "Ley keppie, go shuffy." Translation: Lay your head on me and go to sleep."

And it worked, because up until Deb's very last days, the girls would visit and cuddle up on their mother on the couch. 

(Confession: I have a difficult time looking at this picture, which only reminds me of a happier life we had long ago.)

When displeased with something I said or did, which could be always, Deb would never yell or get angry or call me names, but often accused me of being or becoming a farbissiner. 

Translation -- "He's so sour he gets no pleasure from anything."

And then my favorite yiddish phrase that got tossed around our house, particularly before going to school or on a family trip, "Did everyone go pishy/caca?"  A phrase that needs no translation, as it has now entered the English lexicon. 

In the Before Times, when Deb and I would still go out to restaurants or visit friends, I would often ask her, "Did you go pishy/caca?" She'd smile, laugh, roll her eyes and push me out the door.

That memory is a blessing.

Happy Bittersweet Valentine's Day, Deb.