Fiddling Around in Yiddish

The opening strains of Traditsye are unmistakable. And while I don't understand the Yiddish words, I've seen Fiddler on the Roof enough times to comprehend what is being sung.

Thanks to my Facebook friend, Rachelle, I recently became aware of Fiddler on the Roof in Yiddish. She's already seen the play -- this recording was made with the 2018 Broadway cast.

Now, I grant you, I was raised Catholic, and while I suspect I may have been Jewish in a prior life, I have no ties to this culture in my current life. That is, aside from the few Yiddish phrases I've picked up from Harry over the years.

But knowing that "schvitz" means sweat, a "pischer" is a greenhorn and "meshugga" means crazy does not a fluent speaker of Yiddish make.

And yet, it doesn't matter. This recording touches all kinds of nerves. The humor and angst, love and sorrow, joy and frustration -- all resonate with this shiksa -- or is it "goy"? (There's a lot of blowback over the word "shiksa," as I discovered doing a quick search of the word.)

Maybe someday I will be fortunate enough to see the play. In the meantime, I can enjoy the music. I downloaded the soundtrack from the library, but soon, I'll go out and buy the CD.

Lekhayim!

A Visit from the Spirit of Concerts Past

"You realize," I told Mr. Ginley, "that we were our kid's age when this was going on."

We'd been skimming the four DVDs from the Live Aid Concert, which aired July 13, 1985.

"Can you believe that pink suit? Look at those shoulder pads!"

Madonna was the original cutie pie, bedazzling in costume jewelry, big hair and punky wardrobe.

Freddie Mercury then David Bowie, each in turn owned the audience. They didn't need strobe lights or special effects. I'm not too proud to say I cried. They don't make 'em like that anymore.

We watched The Who, and Roger Daltry in all his hunkinesss.

Elton John, banging away on the piano. I still have a hard time deciphering his lyrics. And so odd when he sang the duet with Kiki Dee, he on the keys, she on the opposite side of the stage.

Dire Straits doing Money for Nothing. And Sultans of Swing -- a real crowd pleaser.

Eric Clapton performing Layla (he was separated from Pattie Boyd by that time).

Duran Duran...I wonder if my brother, Paul, still listens to them every now and again.

Tom Petty. (Sigh.)

Mr. Ginley asked me, "Do you ever look back and feel like you were a different person?"

No, I don't think so. But sometimes I do ache for my younger self. For the echoes of music past. For a time when I rocked and rolled with the punches.

I think I'll put on my bolo necklace, fluff up my hair and carpe diem like a rock star.

I love rock 'n roll.  Sing it with me, JJ.

The Past Becomes a Present

Gazing out the window this morning at the lightening sky, I knew I just wanted to get out and enjoy the day.

But first, I had to do the breakfast thing. And write a little something. So here goes, then I go.

This week I came across some quips I typed up that belong to my son when he was 4-5 years old. They have aged quite well. So today, I'm giving you all a break from my ramblings and sharing some of his. 

Bon appetit!

Age 4:

"Suddenly, I realized it was bedtime."

"That's not an option, Mom."

  

Joe was riding with his Dad in the car, trying to work out the mysteries of the universe.  An Elvis Presley song was on the radio in memory of Elvis' birthday.

"Dad, why do they celebrate Elvis' birthday if he's dead?"

"I don't know, Joe. I guess they just want to remember him."

"Dad, is Elvis in heaven."

"Yes, Joe."

"Are Elvis and Grandpa Ginley together?"

"Well, I guess so."

"Dad, who plays the guitar?"

  

"Mom, Daddy ate all the cheese crackers. Now you have to go to the cheese cracker store tomorrow morning and bring me some cheese crackers before you go to work!"

Waving skyward, "Hi, God!"

Joe brings home his Thanksgiving project from school, on which his teacher has written, “Joe is thankful for trees.” I thought that was really nice, having a son who is so concerned about the environment. On Thanksigiving Day, I ask Joe again what he is thankful for. He says, “I’m thankful for TREATS!”

Age 5

While playing with his Thomas the Tank Engine wooden train set, we overhear: “James said, ‘Thomas, would you help me pull my train today?’ And Thomas said, ‘Why, I’d be delighted.’”

  

Being chastised for holding up Marge (our cat) and going “vroom, vroom!”  Joe says, “But Mom, she was just pretending to be an airplane!”

“I love you to the moon and the stars and the planets and back again.”

Opening each Christmas present:  “Whoa, just what I always wanted!”

When asked to put his Superman away (it was positioned near the nativity scene), “No, Mom, can’t you see, Superman is watching out for Baby Jesus!”

  

We attended Palm Sunday mass. After listening to the (long) gospel reading about Jesus riding through the town, Joe turns to Bill and asks, “Dad, did He live happily ever after?”

Apologies to my kid if this embarrassed him. Well, no, I'm not really sorry. He can exact his revenge someday when he writes his memoirs.

An Ocean of Calamine Lotion

How many times did I assure Mr. Ginley, "No, there's no poison ivy in the back yard."

Ah, Mrs. Ginley, thy Delta Tau Chi name is "Hubris."

And thus it was this past week I discovered that, as a result of trying to remove lots of green stuff from the backyard, I became a victim of poison ivy.

What threw me, I suppose, was that it took more than a week to show itself. Never having experienced the incessant itching, blisters and welts that result from exposure to the vile plant, I wasn't even sure that's what it was.

My friend, Chris, confirmed it for me after coffee a few days ago.

"Yep, that's poison ivy," she said. Also, she suggested a possible remedy, which helped immensely.

While I will grant you the Google can be very informative, in the case of poison ivy, our favorite search engine served up contrary and confusing results.

"Poison ivy can spread when blisters pop" versus "Poison ivy can only spread with additional contact with either the plant itself or something that's come in contact with the plant." For me, it seemed the rash was popping up in other places on my body that hadn't come in contact with P.I. So, does it get in your bloodstream and ride around? I'm still confused.

Some say you should wrap up your infected self, others say the open air heals the wounds quicker.

And there's no need to go to the doctor, unless one of the sores gets infected, it shows up all over your body or you get a fever. Oh, and yes, it's wise to go to the emergency room if you find that you're unable to breathe or swallow.

I'm happy to report that my particular case of P.I. seems to be abating. Soon, I will once again be able to wear short sleeves without others averting their eyes in disgust.

Best of all, perhaps, is that while Mr. Ginley has been sympathetically itchy all week, it does not appear to be affecting him otherwise.

Soon, very soon, I hope The Coasters will cease to play in my head.

You'll be scratching like a hound, the minute you start to mess around...*

*Poison Ivy lyrics by Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller.  Publisher: Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC

Watch it, Buster

Last night, I watched a documentary about Buster Keaton. And it occurred to me, if his folks hadn't thrown him around on the stage, he might never have become a great filmmaker.

His parents were reported for whatever was termed child endangerment at the time. But because of a loophole in the way the law was written, they were able to continue with their act for years, until Buster went out on his own.

He used what he learned from his childhood and adolescence to comedic advantage all through his films. Which are still amazing to watch today. His acrobatics and timing are breathtaking.

Not that I'm saying parents should throw their offspring around like hot potatoes, but it is interesting how our perspective on child rearing has changed.

Before the turn of the last century, the concept of children as bundles of joy, as opposed to extra farm hands or wage earners, was something of a novelty.

Fast-forward to the post-World War II generation. My parents set out to have four kids and wound up with six. They stoically accepted whatever the Good Lord sent their way, tightening their belts, and we made do with the same school uniform for another year. (Good thing the hems were generous.)

We all had minor chores around the house, but we certainly didn't earn our keep. It's not like we had to get up at 4 am to milk the cows or sell newspapers on the street corner. And we never went hungry (unless we refused to eat cube "steak" or city "chicken").

As parents, Mr. Ginley and I wanted our kid to have it better than we did. But we were careful not to go overboard. I think Joe turned out pretty well. I imagine he will identify experiences from his childhood and use them to shape his adulthood. Hopefully, he will take with him the laughter, the joy of learning and the love.

And enough stories to write a memoir. Or a novel.

I just hope he's gotten over his Dad demoting him to house plant.