Yiddish Lesson -- A Brief Addendum

      I heard from a number of people offering additional Yiddish phrases that should have been discussed in yesterday's post. My law partner, Kerry McCormick, reminded me that one of her and my favorites is "tuchas offen tisch," which, in literal translation, means, "Put your butt on the table." Its closest English equivalent is "Let's have a meaningful, no-nonsense discussion of the issues."

         Kerry described herself as, "one of the office shiksas." You can look it up.

         My friend, Rabbi Howard Apothaker, suggested I discuss "Gai kocken in yam!" As he observed, the phrase has many uses in various appropriate situations. Its literal meaning (somewhat cleaned up) is "Go relieve yourself in the ocean." In general, it is a dismissive response to some foolish behavior.

       A dear friend and former colleague, Rexanne Hosafros,  now an expat in Florida, told me her favorite is "zaftig" -- an adjective generally employed to describe a full-figured woman.

        No doubt, there are many other Yiddish words and phrases that you and I might encounter. If you have questions about what the Jews called the "Mamaloshen" -- the Mother Tongue -- let me know and I'll try to track down an answer.

Yiddish Lesson

           Yiddish is an interesting language, made up primarily of German, Hebrew, and Polish vocabulary and written in Hebrew characters. It was the primary language of Eastern European Ashkenazi Jews, who resided in the "Pale of Settlement," the region of imperial Russia in which Jews were permitted to live. The Pale, as it was called, is most familiar to us today as the setting for Fiddler on the Roof.

            Large numbers of Jewish immigrants came from the Pale to the United States in the late 19^th and early 20^th centuries, and they brought their Yiddish with them. Primarily on the Lower East Side of New York, they established a thriving Yiddish theater and many Yiddish publications.

My father's parents spoke Yiddish, and my father was pretty fluent, as well. My mother understood more Yiddish than she actually spoke. The primary employment of Yiddish in my family as I grew up was to enable my parents to have conversations that their children could not understand.

            Outside of a few Hassidic enclaves, Yiddish is not a significant, spoken language today. Eastern European Jewish immigrants worked hard to insure that their children became "real Americans" who spoke English and participated in American society. The real last nail in the coffin of Yiddish was the decision by the founders of the State of Israel to choose Hebrew, an ancient language used primarily in prayer and study, over Yiddish as one of the national languages of their old/new nation. (The other, by the way, is Arabic.)

            But a fragment of Yiddish survived in the form of words and phrases passed down to the "third generation" as part of the vernacular in most Jewish homes. Today, that fragment is peppered in the conversation of Jews whenever a serious conversation is in progress. Sometimes, we even forget that the words are not really English!

            Some of the words and phrases have become, through literature, entertainment, and food, a part of the American language. A Wikipedia article lists over 100 such words. Examples include bagel, chutzpah, gelt, glitch, kibitz, kosher, lox, mensch, nebbish, schlep, schmooze, shalom, shamus, shtick, and tush. The level of penetration of these words can be demonstrated by the fact that my spell check recognized all but two of them!

            But some words and phrases are almost exclusively known and employed by Jews about my age. I have had several conversations with Jewish lawyers and clients which include a smattering of Yiddish and which sort of constitute a private language. However, since other people at our firm are often parties to these conversations, or are just exposed to my compulsion to employ some Yiddish from time to time, I have conducted a few Yiddish lessons in the office.

            Here are a few of the words and phrases I have tried to teach, or which find their way into my legal thought processes. My renderings in English may be subject to some debate.

            Kayn ahora – a reference to the Evil Eye, with similar impact to "knocking on wood."

            Meshugge – Crazy. Irrational behavior

            Gai gezunterhait – Go in good health!

            Gantser megilleh – Big deal (sarcastic).

            Get – A Jewish ritual divorce.

            Pareve – Neither meat nor dairy – can be eaten with either. Bland.

       Hock mir nicht kein chinik – One of my mother's favorites meaning, "Stop pestering me!" Literally, it means "Don't bang on my tea kettle!"

            Alter cocker – Grumpy, old person. Literally, an old fart.

       And then there is that certain type of client or attorney, known in the language of my grandparents as a Schmuck!

Buried Treasure

           One of the more difficult concepts to get some divorce clients to grasp is that facts need to be proven before the Court can act upon them. Merely believing, thinking, or suspecting that certain things are true just won't do. Where is the evidence? How can we establish the facts? These questions are constantly present when preparing for trial.

       Every divorce judge and lawyer has heard this lament: "I know he/she is hiding money somewhere." But saying it just doesn't make it so. Sometimes, forensic accounting can track down unaccounted-for funds, and sometimes a document shows up that provides the necessary proof. But, most often the client's conviction that he/she is being cheated just cannot be established with sufficient certainty to provide any sort of remedy to the wronged spouse.

            Hiding assets can have very serious consequences if proof is provided. Ohio has a statute that provides: "If a spouse has substantially and willfully failed to disclose marital property" the court can award the injured spouse a "greater award of marital property" up to three times the value of the non-disclosed property.

            But, no proof, no nothing!

While I was on the bench, I heard a contested divorce trial involving a well-to-do family. Husband and Wife had been married for well over thirty years and had two grown sons. Husband was an entrepreneur and had established a very successful business. Wife had never worked outside of her home. Husband handled all the family finances.

In the course of the case, Husband's business had been valued and wife was awarded half of that value, along with half of all the other assets. She also received a substantial amount of spousal support

            However, throughout the trial, Wife, through her lawyer, tried to convince me that there was a large amount of cash or some other assets which Husband had not revealed. Wife testified that Husband was very secretive about money, and she was excluded from any access to the marital funds. She claimed he had lied, cheated, and deceived her in every way possible, therefore, there had to be something he was hiding from her and her lawyer. But, I was presented with no evidence whatsoever from which I could conclude, on a factual basis, that any assets had been concealed.

            The parties owned two residences, and had lived separately for several years. Wife lived in the substantial home in an upscale suburb of Columbus, while Husband, having retired, spent his time in the deluxe beach home in Palm Beach, Florida, where he golfed and fished, and entertained a series of young ladies. The parties agreed that she would have the "big house" and he would have the Florida retreat.

When I wrote my decision, I noted the conflict over the allegation of concealed assets, but found that the evidence compelled a finding that all the assets were accounted for. The case ended on that note – almost.

One afternoon, Wife's lawyer called me. "I have a story to tell you," he said. He proceeded to relate the following tale:

A couple of years after the divorce was final, Husband suffered a series of heart attacks and was on his death bed when he summoned the parties' sons to his side. "Boys," he told them, "when I am gone, before you sell the beach house, step off twelve paces due south from the big palm tree by the pool. Dig there." Shortly thereafter, he passed away. The sons went together to the beach house, found a shovel, and dug as instructed.

About three feet down in the sandy soil they found a very heavy metal strong box. Breaking it open, they discovered that it was full of gold coins and small gold bars. The appraisal came back well over a half a million dollars. Husband's will left everything to his sons. The boys gave the gold to their mother, and her suspicions were finally vindicated.

Sometimes there really is a buried treasure.

Fuller Brush Man!

            I love pets. On my first birthday, Dad brought home a toy fox terrier mix. We named her Penny and she was my friend until she went to dog heaven while I was a freshman in college 17 years later. Donna and I found a cat when we had been married just a couple of weeks; we brought her home, named her Sooty, and have never been without at least one cat ever since. Right now, we have two. They are an important part of our family and we love them. So the events I am about to recount still haunt me to this day.

            Donna and I had been married less than a year and we were both undergrads at The Ohio State University. I looked for some kind of part-time job I could do to scratch up a little spending money. Answering a help wanted ad, I found myself taking a job as a Fuller Brush Man. After a couple hours of training, I went to work.

            For those of you who are of a different generation, door-to-door sales were commonplace when I was growing up and well into the 60's and early 70's.. We got our eggs, milk, and bread delivered to our homes. Salesmen called on housewives, selling everything from vacuum cleaners and pots and pans to encyclopedias. The Fuller Brush Man was a familiar figure, who came to the door to sell brushes (of course), brooms, and other grooming and household cleaning supplies.

            My assigned territory was in Clintonville. We were paid solely on commission – 15% of our sales. Carrying my 26 pound sample case, I walked from door to door for a few hours a couple afternoons a week when I didn't have class. I would walk up to a door, knock (we were trained not to use the doorbell), and, when the woman of the house came to the door, I would say "Fuller Brush Man" and hand her the free item we were giving away at that time, usually a vegetable brush, letter opener, or similar "door opener." About half of the time, I was invited into the house, to open my sample case and display the "featured products" of the month. If I got an order, I would deliver the merchandise the next week and collect the amount due.

            How times have changed. Today, very few people would so casually let a stranger into their home. And, as women have entered the work force in the last 40 years, most homes are empty in the afternoons. Of course, "big box" stores and online shopping drove the very last nails in the coffin of door-to-door sales.

            But, back in 1966, I was able to earn a modest but useful amount selling. The biggest day I ever had, I was walking up Indianola Avenue past a veterinary clinic, when a woman in a lab coat came running out, hollering, "Are you the Fuller Brush Man?" "Yes," I responded. She went on, "We have been looking for you. We need push brooms for the kennels. Can we order six?"

            Six push brooms! One of the highest priced items in the Fuller line! I wrote up the order and turned it in at the office. That week I got the biggest commission check ever. I think it was about $20.00, no small sum at the time.

            But, I had no idea that my last day as a Fuller Brush Man was fast approaching. That horrible day I knocked on the door of the large house on East North Broadway. A woman answered it, and invited me in, sample case in hand, almost before I got my greeting out. As I stepped into her front hall, a dark blur of fur shot toward me. Her dog, a spaniel sized long-hair, attacked, snarling and baring his teeth. Instinct seized me and I swung the sample case, slamming it into the side of the beast's head.

            My attacker fell over, its legs churning wildly, its eyes rolling back in its head. My hostess screamed, "You killed my dog! You killed my dog!!" "Lady," I replied, "not before he tried to rip off my leg!" I fled the house, found where I had parked my 1959 Volkswagen bug, drove directly to the Fuller office, turned in my sample case. "I quit!" were my last words as a Fuller Brush Man.

            I have thought about that poor dog many times. I sincerely hope that it recovered from my sample case assault. I try to convince myself that I was acting in self-defense and really had no other choice. But, I still feel pretty bad about the whole thing.