I’m a fifth generation U.S.A. citizen.  My mother’s family came from the Kingdom of Prussia and German was the spoken tongue.  Mom spoke only German until she was 6 years old when it became necessary to learn English in order to attend school.

So several years later I am born.  German only spoken when the adults don’t want the kids to know what’s going on.  The same situation with the Italians in town.  Seems like WWII is just around the corner and adults feel that anyone speaking German or Italian will be considered spies!  What a missed opportunity to learn a second language.

Now, years later … Mom and I are living together.  Not an ideal situation as we never seemed to “mesh” but we make the best of it.  One day we are in the kitchen when she reached into the silverware drawer and comes up with a fork.  Brandishing it in the air she turns to me and says “what is this?”

Good grief, I think she’s lost it!  I try to be calm and I say in my kindest voice, “It’s a fork, mom.”  “I know it’s a fork,” she says.  “So why did you ask me?”  I was puzzled.  “What is it in German?”  she replies.  “German?”  I am incredulous.  “I don’t speak German.”  “Well, it’s time you learned.  It’s a Gabel.”

“I don’t care if it’s a barn yard filled with turkeys.  I am not going to learn German!  You should have taught me when I was little.  I was a sponge then.  Now what am I going to do with one Gabel?  Maybe I could go to a fancy restaurant and fall in love with an exquisite Gabel or maybe the kids will give me one for my birthday present…”  I was on a roll and couldn’t shut up until I looked at my mother’s face.  It was darkening with anger.

Mom didn’t have a word to express displeasure but she did have a sound… HMPH… and down the hall she went to her room.  I heard the door close.  Years ago I was the one sent to my room but that didn’t work anymore so now mom went to her room to punish me.  She would emerge when she was good and ready or when she felt I had been punished enough.

I receive lots of catalogs in the mail and found a plaque in one that caught my fancy.  It was just right to hang on the kitchen wall and printed in Italian was “Mangia E Statto Zitto.”  The catalog claimed it was a polite way of saying, “Shut Up and Eat.”

At dinner that night mom spotted the plaque.  “New plague?” she asked?  “Uh, huh.”  I answered.  “What does it say?”  She was curious.  “It’s Italian,” I said.  “So?”  she prompted.  Without thinking I blurted out, “Shut up and eat.”  A big gasp took the place of the usual “HMPH.”  She headed down the hall to her room again.

“Ma,” I called to her.  “It really does mean ‘Shut up and eat.’  It’s Italian.”

“I don’t speak Italian,” was the last thing I heard over the closing of her door.  I was being punished again.

Oh, why couldn’t I be like Scarlet O’Hara when her world crashed?  Pick myself up and realize that tomorrow is another day.