Here is one of my favorite Christmas stories.
I was in Switzerland and Helena and I had gone to Lausanne to take in a performance of Verdi’s Nabucco. We were having dinner at a restaurant down the street from the theatre and during dinner Helena’s phone rang. It was her 9-year-old son Jeremy. He was distraught. Jeremy had some very bad news to tell his mother, but he had to be honest and he had to tell her.
“What is it, Jeremy,” Helena asked, her voice rising with concern.
I could not hear Jeremy’s side of the conversation, but what he told her was that he had been playing with his basketball in the house and the ball went into the crèche.
“Oh, no, Jeremy, what happened to the crèche?” Helena asked her son.
The ball knocked Jesus’s head off.
Oh, God, I thought, Jeremy decapitated Jesus.
I only heard Helena’s side of the conversation, in which she admonished Jeremy that he wasn’t supposed to be playing with the ball in the house and then she tried to tell Jeremy that maybe it could be fixed.
Then she said, “Jeremy it’s not good to have a Jesus without a head.”
Helena was being serious and sincere, but the comment and the way it sounded blew me away. I covered my mouth and laughed out of control and repeated soto voce, “Jeremy, it’s not good to have a Jesus without a head.”
Poor Helena was looking at me lose control and she was trying desperately to maintain her composure and was stifling a laugh. I heard her say, “No, Jeremy, I’m not crying. It’s ok. No, I’m not laughing.”
I tried. I really did.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Some Words to Consider
Some Words To Consider
As President Obama prepares to address the nation – and the world – to lay out his strategy toward Afghanistan, it would help to look back at a recent Bill Moyers show in which he looked back at Vietnam and the thought processes that President Lyndon Johnson went through at the time. The transcript of the program, which consisted almost entirely of audio tapes, is at:
http://www.pbs.org/moyers/journal/11202009/transcript1.html
But, Moyers concluded with:
Now in a different world, at a different time, and with a different president, we face the prospect of enlarging a different war. But once again we're fighting in remote provinces against an enemy who can bleed us slowly and wait us out, because he will still be there when we are gone.
Once again, we are caught between warring factions in a country where other foreign powers fail before us. Once again, every setback brings a call for more troops, although no one can say how long they will be there or what it means to win. Once again, the government we are trying to help is hopelessly corrupt and incompetent.
And once again, a President pushing for critical change at home is being pressured to stop dithering, be tough, show he's got the guts, by sending young people seven thousand miles from home to fight and die, while their own country is coming apart.
And once again, the loudest case for enlarging the war is being made by those who will not have to fight it, who will be safely in their beds while the war grinds on. And once again, a small circle of advisers debates the course of action, but one man will make the decision.
We will never know what would have happened if Lyndon Johnson had said no to more war. We know what happened because he said yes.
In a recent speech, Jim Leach, Chairman of the National Endowment for the Humanities, addressed incivility that is permeating the way members of Congress and politicians address one another and run for office. The transcript can be found at:
http://www.neh.gov/whoweare/speeches/11202009.html
But an important point he made:
Citizens of various philosophical persuasions are reflecting increased disrespect for fellow citizens and thus for modern day democratic governance. Much of the problem may flow from the fast-changing nature of our society which has so many destabilizing elements. But part falls at the feet of politicians and their supporters who use inflammatory rhetoric to divide the country. Candidates may prevail in elections by tearing down rather than uplifting, but if elected, they cannot then unite an angered citizenry. Negativity raises the temperature level of legislatures just as it dispirits the soul of society.
How timely as Switzerland votes to ban the construction of minarets. The vote came after a campaign of hate by the Swiss People’s Party. The New York Times editorialized the vote as “disgraceful” and a “vote for intolerance,” adding that if Switzerland’s “residents can succumb so easily to the propaganda of a xenophobic right-wing party, then countries with far greater Muslim populations and far more virulent strains of xenophobia best quickly start thinking about how to counter the trend. If left unchecked, xenophobia spreads fast. Already right-wingers in the Netherlands and Denmark have called for similar measures, and others are bound to be encouraged by the success of the Swiss People’s Party.”
And here we are, with hate and incivility and unexplained wars and mass murders in our own country and people standing by as a young girl is gang raped, our nation’s unemployment rate is in double digits with no relief in sight, divorces and suicides are at record levels among our military.
Isn’t it time for change?
As President Obama prepares to address the nation – and the world – to lay out his strategy toward Afghanistan, it would help to look back at a recent Bill Moyers show in which he looked back at Vietnam and the thought processes that President Lyndon Johnson went through at the time. The transcript of the program, which consisted almost entirely of audio tapes, is at:
http://www.pbs.org/moyers/journal/11202009/transcript1.html
But, Moyers concluded with:
Now in a different world, at a different time, and with a different president, we face the prospect of enlarging a different war. But once again we're fighting in remote provinces against an enemy who can bleed us slowly and wait us out, because he will still be there when we are gone.
Once again, we are caught between warring factions in a country where other foreign powers fail before us. Once again, every setback brings a call for more troops, although no one can say how long they will be there or what it means to win. Once again, the government we are trying to help is hopelessly corrupt and incompetent.
And once again, a President pushing for critical change at home is being pressured to stop dithering, be tough, show he's got the guts, by sending young people seven thousand miles from home to fight and die, while their own country is coming apart.
And once again, the loudest case for enlarging the war is being made by those who will not have to fight it, who will be safely in their beds while the war grinds on. And once again, a small circle of advisers debates the course of action, but one man will make the decision.
We will never know what would have happened if Lyndon Johnson had said no to more war. We know what happened because he said yes.
In a recent speech, Jim Leach, Chairman of the National Endowment for the Humanities, addressed incivility that is permeating the way members of Congress and politicians address one another and run for office. The transcript can be found at:
http://www.neh.gov/whoweare/speeches/11202009.html
But an important point he made:
Citizens of various philosophical persuasions are reflecting increased disrespect for fellow citizens and thus for modern day democratic governance. Much of the problem may flow from the fast-changing nature of our society which has so many destabilizing elements. But part falls at the feet of politicians and their supporters who use inflammatory rhetoric to divide the country. Candidates may prevail in elections by tearing down rather than uplifting, but if elected, they cannot then unite an angered citizenry. Negativity raises the temperature level of legislatures just as it dispirits the soul of society.
How timely as Switzerland votes to ban the construction of minarets. The vote came after a campaign of hate by the Swiss People’s Party. The New York Times editorialized the vote as “disgraceful” and a “vote for intolerance,” adding that if Switzerland’s “residents can succumb so easily to the propaganda of a xenophobic right-wing party, then countries with far greater Muslim populations and far more virulent strains of xenophobia best quickly start thinking about how to counter the trend. If left unchecked, xenophobia spreads fast. Already right-wingers in the Netherlands and Denmark have called for similar measures, and others are bound to be encouraged by the success of the Swiss People’s Party.”
And here we are, with hate and incivility and unexplained wars and mass murders in our own country and people standing by as a young girl is gang raped, our nation’s unemployment rate is in double digits with no relief in sight, divorces and suicides are at record levels among our military.
Isn’t it time for change?
Monday, November 9, 2009
Christmas in Berlin -- 1963
Twenty years ago, on November 9, 1989, the Wall that separated East and West Berlin was taken down, marking the reunification of East and West Germany.
Forty-six years ago, I spent Christmas on both sides of the Wall.
I had been working at the BMW factory in Munich and decided to take Christmas vacation in Berlin. I had arrived in Reutlingen, Germany, on June 27, 1963, a day after President John F. Kennedy delivered his "Ich bin ein Berliner" speech at the Berlin Wall and a day before my 20th birthday. The original plan was to work for a month in Germany and then return to the United States. But, while in Reutlingen, I had written the mayor of Munich who had arranged my job at the BMW plant in Munich.
I was working at the BMW plant when Kennedy was assassinated on November 22
-- the history of Kennedy's Berlin speech had been one reason I wanted to visit Berlin, which Kennedy referred to as "a defended island of freedom."
So, on Monday, December 23, I boarded a bus in the Munich Banhof at 5:30 a.m. for the 576 km or 358 mile journey to Berlin. The bus was freezing, with ice on the windows and in the toilet.
The trip was uneventful until we reached the first Soviet Zone at the East German border. The bus stopped and an armed brown-uniformed East German soldier boarded the bus and looked at all our passports. When he came to me, he looked at my U.S. passport and ordered me off the bus. I had a black beard and was dressed in black pants, a long black coat, a black scarf and a black woolen hat. Was there something sinister about my appearance? Or was it that I was the only American on the bus?
I followed the guard across a dirt yard to a yellow, one-story wooden structure where another guard looked at my passport, looked at me, looked back at the passport, asked for 10 deutschmarks for a visa, stamped my passport and sent me back to the bus.
At 6 p.m. we came to another checkpoint -- this time entering the West zone, where guards checked all vehicles inside and out. Once again, my passport was checked last, but this time without incident.
It was early evening when we arrived in West Berlin. I stepped off the bus and immediately felt I was someplace different. There was an atmosphere or an attitude in the air quite different from what I experienced in Munich.
Perhaps it was the "island of democracy" West Berlin surrounded by communist East Germany.
There were dramatic contrasts: brightly lit Christmas trees, apartment buildings with parts showing occupancy while other parts still showing evidence of World War II bombing, new structures adjacent to bomb ruins.
I asked my way to the Studentenheim -- a youth hostel -- where I got a room for 5 deutschmarks, equal to a little more than a dollar. Everybody in the Studentenheim spoke English.
On Christmas Eve, walking around West Berlin, I visited the famous Brandenburg Tur and checked out the Wall. At Potsdamer Platz, I climbed a platform and looked over the Wall into East Berlin. Potsdamer Platz before the war was one of the busiest and liveliest squares in Europe. Allied bombing during World War II left it in ruins, much of which remained on that day in 1963. I looked out across a no-man's land and took in a view that was perfect for the black and white film I had in my camera, since all I could see was black and white. Barbed wire and obstacles stretched across the bleak snow-covered terrain to the bombed-out buildings with gaping holes that had once been windows. Many buildings stood stark against a grey sky, entire walls missing, surrounded by rubble. The streets were empty, barren, bleak.
A sign erected high over the Wall reached out to the East Berliners: "Die Freie Berliner Press Meldet," or, "In Berlin the free press reports."
Under that was another sign wishing all, including those in East Berlin, "Frohe Weihnacht und ein besseres Neues Jahr" ("Merry Christmas and a better New Year").
There were other signs, printed in English, Russian, French and German informing people "You are leaving the American sector." I walked to Checkpoint Charlie, the scene of a dramatic standoff between American and Soviet tanks in 1961. Two armed soldiers manned the checkpoint, which displayed a picture of Kennedy, with a black sash across one top corner and "Mr. Praesident" underneath. Met a German man who said we should go to the East on Christmas Day.
On Christmas Day, I joined my new German friend and crossed into East Berlin aboard the S Banh. After going through passport check, we got separated so I was on my own.
The most people I saw all day were at the Banhof, where relatives and friends were seeing each other for the first time in years. The rest of the city was empty other than one rebuilt section. Bombed ruins were everywhere, very dirty, extremely quiet - a strange atmosphere. Everywhere I saw magazines and travel posters for Russia, Viet Nam, Korea and Hungary.
Propaganda pictures showed New York City slums, one of a man in filthy, ragged clothing slumped in a gutter. The caption said something to the effect that this is America.
Windows and doorways of buildings along the streets were bricked shut. The only sight I saw of Christmas was a small, skinny Christmas tree in a store
window.
After lunch in a small restaurant, I discovered I did not have enough East German money to pay and the waitress refused to take U.S. or West German money. But when she pointed to the pack of Marlboros in my pocket, I offered them to her and she indicated I had paid for my meal.
I saw signs, "For freedom and socialism our way is right" and "Die Republik braucht alle -- alle brauchen die Republik!" -- "The Republic needs all -- all need the Republic," referring to the Deutsche Demokratische Republik, or the German Democratic Republic.
I wandered some more, having no idea where I was or where I was headed -- just walking and taking in the atmosphere. At one point, I walked down a narrow side street when I saw a group of soldiers. I walked past them and another soldier walked toward me. He greeted me with "Guten Tag," which I returned. We passed each other and I continued down the street when I heard yelling in the distance. The soldier turned and yelled at me: "Vorsicht.
Halt. Eintritt ist verboten." "Caution. Stop. Entry is forbidden." It was then that I saw I was within less than 100 yards of the Wall. I made a hasty about-face, deciding it was time for this young man to go West, so I returned to West Berlin. I learned later that day that a youth had been shot attempting to escape into the West.
Back at the hostel, I spent the evening with students in a private party, eating, drinking, and listening to music. They surprised me by asking me to read a chapter in English from the book I had with me -- "To Kill a Mockingbird."
Surrounded by new-found friends in the warmth of the youth hostel, I was reminded of the earlier image I had of a lone woman in East Berlin walking in the middle of an otherwise empty street lined by brick-shuttered buildings on Christmas Day.
Forty-six years ago, I spent Christmas on both sides of the Wall.
I had been working at the BMW factory in Munich and decided to take Christmas vacation in Berlin. I had arrived in Reutlingen, Germany, on June 27, 1963, a day after President John F. Kennedy delivered his "Ich bin ein Berliner" speech at the Berlin Wall and a day before my 20th birthday. The original plan was to work for a month in Germany and then return to the United States. But, while in Reutlingen, I had written the mayor of Munich who had arranged my job at the BMW plant in Munich.
I was working at the BMW plant when Kennedy was assassinated on November 22
-- the history of Kennedy's Berlin speech had been one reason I wanted to visit Berlin, which Kennedy referred to as "a defended island of freedom."
So, on Monday, December 23, I boarded a bus in the Munich Banhof at 5:30 a.m. for the 576 km or 358 mile journey to Berlin. The bus was freezing, with ice on the windows and in the toilet.
The trip was uneventful until we reached the first Soviet Zone at the East German border. The bus stopped and an armed brown-uniformed East German soldier boarded the bus and looked at all our passports. When he came to me, he looked at my U.S. passport and ordered me off the bus. I had a black beard and was dressed in black pants, a long black coat, a black scarf and a black woolen hat. Was there something sinister about my appearance? Or was it that I was the only American on the bus?
I followed the guard across a dirt yard to a yellow, one-story wooden structure where another guard looked at my passport, looked at me, looked back at the passport, asked for 10 deutschmarks for a visa, stamped my passport and sent me back to the bus.
At 6 p.m. we came to another checkpoint -- this time entering the West zone, where guards checked all vehicles inside and out. Once again, my passport was checked last, but this time without incident.
It was early evening when we arrived in West Berlin. I stepped off the bus and immediately felt I was someplace different. There was an atmosphere or an attitude in the air quite different from what I experienced in Munich.
Perhaps it was the "island of democracy" West Berlin surrounded by communist East Germany.
There were dramatic contrasts: brightly lit Christmas trees, apartment buildings with parts showing occupancy while other parts still showing evidence of World War II bombing, new structures adjacent to bomb ruins.
I asked my way to the Studentenheim -- a youth hostel -- where I got a room for 5 deutschmarks, equal to a little more than a dollar. Everybody in the Studentenheim spoke English.
On Christmas Eve, walking around West Berlin, I visited the famous Brandenburg Tur and checked out the Wall. At Potsdamer Platz, I climbed a platform and looked over the Wall into East Berlin. Potsdamer Platz before the war was one of the busiest and liveliest squares in Europe. Allied bombing during World War II left it in ruins, much of which remained on that day in 1963. I looked out across a no-man's land and took in a view that was perfect for the black and white film I had in my camera, since all I could see was black and white. Barbed wire and obstacles stretched across the bleak snow-covered terrain to the bombed-out buildings with gaping holes that had once been windows. Many buildings stood stark against a grey sky, entire walls missing, surrounded by rubble. The streets were empty, barren, bleak.
A sign erected high over the Wall reached out to the East Berliners: "Die Freie Berliner Press Meldet," or, "In Berlin the free press reports."
Under that was another sign wishing all, including those in East Berlin, "Frohe Weihnacht und ein besseres Neues Jahr" ("Merry Christmas and a better New Year").
There were other signs, printed in English, Russian, French and German informing people "You are leaving the American sector." I walked to Checkpoint Charlie, the scene of a dramatic standoff between American and Soviet tanks in 1961. Two armed soldiers manned the checkpoint, which displayed a picture of Kennedy, with a black sash across one top corner and "Mr. Praesident" underneath. Met a German man who said we should go to the East on Christmas Day.
On Christmas Day, I joined my new German friend and crossed into East Berlin aboard the S Banh. After going through passport check, we got separated so I was on my own.
The most people I saw all day were at the Banhof, where relatives and friends were seeing each other for the first time in years. The rest of the city was empty other than one rebuilt section. Bombed ruins were everywhere, very dirty, extremely quiet - a strange atmosphere. Everywhere I saw magazines and travel posters for Russia, Viet Nam, Korea and Hungary.
Propaganda pictures showed New York City slums, one of a man in filthy, ragged clothing slumped in a gutter. The caption said something to the effect that this is America.
Windows and doorways of buildings along the streets were bricked shut. The only sight I saw of Christmas was a small, skinny Christmas tree in a store
window.
After lunch in a small restaurant, I discovered I did not have enough East German money to pay and the waitress refused to take U.S. or West German money. But when she pointed to the pack of Marlboros in my pocket, I offered them to her and she indicated I had paid for my meal.
I saw signs, "For freedom and socialism our way is right" and "Die Republik braucht alle -- alle brauchen die Republik!" -- "The Republic needs all -- all need the Republic," referring to the Deutsche Demokratische Republik, or the German Democratic Republic.
I wandered some more, having no idea where I was or where I was headed -- just walking and taking in the atmosphere. At one point, I walked down a narrow side street when I saw a group of soldiers. I walked past them and another soldier walked toward me. He greeted me with "Guten Tag," which I returned. We passed each other and I continued down the street when I heard yelling in the distance. The soldier turned and yelled at me: "Vorsicht.
Halt. Eintritt ist verboten." "Caution. Stop. Entry is forbidden." It was then that I saw I was within less than 100 yards of the Wall. I made a hasty about-face, deciding it was time for this young man to go West, so I returned to West Berlin. I learned later that day that a youth had been shot attempting to escape into the West.
Back at the hostel, I spent the evening with students in a private party, eating, drinking, and listening to music. They surprised me by asking me to read a chapter in English from the book I had with me -- "To Kill a Mockingbird."
Surrounded by new-found friends in the warmth of the youth hostel, I was reminded of the earlier image I had of a lone woman in East Berlin walking in the middle of an otherwise empty street lined by brick-shuttered buildings on Christmas Day.
Monday, November 2, 2009
looking back to Germany
I was getting nostalgic and dug up the first newspaper stories I had written -- back when I was a 20-year-old floating around Germany working in restaurants and factories. I wrote my experiences for the Marin Independent Journal. Could have used some editing, for sure, but here they are:
Independent-Journal, Friday, July 19, 1963
HARD WORK
Youth Describes Life In Germany
By David Rosso
I work in a spulen and hulsen factory, which makes spools and bobbins for textiles, with Donald Light of Fairfax and Dennis Fitch of San Francisco.
The work is long and dull. We walk to the factory to begin work at 6:30 a.m. and finish at 5:30 p.m. All day we operate machines to mold, sort, cap and package spools, bobbins and flyers to be sued by textile factories around the world. The factory is bog, dark and dirty.
However, it is fascinating to work with people from all over the world. The people we work and talk with represent France, Germany, Italy, Yugoslavia, Greece, Algeria, Persia, Turkey and Egypt.
As soon as the people at the factory heard I was an American, they said, “Kennedy!” The German people love him. They describe him with one word, “prima.”
After we finish work, we head for home, or the Kolpinghaus, where students from all of Europe live. I room with a Yugoslav and two Frenchmen. We speak in German, English and a little French and Yugoslav.
One unfortunate incident has arisen. A Negro from Nigeria refuses to speak to Americans because of the American race riots. There is no communicating with him.
Before I left the United States I was told of the great German food. On a limited budget, I have failed to find any. I don’t think a day has gone by when we haven’t had noodles for a meal. Wurst, beer, bread, cheese and noodles make up a meal.
The factory employees have a taste for warm beer which I have yet to acquire. During work they soak their beer bottles in warm water.
Prices for food vary. At Kolpinghaus we pay $1.25 for 21 meals, including the continental breakfast of bread, butter, marmalade and warm milk or coffee. At the factory we have five hot lunches for a total of about 87 cents.
Milk is about eight cents a half liter and beer is 13 cents a quart. A good meal in the town costs about $2. Most desserts are expensive and very rich.
We have found a café which is frequented by the younger set for dancing. American music is very popular, as is the twist. The bossa nova has come and gone but the Madison has survived. The Germans were very anxious to learn the American version of the “tweest.”
No date
AFTER 12,000 SPUDS
Marin Youth Washes Dishes In Germany
By David Rosso
I was standing all alone in the crowded Munich railroad station about to search for a room and a job. Two weeks later I found a room, but finding a job was much easier.
I started as a potato peeler in a restaurant. Four days and 12,000 potatoes later I started washing dishes for a restaurant. Here I have a room, four meals a day and enough money to get on my feet after having had to spend it on expensive hotels while looking for a permanent room.
Nothing need be said about the work. Washing dishes is washing dishes wherever you are. But the room is very interesting. I live with two Germans in a run-down room behind the restaurant. There is no hot water, no toilet and no heat except from a small pot-bellied stove.
I will work at this job until I begin my regular job at the Bayerishe Motorwerke AG (BMW) which I got by writing to the mayor of Munich.
I saw much of Munich while looking for a room; there is too much to say about it and an amateur’s description would not do it justice. Munich never sleeps as tourists and students constantly come and go. I plan to use the entire year to see all of the many art, history and science museums.
One of the most impressive sights of the city is Munich’s Leopold Street in the Schwabing area. This is an existentialist section where the students display a nightly exhibit of their art. The sidewalks are lined with candle-illuminated paintings, copperware and pottery.
The city is much too great for casual analysis. Now I can only say that Munich is a city with much American influence, hourly bell-tolling, many cathedrals, museums and flowing beer.
Oct. 3, 1963
‘PROST’ IS WORD
Marin Youth Tells Of Fest In Germany
By David Rosso
MUNICH – For three weeks the fest will bring in people and pour out millions of liters of beer. Last year three and one half million liters of beer were consumed in the many beer halls set up at the edge of the mile-long fairgrounds.
There are numerous side shows, booths of chance and restaurants, much like any other state fair, but the beer halls are like something I have never seen before.
They are packed with persons from many nations, all celebrating as one. The magic word is “prost.”
One can always join in table-top dancing, sing German drinking songs or simply prost a perfect stranger who will at once become your close friend.
In one night I drank with Germans, talked with Frenchmen, argued the merits of the Giants with students from Los Angeles and sang with Canadians.
The parade which officially opened the fest lasted for 90 minutes. Even at the end it seemed to continue as the crowd fell in behind the marchers and choked the streets leading to the parade grounds.
The warm spirit of the fest has failed to take the edge off the cold winds which are promising a long winter in Germany. For the past week the temperatures have never climbed above 65 degrees and there has been some cold rain.
(The editor’s note did say I was describing the Octoberfest)
Nov. 25, 1963
Marin Youth Tells About Living Costs In Germany
By Dave Rosso
West Germany’s money, the Deutsche mark, is worth about 25 cents in U.S. value, and living here in Munich is very good at this rate if you are living on the American economy.
A good steak dinner costs six marks, or the equivalent of $1.50, which is well and good, except that, unfortunately, all the money I make is in marks, coming from a factory here in which I work.
The same steak, then, in my “new currency,” costs me two hours of working at drilling metal.
Too, when I received my paycheck, I discovered that 25 percent of my earnings went to the Bundes Republic. From the remainder, it cost 30 percent for rent, 10 percent for transportation, seven for food, and every other cent for whatever travel I’ve done around Europe.
However, the taxes do include free medical services for me at the factory clinic, service including most everything from pills to eye glasses.
The factory workers here are surprised to see me, an American, working in their factory. The image of the American with streets lined with gold dies hard. The only way I can answer their questions is that I’m working here “because I am a student.” This they understand.
A major tax is housing and land. Apartments are being erected everywhere and are inhabited as quickly as they are finished. Nonetheless, there exists a housing shortage here.
Laundromats, a relatively new business in Germany, cost about the same as in the U.S., but haircuts cost only about 75 cents. A turkey for Thanksgiving, however, will cost as high as $8.
I hope to have an article on Christmas in East Berlin.
Independent-Journal, Friday, July 19, 1963
HARD WORK
Youth Describes Life In Germany
By David Rosso
I work in a spulen and hulsen factory, which makes spools and bobbins for textiles, with Donald Light of Fairfax and Dennis Fitch of San Francisco.
The work is long and dull. We walk to the factory to begin work at 6:30 a.m. and finish at 5:30 p.m. All day we operate machines to mold, sort, cap and package spools, bobbins and flyers to be sued by textile factories around the world. The factory is bog, dark and dirty.
However, it is fascinating to work with people from all over the world. The people we work and talk with represent France, Germany, Italy, Yugoslavia, Greece, Algeria, Persia, Turkey and Egypt.
As soon as the people at the factory heard I was an American, they said, “Kennedy!” The German people love him. They describe him with one word, “prima.”
After we finish work, we head for home, or the Kolpinghaus, where students from all of Europe live. I room with a Yugoslav and two Frenchmen. We speak in German, English and a little French and Yugoslav.
One unfortunate incident has arisen. A Negro from Nigeria refuses to speak to Americans because of the American race riots. There is no communicating with him.
Before I left the United States I was told of the great German food. On a limited budget, I have failed to find any. I don’t think a day has gone by when we haven’t had noodles for a meal. Wurst, beer, bread, cheese and noodles make up a meal.
The factory employees have a taste for warm beer which I have yet to acquire. During work they soak their beer bottles in warm water.
Prices for food vary. At Kolpinghaus we pay $1.25 for 21 meals, including the continental breakfast of bread, butter, marmalade and warm milk or coffee. At the factory we have five hot lunches for a total of about 87 cents.
Milk is about eight cents a half liter and beer is 13 cents a quart. A good meal in the town costs about $2. Most desserts are expensive and very rich.
We have found a café which is frequented by the younger set for dancing. American music is very popular, as is the twist. The bossa nova has come and gone but the Madison has survived. The Germans were very anxious to learn the American version of the “tweest.”
No date
AFTER 12,000 SPUDS
Marin Youth Washes Dishes In Germany
By David Rosso
I was standing all alone in the crowded Munich railroad station about to search for a room and a job. Two weeks later I found a room, but finding a job was much easier.
I started as a potato peeler in a restaurant. Four days and 12,000 potatoes later I started washing dishes for a restaurant. Here I have a room, four meals a day and enough money to get on my feet after having had to spend it on expensive hotels while looking for a permanent room.
Nothing need be said about the work. Washing dishes is washing dishes wherever you are. But the room is very interesting. I live with two Germans in a run-down room behind the restaurant. There is no hot water, no toilet and no heat except from a small pot-bellied stove.
I will work at this job until I begin my regular job at the Bayerishe Motorwerke AG (BMW) which I got by writing to the mayor of Munich.
I saw much of Munich while looking for a room; there is too much to say about it and an amateur’s description would not do it justice. Munich never sleeps as tourists and students constantly come and go. I plan to use the entire year to see all of the many art, history and science museums.
One of the most impressive sights of the city is Munich’s Leopold Street in the Schwabing area. This is an existentialist section where the students display a nightly exhibit of their art. The sidewalks are lined with candle-illuminated paintings, copperware and pottery.
The city is much too great for casual analysis. Now I can only say that Munich is a city with much American influence, hourly bell-tolling, many cathedrals, museums and flowing beer.
Oct. 3, 1963
‘PROST’ IS WORD
Marin Youth Tells Of Fest In Germany
By David Rosso
MUNICH – For three weeks the fest will bring in people and pour out millions of liters of beer. Last year three and one half million liters of beer were consumed in the many beer halls set up at the edge of the mile-long fairgrounds.
There are numerous side shows, booths of chance and restaurants, much like any other state fair, but the beer halls are like something I have never seen before.
They are packed with persons from many nations, all celebrating as one. The magic word is “prost.”
One can always join in table-top dancing, sing German drinking songs or simply prost a perfect stranger who will at once become your close friend.
In one night I drank with Germans, talked with Frenchmen, argued the merits of the Giants with students from Los Angeles and sang with Canadians.
The parade which officially opened the fest lasted for 90 minutes. Even at the end it seemed to continue as the crowd fell in behind the marchers and choked the streets leading to the parade grounds.
The warm spirit of the fest has failed to take the edge off the cold winds which are promising a long winter in Germany. For the past week the temperatures have never climbed above 65 degrees and there has been some cold rain.
(The editor’s note did say I was describing the Octoberfest)
Nov. 25, 1963
Marin Youth Tells About Living Costs In Germany
By Dave Rosso
West Germany’s money, the Deutsche mark, is worth about 25 cents in U.S. value, and living here in Munich is very good at this rate if you are living on the American economy.
A good steak dinner costs six marks, or the equivalent of $1.50, which is well and good, except that, unfortunately, all the money I make is in marks, coming from a factory here in which I work.
The same steak, then, in my “new currency,” costs me two hours of working at drilling metal.
Too, when I received my paycheck, I discovered that 25 percent of my earnings went to the Bundes Republic. From the remainder, it cost 30 percent for rent, 10 percent for transportation, seven for food, and every other cent for whatever travel I’ve done around Europe.
However, the taxes do include free medical services for me at the factory clinic, service including most everything from pills to eye glasses.
The factory workers here are surprised to see me, an American, working in their factory. The image of the American with streets lined with gold dies hard. The only way I can answer their questions is that I’m working here “because I am a student.” This they understand.
A major tax is housing and land. Apartments are being erected everywhere and are inhabited as quickly as they are finished. Nonetheless, there exists a housing shortage here.
Laundromats, a relatively new business in Germany, cost about the same as in the U.S., but haircuts cost only about 75 cents. A turkey for Thanksgiving, however, will cost as high as $8.
I hope to have an article on Christmas in East Berlin.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
looking back
Back in 1992, when United Press International looked like it was about to close its doors, Paul Hendrickson did a lengthy piece about us for The Washington Post. He interviewed me for the piece and my part went like this:
Rosso's talking. Rosso's big and beefy and bearded. He came to work today in tennis shoes and a black nylon jacket. His full name is Dave Rosso but all anyone ever seems to call him is "Rosso." Maybe his wife calls him that. He's the Washington news editor. Nice guy.
"I can read the tea leaves," he says, "but I want to stay, I want to keep the dream alive."
He's been a Unipresser for 22 years. Started out on the switchboard. Took him 17 years to get off weekends. Was in at 6 this morning. That bad day in 1970 when Merriman Smith shot himself, Rosso was just a greenhorn manning the phones. He worked double shifts. He wrote across the top of the overtime slip, "Death in the family."
"I love the process," he says. "I really do." I can't describe it beyond that. I take the stuff home to my wife. I show her what the guy reported and what I did to fix it, and both of us working like crazy, and she'll say, 'Mmmm, I kind of like that one better.' Wrong!"
Once he had Unipressers all over town phoning in stuff. Now there are two on the Hill, one at State, one at the Supreme Court, three at the White House. One guy covers Treasury, Commerce, Labor all by himself. Lonely guy.
Almost blithely: "Oh, we've been fed stories (by management) over the years: 'We need these cuts out of you now, but we will bring it back up.' It never comes back up, not all the way."
Then: "I don't know who we're feeding copy to. I don't have any idea. We're in the information business. And we're working in an information vacuum."
So you're doing your job every day --
"That's right," he cuts in. "With no (expletive) idea if anybody's reading it."
More of this. A broad-shouldered semi-profane man who's dressed like a trucker wipes a tear with his thumb. He grooves his thumb down the ridge of his nose. "Didn't know it would get to me," he says, caught between the tear and some more laughing. He goes into a story. "Over a year ago we lost a couple hundred all at once. Big pink slip orgy. I saw a message come across, 'There's going to be a big party in Dallas.' And these were names I'd dealt with over the message wire for years. I told my wife, 'We're flying to Dallas.' No way could we afford to fly to Dallas. So we flew to Dallas. There were about 50 people at this party. Names. Names. Names from the message wire. I was putting faces with names. It was like a reunion with people I'd never met."
Did you cry?
"Nope," Rosso says. "But it was a rough ride home the next day."
Rosso's talking. Rosso's big and beefy and bearded. He came to work today in tennis shoes and a black nylon jacket. His full name is Dave Rosso but all anyone ever seems to call him is "Rosso." Maybe his wife calls him that. He's the Washington news editor. Nice guy.
"I can read the tea leaves," he says, "but I want to stay, I want to keep the dream alive."
He's been a Unipresser for 22 years. Started out on the switchboard. Took him 17 years to get off weekends. Was in at 6 this morning. That bad day in 1970 when Merriman Smith shot himself, Rosso was just a greenhorn manning the phones. He worked double shifts. He wrote across the top of the overtime slip, "Death in the family."
"I love the process," he says. "I really do." I can't describe it beyond that. I take the stuff home to my wife. I show her what the guy reported and what I did to fix it, and both of us working like crazy, and she'll say, 'Mmmm, I kind of like that one better.' Wrong!"
Once he had Unipressers all over town phoning in stuff. Now there are two on the Hill, one at State, one at the Supreme Court, three at the White House. One guy covers Treasury, Commerce, Labor all by himself. Lonely guy.
Almost blithely: "Oh, we've been fed stories (by management) over the years: 'We need these cuts out of you now, but we will bring it back up.' It never comes back up, not all the way."
Then: "I don't know who we're feeding copy to. I don't have any idea. We're in the information business. And we're working in an information vacuum."
So you're doing your job every day --
"That's right," he cuts in. "With no (expletive) idea if anybody's reading it."
More of this. A broad-shouldered semi-profane man who's dressed like a trucker wipes a tear with his thumb. He grooves his thumb down the ridge of his nose. "Didn't know it would get to me," he says, caught between the tear and some more laughing. He goes into a story. "Over a year ago we lost a couple hundred all at once. Big pink slip orgy. I saw a message come across, 'There's going to be a big party in Dallas.' And these were names I'd dealt with over the message wire for years. I told my wife, 'We're flying to Dallas.' No way could we afford to fly to Dallas. So we flew to Dallas. There were about 50 people at this party. Names. Names. Names from the message wire. I was putting faces with names. It was like a reunion with people I'd never met."
Did you cry?
"Nope," Rosso says. "But it was a rough ride home the next day."
good ol' days journalism
Many, many years ago - don't bother asking how many - I did a story about testing of a weapon and the research drew me to a story in history that sent me to the Library of Congress and a gem that I copied and kept for the pure hysterics of how it was written. I have since forgotten the reason for the original story, but will share this from Thursday, Feb. 29, 1844, that begins with this headline:
MOST AWFUL AND MOST LAMENTABLE CATASTROPHE!
Followed by this subhead:
INSTANTANEOUS DEATH, BY THE BURSTING OF ONE OF THE LARGE GUNS ON BOARD THE UNITED STATES SHIP PRINCETON, OF SECRETARY UPSHUR, SECRETARY GILMER, COMMODORE KENNON, & VIRGIL MAXCY, Esq.
Then the story. But, first, the fact that the president of the United States was also on board the USS Princeton is not mentioned until deep into the second graph and then he isn't named.
Here then is the text of most of the story as it was printed with its italics and caps:
In the whole course of our lives it has never fallen to our lot to announce to our readers a more shocking calamity --- shocking in all its circumstances and concomitants - than that which occurred on board the United States Ship Princeton, yesterday afternoon, whilst under way, in the river Potomac, fourteen or fifteen miles below this city.
Yesterday was a day appointed, by the courtesy and hospitality of Capt.
STOCKTON, Commander of the Princeton, for receiving as visitors to his fine ship (lying off Alexandria) a great number of guests, with their families, liberally and numerously invited to spend the day on board. The day was most favorable, and the company was large and brilliant, of both sexes; not less probably in number than four hundred, among who were the President of the United States, the Heads of the several Departments, and their families. At a proper hour, after the arrival of the expected guests, the vessel got under way and proceeded down the river, to some distance below Fort Washington. During the passage down, one of the large guns on board (carrying a ball of 225 pounds) was fired more than once, exhibiting the great power and capacity of that formidable weapon of war. The Ladies had partaken of a sumptuous repast; the gentlemen had succeeded them at the table, and some of them had left it; the vessel was on her return up the river, opposite to the fort, where Capt. STOCKTON consented to fire another shot from the same gun, around and near which, to observe its effects, many persons had gathered, though by no means so many as on similar discharges in the morning, the ladies who then thronged the deck being on this fatal occasion almost all between decks, and out of reach of harm.
The gun was fired. The explosion was followed, before the smoke cleared away so as to observe its effect, by shrieks of wo which announced a dire calamity. The gun had burst, at a point three or four feet from the breech, and scattered death and desolation around. Mr. Upshur, Secretary of State, Mr.
Gilmer, so recently placed at the head of the Navy, Commodore Kennon, one of its gallant officers... (it named a number of others) were among the slain.
Besides these, seventeen seamen were wounded, several of them badly and probably mortally.
The story continues until this:
The scene upon the deck may more easily be imagined than described. Nor can the imagination picture to itself the half of its horrors. Wives widowed in an instant by the murderous blast! Daughters smitten with the heart-rending sight of their father's lifeless corpse! The wailings of agonized females!
The piteous grief of the unhurt but heart-stricken spectators! The wounded seamen borne down below! The silent tears and quivering lips of their brave and honest comrades, who tried in vain to subdue or to conceal their feelings! What words can adequately depict a scene like this?
No word in this story about the fate of the president - still unnamed! Oh, the president? John Tyler, who married Julia Gardiner, daughter of David Gardiner, who was killed aboard the Princeton.
MOST AWFUL AND MOST LAMENTABLE CATASTROPHE!
Followed by this subhead:
INSTANTANEOUS DEATH, BY THE BURSTING OF ONE OF THE LARGE GUNS ON BOARD THE UNITED STATES SHIP PRINCETON, OF SECRETARY UPSHUR, SECRETARY GILMER, COMMODORE KENNON, & VIRGIL MAXCY, Esq.
Then the story. But, first, the fact that the president of the United States was also on board the USS Princeton is not mentioned until deep into the second graph and then he isn't named.
Here then is the text of most of the story as it was printed with its italics and caps:
In the whole course of our lives it has never fallen to our lot to announce to our readers a more shocking calamity --- shocking in all its circumstances and concomitants - than that which occurred on board the United States Ship Princeton, yesterday afternoon, whilst under way, in the river Potomac, fourteen or fifteen miles below this city.
Yesterday was a day appointed, by the courtesy and hospitality of Capt.
STOCKTON, Commander of the Princeton, for receiving as visitors to his fine ship (lying off Alexandria) a great number of guests, with their families, liberally and numerously invited to spend the day on board. The day was most favorable, and the company was large and brilliant, of both sexes; not less probably in number than four hundred, among who were the President of the United States, the Heads of the several Departments, and their families. At a proper hour, after the arrival of the expected guests, the vessel got under way and proceeded down the river, to some distance below Fort Washington. During the passage down, one of the large guns on board (carrying a ball of 225 pounds) was fired more than once, exhibiting the great power and capacity of that formidable weapon of war. The Ladies had partaken of a sumptuous repast; the gentlemen had succeeded them at the table, and some of them had left it; the vessel was on her return up the river, opposite to the fort, where Capt. STOCKTON consented to fire another shot from the same gun, around and near which, to observe its effects, many persons had gathered, though by no means so many as on similar discharges in the morning, the ladies who then thronged the deck being on this fatal occasion almost all between decks, and out of reach of harm.
The gun was fired. The explosion was followed, before the smoke cleared away so as to observe its effect, by shrieks of wo which announced a dire calamity. The gun had burst, at a point three or four feet from the breech, and scattered death and desolation around. Mr. Upshur, Secretary of State, Mr.
Gilmer, so recently placed at the head of the Navy, Commodore Kennon, one of its gallant officers... (it named a number of others) were among the slain.
Besides these, seventeen seamen were wounded, several of them badly and probably mortally.
The story continues until this:
The scene upon the deck may more easily be imagined than described. Nor can the imagination picture to itself the half of its horrors. Wives widowed in an instant by the murderous blast! Daughters smitten with the heart-rending sight of their father's lifeless corpse! The wailings of agonized females!
The piteous grief of the unhurt but heart-stricken spectators! The wounded seamen borne down below! The silent tears and quivering lips of their brave and honest comrades, who tried in vain to subdue or to conceal their feelings! What words can adequately depict a scene like this?
No word in this story about the fate of the president - still unnamed! Oh, the president? John Tyler, who married Julia Gardiner, daughter of David Gardiner, who was killed aboard the Princeton.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Poor Zero
Consider the zero. Not the oh, the zero. We say oh. We say our phone number is 555-6-oh-5-2-1. We hardly ever say 5-5-5-6-zero-5-2-1. When we learn to count, we learn one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Did we ever say zero? The only time that figure shows up is with ten and then we say ten, not, t-zero and then 20, 30, 40, on to 100. And zero never enters into it. When we learn the alphabet, it is a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, I, j, k, l, m, n, o, p, and on. We say oh, not zero. My ZIP code is 955-oh-3. My are code is 7-OH-7. I never say 955-zero-3 or 7-zero-7.
Poor zero!
Poor zero!
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