Editor’s note: This column was written last August. Her 20-year-old son is back and has a completely inappropriate taste for beer.



Ach du lieber! My child leaves for a semester in Germany on Saturday. He doesn’t speak a word of German yet, although I have tried my best to teach him a thing or two, which wasn’t really much.

Somewhere deep in the folds of my aging brain lies three years of German language acquisition. It’s buried 46 years deep, but even if I could drag it all out, I don’t think I could yet conjugate a verb. However, I understood enough to hang out with the German 12-year-olds in my off-base community of Landstuhl. I then suffered through two more years of regular German classes offered after school with Herr Vanderveer.

Moreover, we were in southern Germany, known as Bavaria. We came to learn that the German spoken there was considered by many to be “countrified,” rather like English in, maybe, the Smokey Mountains or the Deep South. Since my son is going to Dresden, in far northeastern Deutschland, I fear he would be considered a hick should he have actually absorbed any of the few phrases I have thrown at him lately. He tends to just laugh at my efforts, however, so his slate is still clean.

Basically, I can read it better than speak it and speak it better than I understand it spoken to me. By read it, I mean street signs and menus, not Franz Kafka. The last time I tried, I was able to figure out what bus went where and get back to our hotel. And I never go hungry. I love German food, and so have remained particularly familiar with Kasseler ripchen, kartoffelpuffer, spatzle and kraut. Don’t forget the bockwurst and brautwurst. I am also a big fan of kaffee mit schlag (coffee with whipped cream on top) mit kuchen. I love both Reisling and Rhein wines, but I don’t like beer, which is rather a shame, I’m told.

Another problem is that when I try to resuscitate the handful of German I sort of remember, it gets terribly tangled up with my six years of Spanish. I’ll go along smoothly until I can’t recall some specific German word, and before I can apply myself to coming up with it, the Spanish equivalent pops into my head. That thoroughly defeats my fantasy that I could have spoken six languages had I applied myself.

But I do remember the words to several German Christmas carols which remain my absolute favorites. Also, I will never forget “Mein Hut hat es drei Ecken,” a really swell song about a hat that we sang over and over in German class. I remember “Wo ist die bahnhof?” and “Es macht nicht (It doesn’t matter). Of course, in the ’60s when it was not such an ethnic slur, the Americans slanged it up to “Mox Nix.” I’ve still got “Kommen sie hier, bitte.” und “Was ist los?” und “Wie gehen sie?” And for dazzle, I throw out “Ist das nicht wahr?” And I never stopped calling my mom “Muti.” You can’t tell here, but my accent is sehr gut.

Nonetheless, I know my child will have far more to laugh at me about when he returns from four months of language immersion. But, mox nix. I will always be die Wunder Muti and he will always be miene dummkopf jungen.

Auf wiedersehen, meine guten leser — oh, y adios, tambien.