Adolf Hitler was the most...

influential man in my life.

Now before you go “goose stepping” to conclusions, allow me to explain. 

If not for the World’s undisputed champion of death, destruction and evil there wouldn’t  have been a Holocaust. There wouldn’t have been a reason for Szyja Sambor from Byzaziny, Poland to get on a slow boat from Europe to immigrate to America. The same can be said for my Mother Clara Zinn of Vienna, Austria. My parents left their family and friends behind for one and only one reason. Leave or be murdered in a precision German engineered manner. 

Without their Great Escape to the Bronx, Sid wouldn’t have had the chance to ask Clara out on a blind date.  Post WW II, this short cute couple married. In the span of six years  Allan, Micheal and Jeffrey were born. (We were all named after family members killed in the Holocaust.) 

All these events due to an angry white demagogue rising to power while overcoming Germany’s system of Constitutional checks and balances. Without Deh Fufrer, there wouldn’t have been a Holocaust and hence no little Sambur’s

So...Hitler was influential to me, but not in a good way. 

On April 30th, 1945 the German Dictator performed his one and only good deed. He swallowed a cyanide tablet and then inhaled a bullet. The spell he cast over his people was broken. The war in Europe ended eight days later. When his supporters were pressed for an answer to the ultimate “What the F—k were you thinking?” Their response was lame and inexcusable. “We were just following orders.” 

When the final tally of WW II was taken 70-85 million humans perished as a result of one madman. 

I grew up with the awareness that anti-semitism existed throughout the World. On numerous occasions I experienced it first hand in the US. Sure it upset me. But I shrugged it off in the belief these folks were in the minority instead of the rule. I went about my business of being a tax paying, law abiding American. 

In 2015, I began to notice a sea change in American politics. A bloated blowhard billionaire was drawing big crowds at his rallies. Like the man himself, his theme was simple. “Make America Great Again.” But the real message was “Make America White Again.” With campaign promises of building the Great Wall of Racism, limiting the number of Muslim immigrants and speaking in terms of “those people.” The Donald was placing most of his chips on the Angry White Folks card. The fringe groups of America had found a savior. 

"If you can convince the lowest white man he's better than the best colored man, he won't notice you're picking his pocket. Hell, give him somebody to look down on, and he'll empty his pockets for you." -Lyndon B. Johnson

For the second time in 16 years, a candidate became President despite losing the popular vote. So much for American Democracy.

All this rhetoric scared me and kept me awake at night. Bigotry and racism isn’t  like placing a menu order. ”I’m OK with the Jews, but hold the Mexicans.” It’s a general, I’m not fond of those who don’t speak like me, pray like me, have sex like me  or look like me. It’s the opposite of all inclusive.

Since that pivotal moment in US History, there’s been an increase in the number of hate crimes

. https://www.nytimes.com/2019/11/12/us/hate-crimes-fbi-report.html

At the same time, we’ve seen a decrease in the Constitution’s checks and balances. The Senate’s recent vote of “We don’t need no stinkin’ witnesses in an impeachment trial” has essentially handed more power to the Executive Branch. The US is tottering on becoming an autocracy ruled by a finger pointing demagogue with little understanding of the Constitution or the Rule of Law.

If you aren’t noticing similarities between Germany in the 30’s and the present, you aren’t paying attention.

On August 3, 2019, twenty-two Mexican Nationals and Mexican Americans were murdered at a Walmart in El Paso, TX. 

On October 27, 2018 eleven Jews were murdered at the Tree of Life Temple in Pittsburgh, PA. 

On August 11-12 Made in the USA Nazis bearing torches and Swastica flags paraded through the streets of Charlottesville, Virginia chanting “Jews can’t replace us!” (Why would we? Who would want to replace assholes? )

If Sid and Clara were around to see this they would cry, “Jeffy! It’s happening again!”

My fellow Mericans please don’t allow this to happen again.

Final Photo: In case you need a visual aid. All of these people except my father (standing in the middle) were murdered in the Holocaust. 

Minnesota Soup...

English was a second language for my Mother. She was more “at home” speaking Yiddish than English. So at times her pronunciation of words morphed into another word. Minestrone Soup became Minnesota Soup. It wasn’t a big deal since her three young ones were fluent in  “Clara-speak.” 

Minnesota soup was a special treat served up on extra dark wintry nights. It was Mom’s version of kosher comfort food. The main ingredient was a few packages of Manischewitz Minestrone soup mix. The other components were a “bisl” (Yiddish for “a little”) onion, potato, celery and maybe a carrot If there was one handy. To this mixture she would sprinkle the quartet of Central European spices - salt, pepper, paprika and garlic, all in  bland moderation. An added bonus might be a challah bread with gobs of greasy margarine slathered on the shiny slices. It was one of our favorite meals. 

Mom wasn’t a Jewish version of Julia Child. For every Minnesota Soup dinner there were too-many fish sticks and frozen Green Giant boil-in-a-bag creamed corn meals. We forgave her. We were scoring lots of attention, affection and hugs. That’s plenty of nourishment.

Lately I’ve been craving kosher comfort food. But first I had to find a supermarket with a kosher foods section. The Rabbi blessed items usually cover a distance one step wide. If I  drank too much coffee I would stride right by it. That’s where I’ll find the key ingredient to Minnesota Soup. Manischewitz Minestrone Soup Mix. It’s impossible to have one without the other. Fortunately, Snobsdale, AZ contains enough “Unfrozen Chosen” to warrant a kosher foods section at Safeway. 

Once I have the main ingredient, the rest comes easy. I’m not religious about following Mom’s exact recipe. I’ve taken a few liberties. There’s heaps more vegetables including (OY!) red peppers, green chili peppers, mushrooms and red chili powder in my blend. All the contents eventually end up in a Dutch Oven. Then I’ll let it all stew in its own juices for about eight hours. 

When it’s done I’ll pop an IPA and microwave a tortilla. The savory soup’s warmth comforts me. But what really makes me wag my invisible tail, is how I reconnect with my Mom.

I think about all the positive traits she passed onto me. Such as: 

Start all conversations with a smile.

If given the choice between a handshake or a hug, go for the hug.

Always offer food/drink or both to all who cross your doorway. (This includes plumbers and painters and other hardworking strangers). 

Pick up a book in your downtime. 

Be civil. Mind your manners. It’s OK to say you are sorry.

Draw back the curtains to allow the sun to shine in.

It’s better to be a nurturer than a schnorrer. (Yiddish for taker).

Lastly, she taught me how to make Minnesota Soup so I could remember her fondly.

Thanks Mom for making me a better person. 

Cheers!

Happy 2020 too.

Jeff 

Christmas. It’s not for everyone.

When I was five years young Bobby Aquino was my best friend. The Italian Catholic Aquino’s were also our next-door neighbors. After Thanksgiving, a pine tree would materialize in their living room.Soon thereafter ornamental baubles and glitter would sprout from its green branches. As the days went by I noticed more and more mysteriously wrapped boxes under the tree. 

I’ve always been a wonderer. So I asked Bobby.

“What’s up with the tree and all those boxes under it?” 

“Christmas is coming. Don’t you have a tree? Don’t you get Christmas presents?”

“Ahhh No...”

So I began a campaign of kvetching (Yiddish for nagging) to my father Sid. 

“Where’s my Christmas presents? Why don’t we have a tree in the house?”

Sid ignored me at first. BUT! I’m a persistent whiner. Eventually Sid had enough. He wanted peace restored in the Sambur household. He thrust a package into my skinny arms.

“Jeffy! We are Jewish! We don’t celebrate Christmas. It’s not our Holiday. This is a Hanukkah gift. Its a Jewish holiday. Understand? Now come. We will light the menorah. Your mother will fry up some potato latkes for us to eat. Later on, I’ll teach you how to play dreidel.” 

Years went by. I grew up. Somehow I managed to score a career as Northern Colorado’s only Jewish firefighter. Come Christmas time, things got awkward. 

“Jeff! What will you be doing on Christmas?”

 “I’ll try to score a shift of overtime. If not I’ll work a time trade for another day off in the summer.”

“Don’t you want to be off on Christmas?” 

“No, not really. It’s not a Jewish Holiday. It doesn’t have the same meaning to me as it does to you.” 

Sometimes I had to elaborate on this trivial factoid.

“You know there’s an Old Testament and a New Testament. Right? Well for the Jews, our story ends with the Old Testament.” 

To a few of my fellow firefighters, this was a revelation.

Maybe by now, some of you might be thinking I’m a devout Jew. I’m not. I stroll into a Temple about as often as I do a Church or Mosque. In other words, nearly never. The few times in my life I experienced anything close to religion, I was alone on a mountaintop, in a canyon or another wilderness type setting in between. 

This doesn’t mean I never got into the Holiday spirit. I did. I invented an offshoot of Seinfeld’s Festivus. I named the secular holiday Kwanhanumas. Kwanzaa, Hanukkah and Christmas. It was an instant Fort Collins, CO hit. We’d meet in a neighborhood bar the week following Thanksgiving. The invitation encouraged the participants to bring holiday knick knacks, whether it be a menorah, dreidel, Christmas tree ornament or stockings. Unfortunately, we never had anyone show up bearing Kwanzaa swag. Conversations were quite animated. There was no gift giving. There was no guilt giving either, unless the miscreant wasn’t buying a round of drinks or appetizers.  No one ever tried to convert anyone else. We told stories. We laughed a lot. At the end of our celebration of humanity, we hugged. 

Isn’t that what religion should be all about?

I now have a dream of resurrecting Kwanhanumas in my new hometown of Durango, CO. Until then, I’ll probably continue to lay low during the Holiday Season.

I hope all of my readers (including all those Russian, Polish and Ukrainian Trolls) had a joyous, safe and healthy Holiday Season regardless of how you celebrated it.

Happy 2020,

Jeff

Last photos: This is how I spent Christmas Eve. I did a fly by with Fluttering Wandering Butterflies. Two landed on me. I’ll accept that as a good omen for 2020.