I was first attracted to the art of boiling water at the side of my dad, my mom being too concerned for my safety. "Get away from the stove!" she'd scold as I piloted my B-29 along the cliffs of NoMore, where cauldrons of potatoes and cabbage bubbled and steamed. I was on a reconnaissance mission, trying to size-up the enemy sizzling in the cast-iron skillet.
"Shoo! It's hot!"
Dang, it smelled good.
But orders were orders. I plotted a new course out the kitchen door toward the garage.
The Kitchen Door: A lot of guests went through this door. We always knew when strangers rang the bell because they would be waiting at the front door, which we only used at Halloween. Walter, right, was a German exchange student visiting us for the summer from Berlin. Yes, that’s a sign, in German, my brother concocted for the occasion.
I piloted ol' Granola Gray unencumbered around my dad's table saw, ax, lawnmower, and hammers. We flew low over the rusty razor blades and nails, then banked toward the pointy implements of yard work along the wall. We buzzed my dad's secret stockpile of gasoline and oil used to keep the machinery working. Occasionally, I’d put my eye up to Gray’s tail to see what the pilot saw.
Just as Granola Gray banked over the Evinrude outboard motor my dad kept bolted inside a wooden barrel full of spiders (it was next to a stringless guitar and its rotting guitar case), I received new orders from headquarters.
"Come inside. Dinner is ready!"
Chowtime? Already?
Granola Gray's mission ended with a crash-landing onto my bed. I washed the "war" off my hands by running them through the tap and wiping them on my pants. I joined strategic command at the round table in the kitchen.
Just home from work and still wearing his tie, my dad sat with his back against the wall nearest the phone. My brother and I also had our backs against the wall. I faced my dad, and my brother faced my mother. There was no head of the table, but that didn't mean we were all equal. The alcove was so small my mother's chair blocked all retreats once she was seated. It was here that I first learned my first words of German.
But first, a joke.
My dad usually heard some good ones at work. They weren't "dad" jokes. They were stories. You had to pay attention to get the punch line.
Cecil B. DeMille, c. 1920
The funniest, or the one I remember, was a long tale of heroic Hollywood filmmaking that involved the famous director Cecil B. DeMille and his favorite cameraman, good ol' Charlie. Good ol' reliable hard-of-hearing Charlie, who had worked on every film C.B. ever made. He never missed a beat. They practically read each other's minds.
There are different versions of this joke online. But this is how I remember my dad telling it:
C.B. was directing a massive battle scene that involved a vast set filled with thousands of extras and animals on this particular day.
The climactic scene involved bursting a massive dam, a flood, and a fire that would destroy a town and consume a battle. In short, it involved the destruction of a vast, very expensive set.
It was a one-off. There was no way to rebuild such a massive set if something went wrong. Careers were on the line.
So C.B. covered himself by having the final scene filmed by four cameras. Each camera was in a different location. Walkie-talkies allowed the director to communicate with each camera operator.
The moment came. C.B. grabbed the walkie-talkies and shouted "ACTION!"
The scene went off without a hitch: the ground shook, the dam collapsed, buildings burned, and troops drowned. Everything went perfectly! When the dust settled, and the water drained away, and the fires were put out, and the extras and animals were safe and accounted for, C.B. sighed with relief. The hard part was over.
Feeling excited about his triumph so far, C.B. checked with the first cameraman.
"Did you get the shot?" C.B. asked.
"That was the most amazing thing I ever witnessed," said the first cameraman. "But no, I'm afraid not, Mr. DeMille. There was so much smoke from the fire that when the wind shifted, it blocked my shot."
That caused C.B. some concern, of course, but he had three other cameras. He called on the second camera operator.
"Did you get the shot?" C.B. asked again.
"Oh, Mr. DeMille," came his reply, "I'm so sorry, the vibration from the earthquake machines knocked my camera over, and all I got were shots of people's feet just before a chariot drove over the camera and snapping its lens clean off."
Now C.B. started to worry. Two out of four cameras missed the scene. His heart pounding, he contacted the third camera operator.
The reply caused sweat to break out on his forehead, "Mr. DeMille, I'm very, very sorry, but my assistant loaded the film backward. The film jammed in the camera, and we got nothing."
Now C.B. was in full panic mode. The most expensive scene in movie history and three contingencies had failed. His hands shook so badly he could hardly work the walkie-talkie to reach his last cameraman, good 'ol Charlie. To give himself a chance to calm down, he started asking Charlie a few preliminary questions.
"Hi, Charlie. How was the smoke up where you were?"
"What?"
"How’s the smoke up by you?"
"No worries, C.B. My view of the set is crystal clear."
"Good, good. And did you have any trouble with the earthquake machines?" C.B. asked.
"What machines?"
"The earthquake machines."
The reply was heartening, "Solid as a rock up here. I weighted the camera down to eliminate any shaking."
"Good idea, Charlie!"
Thinking this might work out, Mr. DeMille asked one last question. "How about the film? Was it loaded correctly?"
"What about the film?"
"Was it loaded correctly?"
C.B. hears Charlie tapping his camera. "Don't worry, C.B. I loaded it and checked it myself — twice!"
"Excellent! Excellent, Charlie! That's music to my ears. I knew you’d be ready!"
To which Charlie replied. "Ready when you are, Mr. DeMille."
The The City of the Pharaoh set from “The Ten Commandments” was built in the dunes near Guadalupe, Calif.
Years later, I was reminded of this joke when a film set C.B. built-in 1923 for the silent version of "The Ten Commandments" was rediscovered in the dunes near Guadalupe, Calif. You can visit part of it at the visitor center there. I wonder if the joke is hanging on the wall. Here's a link to that story: http://dunescenter.org/visit-the-dunes/dunes-center/exhibits-and-activities-research/the-lost-city-of-demille/
With dinner finished, our German lesson began with my mother insisting we say, "Kann ich bitte aufstehen?"
"What does that mean?" my brother and I asked at first.
It means "May I get up?"
"We don't have to say it in English!" my brother pointed out.
"Well, maybe you should! Now, say it."
"May I get up?"
"No, in German."
"We don't know how to say it in German."
"Kann ich bitte aufstehen?"
"What?"
"Kann."
"Kann," we'd parrot.
"Ich."
"Ich"
"Bitte aufstehen."
Tears started to form because Red Skelton was waiting for us in the other room. This was no time to learn German.
"Bitte aufstehen."
Now say it all together.
“What’s aufstehen mean?” one of us asked.
My mom demonstrated by standing up. “It means to stand up.”
“So, it doesn’t mean leave the table?” we thought. We’re going to be here all night!
More tears.
We were too young to know about idioms. In Bavarian “kann ich bitten aufstehen” meant “Can I be excused from the table.”
“Now, say it,” my mom said. “Kann ich bitte aufstehen? Kann …”
“Kann,” we blubbered.
My dad interrupted. "Who wants hot water for coffee?" My dad managed to escape from the table while my mom was demonstrating the word aufstehen. He was standing by the sink with the tea kettle in his hand.
"Can I help!" I pleaded.
I found comfort in the diversion hot water and my dad could bring to any situation around the dinner table. Eventually, my mother put me in charge of boiling the water and making coffee for breakfast and after dinner. I enjoy it to this day.
But for now, we were stuck. My dad’s ploy failed.
"Kann ich bitte aufstehen?"