Yesterday afternoon my internet suddenly, miraculously, returned, but I’m waiting for a Rogers guy right now anyway, to find out why it keeps dying. In the meantime, I have caught a cold, am sniffling with a sore throat and a balloon head. I’m not surprised – now that everything has settled down and I have a minute to spare, my unconscious has decided to take a break from activity. I don’t do sick very well, though – hate stopping the body in motion. But there’s no choice; if I do too much, I’m going to fall over.
And here is a wondrous example of synchronicity, defined on-line as “the simultaneous occurrence of events that appear significantly related but have no discernible causal connection.” I’m a big believer. Last night, as I tossed about, I thought about the funny little book I’d bought for a dime at Doubletake that day, “Yiddish with Dick and Jane.” It looks just like the Fifties reader, only inside is different. Here’s one page, for example:
“Look, Dick,” says Sally. “Tom’s wife, Susan, is kissing Phil.”
“Yes, Sally, they are good friends,” says Dick.
“That is not how friends kiss, Dick,” says Sally. “I think Susan and Phil are shtupping.”
“Oh no,” says Dick. “They are just happy to see each other.”
I thought about a book called “The Joy of Yiddish” that’s buried somewhere in the boxes of books I used for the research of my book, and thought, I should have kept “The Joy of Yiddish” out, I need it. I’ll never find it in the boxes. Maybe I’ll find another.
Today – twelve hours after that thought – my former student Kathy came over to deliver a chest of drawers I’d bought from her a few weeks ago at her garage sale. She’s getting rid of everything because she’s moving to Wales. Kathy walked in with a big book and handed it to me. “I thought you might need this,” she said. It was, you guessed it, “The Joy of Yiddish.”
Human beings are connected in ways we have not even begun to chart. Even without the internet.
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