In A Word - Humor: Reflections on the humor of an old man and his view of today's stresses.
Gerald Eisman
July 14, 2006
In A Word - Humor
As a child at the knee of Mendel the bagel baker and Yiddish philosopher, I would listen as he spread his brand of bagel-oven observations evenly among those privileged to hear him speak. He always had a pot of coffee brewing in his little basement shop on Avenue B and 14th street in Manhattan. Every night, as he was baking his famous bagels and Bialystok rolls, he would chat with the customers waiting for the fresh, hot goods to emerge. As he removed them, he would slice enough to serve everyone gathered, slather them with fresh butter and share the coffee.
My favorite of all his utterances came out when asked to give his opinion of men in general by a woman who, as I eventually discovered, was one of the original feminists.
"Men," he said to her, "are like public toilets. Either they're taken or they're full of crap."
Mendel Karcher came from "the old country," Lithuania. According to him, his only reason for leaving to come to America was that too many Lithuanians didn't like bagels. His universe there was a tiny town of a few hundred souls huddled in shacks who scratched a living from the land and bartered their way through life.
Like most Lithuanian expatriates, Mendel was a grandfatherly type, having a long, flowing beard, and unrelenting logical mind. He was a realist who viewed life with a detached, wry humor. In my mind's eye, I see him as a gnomelike man with a gentleness about him that had to come from age and a mellowing of his soul through the gathering of wisdom. His face bore a simple dignity, the kind you would find in a Rembrandt etching.
Despite his hardships, dignity, and gravity, whenever Mendel would encounter the foibles of people, a quizzical look would come on his features, a smile would dance in his eyes and play around his mouth, and he would rock with laughter. There were times when it would be ironical, sometimes bitter, but never was it cruel, taunting or malicious. Rather it was warm and kind, the overflow of a man who'd seen more than most and endured more than his share of pain.
When he settled in Manhattan, his immediate tendency was to renew old habits and create a new, but familiar universe, Avenue B and 14th street. There was never a doubt in his mind, though he had little, that his new universe and culture was sweeter and more satisfying than any other in the world.
As he would often say, "isn't it interesting how many things there are in the world that you can't have if you want them, and don't want if you can."
Personally, I found his universe too constricting and needed to expand my horizons. Was I amazed when I discovered a world that was, at the same time, brilliantly beautiful and depressingly ugly. The only commonality that was woven into the tapestry of all cultures was laughter. It is the cheapest luxury man can have. It stirs the blood, expands the chest, electrifies the nervous system, clears the cobwebs from the brain and gives one's entire body a cleansing. It is nature's tranquilizer without the side effects.
Regardless of where you live or who you are, there is one common truth. Though all good humor has universal appeal, there are differences produced by special conditions of life and cultural patterns, and it is the differences that add the relish, flavor, and variety to the laughter of mankind. As Mendel would often say, living without laughter would be like reading a book with white print on white paper.
As I look back at those basement days, I often reflect on Mendel's philosophy and humor, so typical of the ordinary Jewish individual. When you first hear it you may chuckle though it can appear confusing to you. But on reflection, you will fall silent and thoughtful and possibly understand that you have been subjected to some philosophical jests. The Diaspora and thousands of years of difficulties have molded the Mendel's of the world into realists without illusions.
What causes the Mendels of the world make so many jokes about adversity? Perhaps it's the instinct for self preservation. When man laughs at the absurdities and cruelties of life, he eases away much of the pain. As Mendel liked to tell his captive basement audience, the problem with life is, when you buy a suit with two pairs of pants you burn a hole in the jacket.
So it is today, the Mendels have a new and more difficult row to hoe, a more vicious and unrelenting enemy to face. As I contemplate my old bagel baker, philosopher I wonder what would be going through his mind as he read the headlines and watched the television news. I can see him now, buttering some Bialys, pouring coffee into paper cups and quipping, "I really hope this doesn't become a full blown war. The Israelis simply can't afford to win another."
As a child at the knee of Mendel the bagel baker and Yiddish philosopher, I would listen as he spread his brand of bagel-oven observations evenly among those privileged to hear him speak. He always had a pot of coffee brewing in his little basement shop on Avenue B and 14th street in Manhattan. Every night, as he was baking his famous bagels and Bialystok rolls, he would chat with the customers waiting for the fresh, hot goods to emerge. As he removed them, he would slice enough to serve everyone gathered, slather them with fresh butter and share the coffee.
My favorite of all his utterances came out when asked to give his opinion of men in general by a woman who, as I eventually discovered, was one of the original feminists.
"Men," he said to her, "are like public toilets. Either they're taken or they're full of crap."
Mendel Karcher came from "the old country," Lithuania. According to him, his only reason for leaving to come to America was that too many Lithuanians didn't like bagels. His universe there was a tiny town of a few hundred souls huddled in shacks who scratched a living from the land and bartered their way through life.
Like most Lithuanian expatriates, Mendel was a grandfatherly type, having a long, flowing beard, and unrelenting logical mind. He was a realist who viewed life with a detached, wry humor. In my mind's eye, I see him as a gnomelike man with a gentleness about him that had to come from age and a mellowing of his soul through the gathering of wisdom. His face bore a simple dignity, the kind you would find in a Rembrandt etching.
Despite his hardships, dignity, and gravity, whenever Mendel would encounter the foibles of people, a quizzical look would come on his features, a smile would dance in his eyes and play around his mouth, and he would rock with laughter. There were times when it would be ironical, sometimes bitter, but never was it cruel, taunting or malicious. Rather it was warm and kind, the overflow of a man who'd seen more than most and endured more than his share of pain.
When he settled in Manhattan, his immediate tendency was to renew old habits and create a new, but familiar universe, Avenue B and 14th street. There was never a doubt in his mind, though he had little, that his new universe and culture was sweeter and more satisfying than any other in the world.
As he would often say, "isn't it interesting how many things there are in the world that you can't have if you want them, and don't want if you can."
Personally, I found his universe too constricting and needed to expand my horizons. Was I amazed when I discovered a world that was, at the same time, brilliantly beautiful and depressingly ugly. The only commonality that was woven into the tapestry of all cultures was laughter. It is the cheapest luxury man can have. It stirs the blood, expands the chest, electrifies the nervous system, clears the cobwebs from the brain and gives one's entire body a cleansing. It is nature's tranquilizer without the side effects.
Regardless of where you live or who you are, there is one common truth. Though all good humor has universal appeal, there are differences produced by special conditions of life and cultural patterns, and it is the differences that add the relish, flavor, and variety to the laughter of mankind. As Mendel would often say, living without laughter would be like reading a book with white print on white paper.
As I look back at those basement days, I often reflect on Mendel's philosophy and humor, so typical of the ordinary Jewish individual. When you first hear it you may chuckle though it can appear confusing to you. But on reflection, you will fall silent and thoughtful and possibly understand that you have been subjected to some philosophical jests. The Diaspora and thousands of years of difficulties have molded the Mendel's of the world into realists without illusions.
What causes the Mendels of the world make so many jokes about adversity? Perhaps it's the instinct for self preservation. When man laughs at the absurdities and cruelties of life, he eases away much of the pain. As Mendel liked to tell his captive basement audience, the problem with life is, when you buy a suit with two pairs of pants you burn a hole in the jacket.
So it is today, the Mendels have a new and more difficult row to hoe, a more vicious and unrelenting enemy to face. As I contemplate my old bagel baker, philosopher I wonder what would be going through his mind as he read the headlines and watched the television news. I can see him now, buttering some Bialys, pouring coffee into paper cups and quipping, "I really hope this doesn't become a full blown war. The Israelis simply can't afford to win another."
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