A short time ago, I heard a National Public Radio story about this country’s need for teachers of the Chinese language. It seems that our government has become aware that China is doing much of our manufacturing, lending us huge sums of money and, consequently, is on a path which could lead to their having major influence on our country.
Thus, someone has decided that it is important that we begin to be able to speak and understand Chinese. Apparently the perceived need is for 5,000 teachers of Chinese, and currently we have about 500.
Now this might be all well and good, but since we have given them our manufacturing work, I see little need to give them our language, too. We would be much better off as a nation to teach all Chinese people to speak English. Unless things have changed a lot, there are so many dialects in China that even if we teach what is known as Standard Mandarin (the formal and official language of China), we would be unable to communicate with many of the more than a billion Chinese people.
Teaching English to that many people may seem like an impossible project, but, over the years, many young Americans have gone to China to teach English.
Let me tell you my experience as a student of the Chinese language; it has its touching scenes.
I arrived in North China in late 1945, a bright, shiny, somewhat naïve new Marine second lieutenant. I had received my gold bars at Quantico (Virginia) in June of that year. Before coming to China, I spent some weeks at Camp Pendleton in California and then there was a stop at Guam for several months where, for reasons I never will understand, I was assigned to an artillery battery in the 12th Marines, Third Marine Division. My artillery knowledge was strictly textbook and not a lot of that, either.
Fifty-two new second lieutenants and some NCOs on the island were extracted from various units there, to go to North China to replace men who had been overseas much longer and had accumulated “points,” permitting them to go back to the States. The Marine Third Corps, under Lieutenant General Keller E. Rockey, was occupying North China, rounding up Japanese for repatriation.
It was the famed First Marine Division that we were heading for. We left a warm and sunny Guam to sail for Taku, which was the port for transfer to Tientsin, a major city that was neither warm nor sunny, but cold, snowy, dreary and mostly unwelcoming. It was early November and the train ride from Taku to Tientsin on a slow, crowded train, with nonexistent windows (they had been shot out) was as depressing as anything we newcomers had experienced so far.
Yet in some way, it also was exciting. Most of us were bored with the island of Guam. There was one quite joyous event on the ship ride from Guam to North China. We all got watch time as mine lookouts on the bow of the AKA we were sailing on. The Japanese had cut mines loose, and they were floating in the shipping lanes.
One of our lookouts spotted a floating mine; the ship heaved to and the sailors began firing their 20 mm cannon in an attempt to blow it up. The rocking of the ship made it hard for fixed guns to be accurate, and, after an expenditure of much ammunition, it was decided that a Marine sergeant would try to hit the mine with his M1 rifle. He got into the sitting position (next most stable to prone) and quickly blew up the mine, which probably was about 400 yards off the port side. There were more Navy than Marines and besides the ship mess was great, so our strutting was muted.
Of the fifty-two Marine officers in this contingent, only two of us got really good jobs when assignments were made in Tientsin. My friend Boyd Compton from Los Angeles was assigned as OIC of the Marine radio station and I, with the luck that was following me, was assigned as Public Information Officer for the First Marine Division. Was there a better job anywhere? 
When the time came for me to take command of the unit, it was clear that I was incredibly inexperienced. The table of organization listed a captain as the lowest rank to head this unit, and I was replacing a very experienced captain. However, I was not stupid. The public relations unit included both editorial and photo, and the NCOs in charge of those had been in the business for a long time. I knew that only an idiot would try to get into the details without a learning period.
So, while waiting, I decided to take Chinese lessons as events moved along and gradually I could take full command. I don’t recall now who helped me find a teacher of Chinese, but the man who came to try to teach me was most remarkable. His name was Mr. Ho, and he was renowned among the local English speakers. He had been the teacher for John Hersey, (A Bell for Adono and Hiroshima) who was born in Tientsin and went to school there for the first fourteen years of his life. He had been the teacher for Edgar Snow (Red Star Over China), I was told. (Mr. Hersey and I in 1946 had contretemps over a date I had brought to a British celebration ball in Peking)
Anyway, to get to my Chinese language studies. I arranged for two-hour lessons, four days a week, in the morning with Mr. Ho in my office, which was a converted prewar Buick showroom. He was a quite remarkable teacher. He came each day with lesson plans written by hand (he started trying to teach me to write, but this was soon abandoned).
Mr. Ho taught Mandarin, the official language of government and diplomacy. He was a fine teacher and long-suffering with the likes of me. After a relatively short time, I had a growing vocabulary, and despite badly screwing up the ending inflections sometimes, I was increasingly able to make my way around the city, get some great photographs and gain entrance to some wonderful kitchens. Not many of us, apparently, were trying to learn, and the Chinese were grateful and willing to help, sometimes after great guffaws. Often, unfortunately, my job required that I travel so I was not able to regularly do the four lessons per week, but I did enough to continue to learn and feel comfortable shopping and traveling.
I visited other regions of China and mostly my not-so-good Mandarin was of little use with the many dialects that abounded. I spent some time in a village in Shantung at the base of some hills, and those living over the hills could not understand those living where I was. If this language barrier within their own country has changed, it might make sense to teach us Chinese, but I doubt it. Better we should teach them English.
I should note here that I am not a good student of language. I have a private belief that people good with music tend to also be good at learning languages. As much as I love music, I am a very poor student. My own mother “fired” me as her piano student. I have a brother-in-law who can play just about any musical instrument he sets his mind to; consequently, I think, when he visits another country, he starts speaking the language after the first fifteen minutes of arrival. Damn, I say.
I found my Chinese almost useless for practical purposes. I quickly learned that there are so many dialects that I should concentrate on Mandarin, which my teacher, Mr. Ho, thought was wise. Before I returned to the States, I spent a lot of time on words for food and working on the ability to order in a Chinese restaurant.
When I left China for home, via Guam and Hawaii, I was given a gift of seven free days in Honolulu, not charged to my leave for some service I performed in Shantung Province.
This wonderful gift included a Jeep, sans driver, so that I could wend my lonely way around the island, which I did. In the course of these wanderings, and with the help of an Army Air Corps P-38 pilot from Marquette, I managed to meet a lovely American girl who was very new to the islands and worked for one of the government agencies.
Time was short and this romantic seduction had to be done fast and well. What better than to invite the young woman to one of the famous and expensive Chinese restaurants along Waikiki Beach? Here, dressed appropriately in my best Marine outfit, I would dazzle the young woman with my charm, good taste and, most importantly, my ability to order our entire meal in Chinese.
The coming trap was set. I picked her up in my clean Jeep, parked at the restaurant, properly helped her from the vehicle and we were guided to a very good table by a Chinese maitre d,’ where elaborate menus were set before us.
Our waiter looked Chinese. Had I not been blinded by the beauty of my date, I would have spotted the sneaky, anti-Marine look in his eyes as he started to reel off some specials, in English, for God’s sake. I raised my hand, politely, and told him that I preferred to order the entire meal. I began speaking my best Mandarin. He looked startled, and then he said to me, “OK Marine, this is America. Talk English. We don’t do Chinese.”
The meal went well, and later as we shook hands at her dormitory, she said she enjoyed the evening. Polite kid. I imagine that she is by now a grandmother, and, if she should read this, I am sure that she will write a letter to the editor to verify this story.
 
Pappa al Pomodoro 
This column might not be considered complete without at least one recipe. Here is one of the most famous soups of Florence (Italy).
This one is from a book, little known in America with many great recipes of famous Florentine foods. As recorded on the Internet, it ranks 1,043,700 on Amazon’s best sellers list. The book is “The Complete Book of Florentine Cooking” by Paolo Petroni.
Many Florentine soups contain bread, which usually is made without salt. This recipe serves four people, and you will note that you have to use your own judgment about the amount of some of the ingredients. Good luck.
Whole wheat bread, stale, about 11 oz.
One pound of good canned tomatoes
1 medium sized leek
Basil
Chili pepper (use flakes, but be careful)
4 cups beef broth (chicken broth works just as well)
olive oil, salt and pepper
Sauté the chili pepper and the thinly sliced leek in about six tablespoons of olive oil. When cooked, add the chopped tomato and plenty of chopped fresh basil.
Bring to boil over medium heat, and, five minutes later, add the broth. Salt the dish and bring to boil, add the thinly sliced bread and cook for a another ten minutes. Remove from heat, leave covered for an hour. Before serving, stir well with a whisk.
This soup can be eaten hot, lukewarm or room temperature. But one should always sprinkle with olive oil, pepper and, if you like, Parmesan cheese.

The Vertin Gallery
Now that June is here and meeting a snow storm in Calumet is a little bit less likely, it is safe to drive there to visit a most unusual and beautiful art and craft gallery.
The Vertin Gallery is in the middle of Calumet’s historic downtown. The building housing this most modern creation was built in 1885—first with two stories, and then two more added in 1900. Calumet was booming and the largest city north of Milwaukee. It’s Calumet now, but it was Red Jacket then.
But it doesn’t detract from the pleasures one gets from a visit to this gallery where the work of more than sixty artists is displayed. Don’t try to complete a visit here in an hour or so. The gallery and the wonderful displays it holds demand a couple of hours of your time (there are refreshments).
I suggest a visit, then a tour around this historic town and a return to the gallery.
—Don Curto

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