Those Damned Swiss

            I have a temper. I have a pretty good idea where it came from, but these things seem to distill as the generations advance. My temper can be nasty, and it is usually accompanied by some creative language that any sailor would be proud to possess. (I’m sure not all sailors use bad language; it is, however called “salty” for a reason.) But, my daughter’s temper is absolutely Vesuvian compared to mine, which is vehement compared to my father’s, which as I recall, was almost non-existent. My daughter and I typically get angry at situations, not people, such as things that don’t work the way they’re supposed to. And we don’t hold a grudge.

            I say that my father had no temper. I suppose no one is totally without a temper. I have heard him say “Horsefeathers!” on a number of occasions, usually having to do with his thumb and a hammer. He once threw my uncle - not his brother - through a window. My mother once smashed a cigar in the face of the same uncle – not her brother, either. (You had to know this uncle.) My brother had a problem with thumbs and hammers also, but, that’s to be expected as he was left-handed. His choice of vocabulary did not include “horsefeathers.”

            Now we come to the source of my temper (and my daughter’s). My mother’s temper was sometimes monumental. She claimed to have gotten it from “those damned Swiss,” as she referred to fully half of her heritage. But, I don’t know if that’s accurate, as I will explain.

            My non-Swiss grandfather did not have much of a temper. In fact, I have a clear memory of him scraping burnt toast, without a word, rather than toasting more bread. I don’t remember him scraping the toast just once; it seems like it was every time, like a breakfast ritual. But then, this was a man who made his dogs a cooked breakfast every day. He said the eggs made their coats shiny.

            My grandmother had a splendid temper. I can just barely remember her; I was small when she died, but I remember she had some impressive outbursts. Don’t get me wrong, she was kind, loving and generous, and looked more like a grandma than anyone I have ever seen. But she was one of “those damned Swiss.”

            There is a favorite family story about my great-grandfather, Rudolf Regetz. The family was at the breakfast table for pancakes and maple syrup, which was on a Lazy Susan with other condiments. When my great-grandfather tasted that he had accidentally used vinegar instead of syrup, he said not a word, but gently turned the Lazy Susan, took the syrup, poured it over the vinegar-soaked pancakes, and ate his breakfast. Oddly enough, this was my toast-scraping grandfather’s father-in-law, not his father. Apparently, in some of “those damned Swiss,” the temper trait is recessive.