So here it goes. And for a change, this isn’t a story about me. It didn’t even happen to me. It happened to my youngest brother. He was in Europe… on a Rhine river cruise to be precise… This was back when my dad was still alive, and he had advanced Parkinson’s disease, but my mom liked to keep him busy. The part of the trip on the boat wasn’t bad, because my dad didn’t have to move far, but when it came to walking the narrow, cobbled streets of the little German towns, my brother pretty much wore my dad on his back like a backpack, giving him a piggyback tour of the Rhine valley.

They stopped at some small village which was famous for its schnapps. My brother was in a small store, and tried to ask the nice lady behind the counter about their famous schnapps. She took down a bottle and handed it to him.

“What kind of schnapps is it?” my brother asked.

(When he tells this story, he does the lady’s voice with a charming German accent that really sells it)…

“It’s not schnapps!” proclaims the nice German lady.

“Oh,” my brother says, in some confusion, “If it’s not schnapps, then what is it?”

“It’s not schnapps,” insists the lady behind the counter.

My brother tries again. “Can you tell me what this is then?”

“It’s not schnapps,” the lady replies, now sounding less happy about the entire exchange.

My brother looks at the label. He can see the word schnapps right there. “Are you sure it’s not schnapps?” he asks her.

“Yes, it is not schnapps!” By now the nice lady is getting a little angry.

I suppose I could stretch this Abbot and Costello routine out for a few more go-arounds, but let me get to the punch line. What the nice German lady was trying to say was that the town was famous for its schnapps made from nuts of some sort. I can’t even remember what kinds of nuts they were. But it turns out that when you say ‘nut schnapps’ in English with the German accent of that part of the Rhine river valley, you get yourself into this predicament.

This story is so popular in our family that my brother is forced to tell it at every family gathering no matter how many times we have all heard it. And each person who comes to my mom’s house when we are gathered together has to hear the story too. Because it is a good story. And my brother tells it really well.

But I can’t help wondering how many times each year in that little town in Germany, when the boats and busses of American and English and Canadian tourists pass through, that same conversation ends up going around… and around… and around…