why a Dutchman

When I was just a wee lad and I did something I shouldn’t have done, my grandmother Cleo would scold me by saying something that sounded like, “Nix kommer rouse in the Dutchman’s house!” My mother and my uncle confirm that she said the same to them, and that the meaning was clearly, “don’t do that!” But where the phrase comes from, or exactly how it would be written, was a mystery to both of them.

Every once in a while I search the internet for this phrase. I looked again this morning, reminded of it by something I heard on the radio, and this is the first time I’ve found the whole phrase, quoted from a play titled “The persecuted Dutchman, or, The original John Schmidt : a farce in one act” (published in the mid to late 1800s) — Two of the characters in the play use the phrase, written as “nix cum a rouse in a Dutchman’s house,” which looks to me like the author was phonetically spelling out German or Dutch words he didn’t know how to spell.

A friend of a friend on Facebook said the first half of the phrase “would be likely “Nichts komme ‘raus” since “heraus” tends to be shortened. In English, “don’t come out”, but why you shouldn’t come out in a Dutchman’s house is up for grabs. I thought they were pretty relaxed about such things, and very liberal.”

I wondered ‘Why a Dutchman?’ as well. I’m not familiar enough with older stereotypes of the Dutch to hazard a guess, and my searches have turned up only contemporary stereotypes that don’t shed any light on the idiom.

The phrase “nix cum rous” appeared to be in such wide use from the mid 1800s to the early 1900s that it was used often to mean a great many different things, depending on context.

O. Henry knew the phrase “nix cum rous” and used it often: In a story titled, “Telemachus, Friend” (published in the volume “Heart of the West” in 1907) he wrote one character dragging another with this insult: “…do you think you could get it into that Hubbard squash you call your head that you are nix cum rous in this business?” The context here indicates the phrase means something like “persona non grata.”

And when he used it in a story titled “A Chaparral Prince” (published in the volume “Heart of the West” in 1907) he wrote one character dismissing another this way: “We will now pass you the time of day, as it is up to us to depart. Ausgespielt — nixcumrous, Dutchy.” Here, the context indicates the phrase means something like “see you later” or “so long.”

When he used it again in a story titled “A Poor Rule” (published in the volume “Options” in 1909) he wrote one character giving another this left-handed complement: “Now, you ain’t bad looking, of course but that’s nix-cum-rous.” Here, the context indicates the phrase means something along the lines of, “that’s neither here nor there.”

There’s a poem recorded in The Ringling Brothers Route Book, 1893, which uses the phrase “nix-cum-rouse” as if it was the name of a circus animal:

Cousin Jasper says ’at they
Has a circus every day,
In Baraboo.

Says they’ve got a nix-cum-rous
Larger than the Kirby House,
In Baraboo.

And a snake all wings and feet
Longer ’un Wisconsin street,
In Baraboo.

And a spotted Blastodon
Bigger ’un the Plankington,
In Baraboo.

There’s story in verse titled “Der Freischuetz” in “Dwight’s Journal of Music” dated June 20, 1857, with a line halfway through the story which notes: “I vish dat I had nix cum rous, / Und shtaid mineself in bed to house.” There are notes at the end of the story which include a translation (in Latin and English!) for “nix cum ‘rous — ne exeat — not come out. No go.”

There’s an entry in a soldier’s diary dated January 20, 1864: “Nix cum rous. I hobble around some, Found little Ben Cain in another tent, bad – so bad.” I’m not sure what he means; if he’s saying he stayed it, it doesn’t make a lot of sense because he says immediately after that he found Ben Cain in another tent, so me must have gone out.

how the moon lights up

There was the most amazingly full moon visible through the front window of Our Humble O’Bode this morning. I sat and watched it set in the early-morning gloom, big and bright enough to read by, not that I was nutbrained enough to go out into twenty-degree weather to read anything. It’ll be full tonight. Maybe I’ll open the blinds on the bedroom window and fall asleep with the Man In The Moon gazing down at me.

True story: On one of the first nights I was staying with my grandparents for the summer, I went looking for Grandpa Fred but he was nowhere to be found. “Where’s Grandpa Fred?” I asked Grandma Cleo.

“He’s lighting the moon,” she told me.


“Sure, go and look.”

And when I looked out the window, there was the moon, big and bright. Wow!

“Grandma said you lighted up the moon!” I said to Grandpa Fred, when I ran into him in the hallway.

“That’s right, I did,” he said.

So the next night when Grandpa Fred disappeared again, I ran straight to the window to see if he was lighting the moon. There it was again! Big and bright as before!

“Grandma, Grandpa’s lighting up the moon again!”

“I know,” she said.

This happened night after night. One night, after he disappeared and the moon lit up again, I ran into Grandpa Fred coming out of the bathroom.

“Oh, that’s how I get up to the moon,” he explained. Well, how else would you get there?

I didn’t figure out what was going on for years.



I got this snapshot from one of the Great Big Photo Albums of People Related to Me but, unlike most of the other photo albums, this one was chock full of familiar faces.

In this photo, weighing all of 98 pounds and swinging a solid-steel iron like nobody’s business, Cleo Mary Melchoir, who had this very day taken the name Bach and seemed to be getting into the spirit of the whole marriage thing without any trouble.

On the right, attempting to defend himself with a cast-iron wok and realizing with a grin how futile it was, Frederic Charles Bach.

Ladies and gentlemen, meet my grandmother and grandfather, newly married on this day, August 26, 1935.