“Misfits Abroad” tells us “Adventures in Love, Language, and Foreign Lands.” it is a delightful read for anyone who has ever traveled to Europe and wondered. In a collection of essays spiced with humor and insights, Martine tells us her unique perspective of learning by immersion. It’s an enriching, amusing story.
All-American girl Martine takes an Army crash course in German. Coming from Fort Huachuca, she dives into the foreign land. Mind you, her Volkswagen rabbit is transferred to its home country as well. The first action in Bremerhaven is to push start the groggy yellow rabbit. No push-pull-engage-the-clutch gets it going. Rabbit needs mechanical help.
Settling in with Zwetschgenkuchen
And so the adventures of discovery continue. The new apartment has no ceiling lamps or appliances, but everywhere there is a “Schrank” (wardrobe). And how exactly do you behead a boiled egg? It takes a perfect swipe with a knife. Finally, the neighbors bring Zwetschgenkuchen, only to demand perfect quiet time in the afternoons.
Life in Germany shines a new light on Martine’s American upbringing. She learns the Army wife privileges of clearance and PX, appreciates the discounted souvenirs at the base, but also ventures out to Wertkauf. She has stories to tell about German men doing “Kegel exercises,” confused Army brats coming to America at age 22 for the first time, and managing her involuntary “alone time” by going to Disney movies or surviving the Autobahn.
Martine (left) and AnnElise at the Tucson Festival of Books
Martine has a different and elucidating take on the then sparse German TV programs, the desperate attempt to make sense of the dubbed over American movies, and the mechanics of the German language, where Spiel-zeug is a play thing and Werk-zeug is a work thing. But be careful of your English such as “fix it.” It could be heard as a four-letter expression in German.
Language Troubles No More
The intricacies of the German language provide Martine a wide playing field of pitfalls, errors, and humor in this delightful book. No wonder she wanted everybody to speak at least correct English. Aside from a mass communications professor, formerly with the Idaho State University, she is also a certified instructor of English as a second language.
Martine is not the only misfit within Army reach. A whole set of misfitted characters gave her material for sometimes tender, sometimes ironic, but always insightful behavioral studies of people blown over to Europe by the US Forces. She introduces a microcosm of assembled players that could make a Robert Altman movie.
Final word, the unique perspective that Martine takes on a number of things that we are familiar with makes her book valuable. She reflects back on the end of the Wall and Ossies pouring across Checkpoint Charlie. She bites, against mother’s advice, the bullet to give hitchhikers a ride and discovers a whole new explorer self. And she also analyzes the underlying ideology of the world famous Oberammergau Passion Plays.
Altogether an enlightening and fabulous read for anyone ever lost in another culture. When in Germany, do as the Germans do. Martine tried her best and lived to tell her stories. You can order “Misfits Abroad” here at Amazon:
Fritz Häber, 16 Months in an American POW Camp by Bernd Häber (grandson) is a remarkable document of WWII history. In it, Bernd shares the complete war diary of his grandfather Fritz, born January 22, 1910, in Leipzig (40 years in GDR). The historical assessment in the Foreword by Björn Krondorfer and the commentary in the Introduction by author Bernd Häber frame up the historic context.
Surviving on Animal Farm
In May of 1945 the war was over for the Germans. Fritz Häber, an anti-aircraft unit commander, by then a father of 7 children, surrenders to the Americans in late April. He and his comrades are taken on a miserable odyssey from one gargantuan make-shift prisoner camp to another. No shelter, no clothing, barely any water or food, no sleep. Men lost strength, muscle and mind. Some didn’t survive the torturous conditions at what can be best compared to “Animal Farm.” Eventually, the situation improved and Fritz did what he knew to do best: he made himself useful. At last, in the Metz (France) POW camp he worked as mechanic/welder/blacksmith for the American military. Whatever was thrown at him, Fritz took as a learning opportunity. Being a true-to-life socialist, Fritz also noted his reflections on the wrong turns the Reich took.
Fritz Häber, as is apparent in Krondorfer’s Introduction, lived through Orwellian times. Damned if you do and damned if you don’t, he plowed through his daily responsibilities like so many. But unlike the majority, he let his heart make the call whenever there was wiggle room. He never lost circumspection or humanity.
Bernd Häber & AnnElise at the Treffpunkt
The biggest lesson we can learn from Fritz’s life story: a strong conviction may always put you on the wrong side of any regime. Fritz was imprisoned in the 1930ies for being a Communist. Paradoxically or not, the Reich wanted him as a soldier anyway. In the end, Fritz ends up judged as a Wehrmacht “Nazi” prisoner. His socialist conviction would have also been troublesome with the Americans.
Disgraced Communist
Finally, the Communist party expelled Fritz as well for having been a member of a Wehrmacht shooting squad. Even Fritz’ son Herbert, who became a prominent member of the GDR Politbüro, could not get Fritz reinstated. Herbert himself fell victim to a high-power conspiracy and lost his party position. In the end, after Germany reunited, Herbert was indicted as a Politbüro member by the Berlin courts in 1990 for being responsible for several killings at the Wall. Fritz was cleared of all charges and was fully rehabilitated. Fritz and Herbert were men of strong convictions.
Different Planets
Author Bernd Häber and myself grew up on different “planets”: he in the Democratic Republic, I in the Federal Republic. Maybe we were raised on different versions of “Mitschuld.” Krondorfer in the Foreword discusses the idea of “co-responsibility” in clear terms. I learned at my Bavarian Gymnasium about “Kollektivschuld”. That “Schuld” (guilt) didn’t go away with the Marshall Plan. We kids were prompted to ask our parents: Why didn’t you do anything? They told us at least one reason why. Even listening to the wrong radio station (BBC) could get you into a concentration camp too. And yet our parents often risked their lives by flying under the radar in the name of kindness.
What about us now? Have we learned anything? When will we speak up about nations taking all the wrong turns? We should not wait until NPR becomes the “wrong” radio station.
Charlotte cherishes her blue bandana. This type of bandana is often associated with western attire, do rags and country folks. No doubt about that. But this one is truly extra special for its history.
“You ought to get rid of this ratty old thing, mom.” Carlene Davis leveled the large plastic frame that held a badly faded, formerly deep blue bandana.
The old thing was ratty with wear and tear and tears and snot from decades of overuse. A hole burned into the lower right edge was exactly the size of a 7.55 x 53 mm Mauser cartridge. The only thing not overly faded was a hand-sewn letter T in the center and a couple of dark reddish-brown stains. Apparently, the only thing holding the piece of cloth together was the smudged glass in the frame.
Carlene was a doting daughter, a member of the Southern Baptist Women’s Missionary Union, the Library Volunteers, and half a dozen community organizations in the small town of Token, Arkansas. She was 54 years old, portly in appearance and always slightly overdressed in style. Her gray hair was poorly disguised by whisps of light green, purple, and red streaked through-and-through in an attempt to recapture a youth she had never really experienced.
Her mom, Charlotte Tetrozoa, was the picture postcard image of a modern-day granny. She also was on the portly side, something she never tried to disguise. Her gray hair was pure gray, something she would never have thought to disguise either. She stopped her knitting and pointed a needle at her daughter. “Your granddaddy carried that ‘ratty thing’ into the trenches back in the Great War. Some German sharpshooter put a hole through that bandana and right into his chest. That blue rag plugged the hole and saved his life, young lady.”
“Mom, I’ve heard the story a thousand times.”
“Not enough times, I see. Your daddy took it with him all the way through the second great war.”
“I know, mom.”
“He took it to Korea.” She paused and sniffed. “That’s your daddy’s blood in the corner.”
“I know all that, mom, but it’s so . . . Well, it’s ratty, mom.”
“It’s yours when I’m gone. Do with it as you want, then.”
“Mom!”
“Enough of this. I got to fix supper. You staying?”
“Of course, mom.”
A week later Carlene burst into her mother’s home. She was practically giddy. Charlotte said, “What’s got you so agitated?”
“The university wants to expand their collection of historical artifacts and they’re really wanting stuff from World War I.” She waited for a specific response that never came.
“Mom!”
“That’s interesting.” Charlotte continued stirring her pot of pinto beans. She never looked up.
“The bandana, mom. That’s just what they’re looking for.”
“No, ma’am.”
“It’d be in a museum, mom.” Charlotte, focused on her cooking, didn’t see the rolling of her daughter’s eyes. Carlene looked over to the framed source of her grief and seemed to be imagining a paint-by-the-numbers substitute.
“That bandana is family. It’s right where it’s supposed to be.”
“They’re paying money if they like something–real money. They got a grant.”
“You don’t sell family, darling.”
“It’s an historical artifact.”
“You’re trying too hard, daughter.”
Carlene took a moment to take in a deep breath. “They have an appraiser. I’ve met him.
“I’m sure you have.”
“He’s real interested in that bandana. Can I at least bring him over to look at it?”
“Of course, dear.” Charlotte waved her right hand over the top of the bubbling pot and breathed in the earthy aroma. Her glasses fogged up and she took them off. “That’ll do. Are you staying for supper?”
Carlene showed up the next morning with the appraiser. Charlotte was waiting with a tray of coffee and cookies when she heard the knock on the door. Stedson Alborty was not exactly what she expected. Instead of a “university type,” he was a large, handsome man dressed in blue jeans and a work shirt. He wore a baseball cap emblazoned with LSU, Louisiana State University, in gold on a dark purple background. His eyes went immediately to the framed bandana.
“May I examine the—”
“Not to be rude, Mr. Alborty, but let’s chat a bit first.” Charlotte gestured to the couch and chairs around her coffee table. “Why are you so interested in what my daughter calls a ratty old thing, Mr. Alborty?”
Carlene looked away.
Alborty finished a sip of coffee. “Stedson, please. Call me Stedson.”
“Certainly.” Charlotte tended to be more formal than her nature when meeting people for the first time. She was not standoffish, merely observant.
Alborty was very polite and he made a fine and only a mildly passionate presentation. He spoke of the need for preserving history. He called it “real history,” the memories and artifacts of people who were really “there.” Charlotte eventually began nodding in agreement. Carlene nodded so vigorously that she was in danger of pulling a neck muscle. Alborty said, “I have a substantial budget. More than that, if I don’t spend it all, I’ll never get a bigger acquisition budget next year.”
“What exactly does that mean to me, mister . . . Stedsen?”
“It means I pretty much have to offer you more than top dollar for your bandana.” He smiled and scribbled a dollar figure on a notepad he carried in his pocket.
“This is quite a sum for a ratty old thing.”
“Mom!” Carlene reached over and took the notepaper. “Oh, my!”
Alborty said, “Like I told your mother, this really is a one-time offer.”
“Oh, mom, you have to. You just have to.”
Charlotte leaned back into her couch and thought for a long moment. She looked at her daughter. “This will make you happy?”
“Me. And a lot of other people. A museum, mom!”
Charlotte looked over to the bandana in its cheap plastic frame. It had slipped again and was hanging at an angle. She sighed and said, “If that’s what you want . . .”
Alborty sat up straight and seized the opportunity. “Thank you, Mrs. Tetrozoa. For me and the university. And for the people who will see this in the museum. I will be by in the morning with a check and you can hand over the bandana then. Is that all right?”
Charlotte nodded.
Alborty and Carlene stayed only long enough to be polite before leaving. As she heard them drive away, Charlotte leaned back and took in a long look at the frayed and stained bandana.
Alborty arrived at ten a.m. the next morning. Charlotte was not in the least bit surprised to see her daughter with him. When they entered the house, Charlotte was nearly frantic.
“I’m sorry. I am so sorry, Stedson. Carlene. I am so, so sorry.”
“Mom, what happened?”
Charlotte motioned them farther in and led them to the kitchen table. An old cardboard box rested on the edge. “I . . . I wanted to make sure our bandana would be, you know, proper for a museum.” She wrung her hands nervously.
“Mom?”
Charlotte ducked her head and reached into the box. “I wanted it clean and pressed for you, Mr. Alborty.” She pulled out what looked like a large white handkerchief.
Stedson leaned in for a closer look. He saw a hole the size of a WWI German bullet in one corner. A badly washed-out letter T dominated the center. The blood stains were completely gone. “I am so sorry.”
Stedson’s shoulders sagged just a bit. He took in a deep breath and exhaled. “Well, Mrs. Tetrozoa, obviously . . .”
“Of course. I understand. I really am sorry. I just wanted to—”
“That’s all right. Things happen. Your loss is our loss, but I understand how you must feel. I, too, am sorry.” He seemed anxious to leave.
Charlotte folded the white cloth. “Well, at least I still have something.”
There was not much left to say. Carlene had bummed a ride with Alborty, so they left together. When they were gone, Charlotte walked over to the wall where the framed bandana had been. She reached behind the nearby couch and retrieved a paint-by-the-numbers painting of a farmhouse on a rural road. It was something she grabbed at a neighbor’s yard sale the afternoon before. She hung it and stepped back, nodding with appreciation.
That evening before going to bed, Charlotte pulled open a bottom dresser drawer in her bedroom. She pulled out the old plastic frame still holding in the old bandana. She wiped off a fingerprint smudge, smiled with approval, and placed the heirloom back in the bottom drawer.
Social media are sometimes full of surprises! I am not a frequent player, but somehow I got on Align. In the process of many notifications flitting by, I almost overlooked Kris Keppeler’s message. She offered to read and record a Bandana story for me–and here it is. Now you can listen to my bandana berry experience.
Kris Keppeler is a much requested narrator and voice over talent. You can contact her at her website
LIVING INSIDE HISTORY: That Barbarian, Bavarian 70ies story.
Katrina, 17, lives in 2000-year-old village. And yet her historical essays stink. Success comes when Katrina plagiarizes her late grandmother’s diary and the story gets run in the paper. Now the whole village is up in arms against her. There was some old dirt and a skeleton in the closet. This is only the beginning of Katrina’s adventures, because soon a real skeleton is found.
What a story! Katrina is looking for love in all the wrong places until she starts seeing ghosts. Now the Celtic Stallion is out in English! The Celtic Stallion now also rides the American plains.
St. George’s Chapel on the hill, minus the horse ghost, painted by my grandmother Katharina
The original “Keltenschimmel” started in my Bavarian home town. There was a sensational archaeological find in the village: in the year 2000, a Celtic princess was unearthed during the renovation project of an old farm house. Imagine—she comes to life again. And imagine all the other ghosts in between. St. George’s Chapel on the hill had at least four of them: the dragon, the hound, the witch, and the white stallion.
I sat down and wrote the Celtic Stallion then, perhaps in a pursuit of preserving the “good old days.” My book of coming-of-age amidst village myths—between a Celtic burial 2000 years ago and the Comanche who roamed the area during WWII—spilled forth on the pages. I could not have turned this off. But why this urge?
Votive paintings, such as these, are part of a church robbery in the story that Katrina gets blamed for
Was I processing my past? Perhaps. Back then, as a teenager, I could feel the exclusion and sublime bullying caused by my pursuit of higher education. Was I processing the present? Maybe even more so. Conglomerate farming and the insanity of modern times had knocked tradition to the ground. Nobody went to church, but everybody was at the Corn Field Party. Does this show my age? I (hypocrite) am not such a good church goer myself. And, finally, I could not handle the fact that another archaeological study was done towards clearance for a hypermarket building permit. All that was discovered there, is now buried under the sales floor of the grocery store. And even more farmland fell victim to the new commercial district.
This could be the hen house in which Katrina dueled with her type writer against grandpa’s peening clanks
Enough of that. My story plays in a small, 70s, Bavarian village, when the world was mostly still in order. Or so Katrina, the 17-year-old high school student thought. Oh, well, not so OK for a capricious teenager. Katrina was looking for love in all the wrong places, wrote the worst essays ever, and sparred against her mute grandfather in a duel of clattering noises: he sharpening his scythes, she hacking away at her typewriter in the hen house. Needless to say, a modern girl who lives in an old-fashioned village is bound to run into trouble. And ghosts as well. The Celtic Stallion indulges you with the Otherworld or Adventureland of modern German mythology. Be entertained by Katrina’s mishaps and the devious ghosts of St. George’s Hill: the witch, the dragon, and the white stallion. They all come to life, one way or another. History never dies.
The Celtic Stallion is now available in English on Amazon.
The German reading at the Grabenmühle near my hometown was staged with love and care. We had four presenters, who practiced their stage skills. Harp music and singing, were all part of it.
Do you know what’s a cycle? Not a bi-cycle. Not an orb. Not the menses. I am talking about another natural cycle. The water cycle. I found one of the best examples, which every fourth grader must know, painted on a trash can during a Scottsdale (AZ) festival season. No natural resource is more important for Arizona (and the world) than the water (and air).
Water cycle painted on trash can in Scottsdale, AZ
Isn’t this a fabulous illustration? And it’s painted on a recycling can. So much more meaningful as an invitation for recycling. These images are fairly old, but I fell in love with the educational art and kept the snapshots for a reason.
The water cycle goes round and round, no saying where the start is: precipitation, collection, evaporation, condensation, precipitation . . . back to the beginning. The water has an infinite loop. Nothing gets lost.
Not so re-cycling (what’s in the blue trash can, not what’s painted on it). As I am spending time in a recycling-bound country, Germany, an idea popped into my head: as hard as we may try, recycling is not a true cycle. At best, it’s a loop. Why?
Take plastic, for example. First we pump mineral oil out of a well from the earth. This goes to a refinery, to a plastic factory, which makes the plastic bottle. From there, the plastic bottle goes to the beverage manufacturer (maybe as throw-away water bottle), to the distributor, to the store, to the consumer (us), to the blue barrel, to the sorting & recycling company, to the shredder, to the melter . . . and then WHAT?
We can’t put that darn plastic back into the ground, not as a liquid anyway, maybe bury it in a dump. We can’t pump the oil back down there. The Jack is out of the box. And, no way, Mike Wisausky, we can’t “put that thing back where it came from.”
Duh. What’s new. We know that already, you may say.
But the plastic has a re-cycle, right? Let’s take a look. Where does the recycled plastic go? Melted into some other containers. Again and again. How long? Hard to say. Until it floats in the ocean as either bottles or micro beads and enters the unavoidable process of the food chain. It’s been said, how sad, we all eat plastic now. Eat your plastic, kid!
Recycling, is not a true cycle, but it is still the best we can do. We humans are ignoring the Sorcerer’s Apprentice problem all too often. We do things just because we can. And for the money. We say, let’s deal with the consequences (of plastic) later, or not at all? Let the kids deal with it?
Avoid the plastic where you can and recycle the rest. America has much room for improvement recycling-wise. In Germany, most beverage bottles (plastic & glass with a deposit) go straight back to the store. Any other glass (wine bottles, jars, etc.) must be dropped at the glass collection station sorted by color. German beverages, in the first place, come in crates (12 or 20 bottles), also with a deposit on them. These bottles are washed and refilled.
How about that, America? Put that thing back where it came from. At least return all your bottles to the store. The merchants have to take them back! They made money off of them. Ditto! The bottles are their responsibility.
Here is a taste of my my bandana story. It’s about the red snuff kerchief that my Opa always carried along. But how will this story end?
Opa took me to the St. Leonhard’s horse parade. I was 2 years old
“Opa has picked berries for you!” Mom was in her typical taking-care-of-business mode. She rushed past me through the kitchen with a load full of washed laundry. She had no time to waste before heading back out into the field.
This was the berry-picking and haymaking season in my Bavarian village. You could tell by the tattered house dress Mama was wearing. Her hair was tied under a headscarf. Her skin was flushed. On her upper arms tan lines showed from longer sleeves. She was ready to jump on the tractor as soon as the sheets were hung.
I flung my school bag into the corner of the bench. Then I dropped my four letters down and grabbed the plate, warmed-up pancake soup and a schmalznoodle. For those who do not know, pancake soup is a clear broth with plain omelet strips cut into it, and schmalznoodles are sticks of fried bread. Beggars can’t be choosers, but I could smell the berries before Mama had set the bowl on the table.
“Here, Opa picked these for you!”
Wow, raspberries, blueberries, strawberries. They glistened like sumptuous little jewels. “Where did he find them?”
“Inside the Marsh Moss clearing. Didn’t take him but 15 minutes to scoop these up.”
Grandpa always looked out for us kids, me and my three younger siblings. He helped us build bird houses, constructed an underpass along the creek so that we didn’t have to cross the busy state road, and made sure to drive us home at 6:30 with a stick.
“How did he carry them home? Did he have a basket?”
“Nope.”
“His hat?’
“Nope, his bandana. You know how he ties these knots in it.”
“His bandana?”
“Yes. Eat up. I must go now. There is some cream in the fridge. Aren’t you getting a royal feast today! Thank your Opa for it.” And out she was. Seconds later, the small tractor puttered off the yard.
Gramps’ bandana? The berries suddenly didn’t smell so good any more. I didn’t dare imagine all the places the bandana had been. And he never put it in the wash. He insisted on washing it himself, usually in the rainwater trough under the gutter spout. Easy grandpa logic. That red bandana was his only one. His lucky bandana. He couldn’t do a day without it. So, he washed it himself, as needed.
As needed? I gagged. I kept on ladling my pancake soup, very slowly. Gramps’ bandana, was it washed? When was it washed last? I ogled the sparkling berries in front of me. And my imagination went wild. Poisoned by a snuffed out bandana?
Should I risk a light bandana poisoning? It was a hot day today, and gramps for sure had wiped his sweat on his bandana. Or was I in for a severe intoxication from snuff snot? That is, my gramps was addicted to stuffing Gletscherprise (Glacier Pinch) up his nose and then blow it out like an erupting volcano into his almighty bandana. Brown goop. That and the recent bloody accident had made the “bandana berries” most unpalatable to me. Three days ago, gramps had spliced not only the kindling but also his palm with his splicing knife. Blood was dripping. “No big deal,” he had growled after mom had rushed to bring him a bandage. He beat her to it and wrapped his good-fortune bandana around his palm. Maybe it had curative properties? The next day the cut was gone.
Where all had the bandana been? I stared at the bowl of berries. The soup was finished and I was still hungry. I pulled the bowl closer and sniffed the stunning aroma.
Bandana berries—to eat or not to eat was the question
How do you think the story ends? Send me your (alternate) ending for this bit. It would be great fun to contribute your guesses to my story.
NOTE: My webmail isn’t jinxed. It just may ask you to declare yourself as human. So write in any time if you’re not an android. If you’re getting a weird reply, it’s my spam blocker.
Kas-Pressknödel (panfried cheese dumplings), are an Alpine hiker’s delight. They are often served with a potato salad, cucumber salad, or sauerkraut to juice them up a bit. These “cheesy dumplings” are delicious either way. I have this recipe from my sister Kathi. If she cooks it, I guarantee, it’s quick-and-easy.
You need:
1 day-old French bread loaf
3 eggs
ca. 1 cup milk
ca. 200 g savory, diced mountain cheese (Gruyere, for example)
1 large onion, diced
2 bundles fresh parsley, chopped
salt, pepper, garlic, maybe a chopped jalapeño, season to taste
The hardest part of this procedure: slicing up the French bread ca. 5 mm thick, since no “Knödel-Brot” slicers exist in America. Then pour the warmed milk over the bread chips and let it soak in.
After 30 minutes add all the other ingredients and mix up the paste by hand. You should be able to form palm-size balls to fry in your heated pan. Or you can drop portion-sized piles into the hot oil with a spoon. Cook them on moderate or low heat to a crispy nice color on both sides.
These Sparkly Thumbprint cookies are delightful on any occasion, not only Christmas. They have been adapted from a traditional German recipe, “Husarenkrapferl.”
Dough:
250 g flour
1 flat tsp baking powder
100 g sugar (or less)
vanilla flavor (sugar or liquid)
dash of salt
3 egg yolks
150 g butter
Decoration:
1 egg white (as left over from above)
sugar sprinkles
raspberry jelly
Pile the dry ingredients on your work surface (flat counter, or we use a large wooden board), make an indentation for the eggs in the middle, chop the butter in pieces and arrange the flakes around the pile. Mix the egg with the dry stuff and gradually knead all the ingredients together into a cohesive, smooth ball of dough.
Production:
Divide the dough in 4 parts, and roll each one into a 1-inch-thick sausage. Then cut the sausages into 1-inch-long pieces. Voila! Then roll each piece into little balls.
Decorating:
Dip each ball first into the egg white, then into the sprinkles, and set them on a baking sheet. With the end of a cooking spoon, make an indentation into the sparkly balls. Then fill each hole with a dab of raspberry jelly.
Baking:
Bake the Sparkly Thumbprints at 325 F for about 25 minutes. They should be golden brown. (If you were overly generous with the butter, as we were, they may turn out a little flat.)
My idyllic hometown, Ascholding, received a hodge podge of oversized industrial buildings over night. Some structures are large enough to park the whole church inside. Was this necessary? Where will this insanity end?
Im Jahr 2018 hat das idyllische Bachzeilendorf Ascholding ein Gewerbegebiet erhalten. Hier (anklicken) ein Überflug mit den Dohlen vom Kirchturm: Zuerst das wunderbare Alpenpanorama, dann das industrielle Schachtelwerk.
Da haben wir den Salat–ein “Gewerbegebiet.” Die zwei größten “Flugzeughallen”, überdimensionale Fremdkörper, verhindern nach allen Richtungen den Ausblick. Solche Mammutbauten gehören nicht einmal an den Rand des idyllischen Bachzeilendorfes. Bieten die neuen Firmen den Ortsansässigen viele gute Arbeitsplätze an? Die landwirtschaftlichen Felder sind für immer zerstört, die Sozialstruktur verstädtert.
So war es früher einmal: auf dem Feld links unten steht jetzt das Gewerbegebiet.
PHASE II: Geht es jetzt so weiter? Mehr als 80 Parkplätze für den Edeka Markt (insgesamt ca. 120 Stellflächen mit Kindergarten eingerechnet) sollen noch kommen. Aber brauchen doch mehr Grünflächen und weniger Abgase, um das Global Warming zu reduzieren? ABER: Die nächste Bauphase (II).
Wie viele Parkplätze braucht ein Lebensmittelladen in einem 1000-Seelen-Dorf?
So viele wie der Holzwirt (40 geteerte, 30 auf Kies)? Oder so viele wie der Netto in Egling? Genau 68, aber Egling ist größer. Oder so viele wie das Kaufland in Geretsried (120, wenn ich mich nicht verzählt habe)? Welcher Parkplatz ist jetzt da am schönsten?
PHASE Baustelle mit Keltengrabung–2019, siehe Schotterfeld
PHASE EDEKA und Kindergarten–2020–Siehe Mega-Markt
We did it again. We do Kaltenberg on every German trip. Look, here is the Grand Entry. The Kaltenberg Medieval Jousting Show and Marketplace is hosted at Kaltenberg Castle, the residence of the Duke of Bavaria.
Tonspuren, Gedichte von Gisela Baudy, ist ein lyrischer Zirkel in zehn Stimmungsbildern des Sich-Suchens, Überwindens, Heimat-findens. Foto-Illustrationen von Chris Baudy und Gisela Baudy.
Tonspuren, bedenke: Der Weg ist das Ziel.
Lebensreise
Werden
der du warst
bevor die Flügel brachen.
Werden
der du bist
trotz Flügelbruch.
Das Leben bringt jedermann(frau) Abstürze und Flügelbrüche. Aber daran kann man arbeiten: „Der vorliegende Gedichtzyklus will allen Traumatisierten Mut machen”, schreibt die Autorin.
Aus Tonspuren spricht die persönliche Geschichte der Erzählerin mit zwei Identitäten (Reflektion= Spiegelbild und Original). Die Charaktere im Dialog heißen Clarissa und Alaine (alleine? ihr Alter-Ego).
Wieso der Titel Tonspuren?
Weil alle schrägen, dunklen, hellen Töne des Lebens auf jeweils eine Tonspur gesetzt werden, wie eine Symphonie der Seele. Manchmal aufrührend, manchmal träumerisch, in allen Gefühlslagen. Mit Tönen und Klängen gehen wir auf die lyrische Reise, wo sogar die Stille klingt.
„In uns allen leben Töne aus Worten und Bildern, die unsere Sehnsucht nach einem Zuhause zum Klingen bringen. Es sind stille Klänge aus Erde und Vogelflug.“
Haste Töne, los geht’s. Tonspuren führen uns auf eine lyrisch-literarische Reise mit erlebten Stationen. Jeder Mensch kennt die Knackpunkte und Neugeburten im Laufe des Lebens. Aber die Absicht der Autorin ist übergreifend. Nicht nur die persönliche Heimat wird durchwandert, sondern auch das Menschengedenken und Menschlichkeit gegen den Überdruss der Gleichgültigkeit, Bosheit und der Erderwärmung. Die Tonspuren suchen Auswege aus verschiedensten Krisen. (Wenn nur jeder aufwachen würde.)
ZUM BEISPIEL: Die Wende einer Beziehung
Brandstätte
Was hast du erwartet?
fragte er die Liebende
und kehrte den Rücken.
Flog zurück in ein Land
das er nie als seine Heimat
bezeichnet hatte.
Die Liebende blieb stumm zurück.
Jahre vergingen.
Die Brandstätte blieb.
Was sie erwartet hatte
war einfach:
dass er die Frage nie gestellt hätte.
Wer liebt
erwartet nichts.
Er liebt.
Eigentlich sind lyrische Betrachtungen nicht so sehr „mein Bier“. Poetische Prosa dagegen hat aber immer eine Anzugskraft auch mich gehabt. Von daher konnte ich Gisela Baudys Tonspuren und so manche Scherben wertschätzen. Der Autorin Wortwendungen sind tiefgründig und spitzfindig zur selben Zeit. An den kurzen Einsichten ist keine Silbe zu viel. Mit Oxymorons und Synästhesie bringt sie die Stille zum Klingen. Deshalb wollte ich mich dieser Besinnungsreise überlassen und auch einmal in mich hineinhorchen. Jeder hat in sich Dissonanzen, die entstehen wenn die Erwartungen von der Realität eingeholt werden.
In Stücke
Ich zerschneide
meine Tränen
in Stücke Papier
und werfe sie zum Abfall
meiner Träume.
Gisela Baudys Tonspuren Zyklus ist nicht zum schnell Leben oder schnell Lesen gedacht. Auch wenn man eine Betrachtung zum fünften Mal zu sich nimmt, entdeckt man wieder neue Facetten. Diese Lebensreise ist extrahiert von sehr persönlichen Erfahrungen und will jedem Mut machen, wieder Kind zu werden. Außerdem: um an sich selber zu arbeiten, braucht man nicht unbedingt einen Therapeuten.
V
Doktor
Sie müssen
sich nicht beeilen.
Wirklich nicht.
Ich sterbe
auch so.
Das sitzt. Die Grenzen der ärztlichen Kunst und Motivation. Vielleicht braucht man einen anderen Doktor als den mit dem Stethoskop. Einer, der auch ohne Hörgerät die Tonsplitter wieder richtet. Die Seele repariert.
Aber ganz so schwarz muss man nicht sehen. Man kann sich wieder finden:
Gewissheit Erde
Dem Flüchtigen
Konturen geben
im Wort.
Dem Wort
die Gewissheit
der Erde geben.
Den Alltag vertagen.
Hell werden.
Werden.
So ist vielleicht das Ankommen bei sich selber, sobald dem Kindlein Flügel wachsen, sobald es verloren gegangen ist. In diesem Sinne sind wir alle auf bestimmte Tonspuren geeicht. Die Hoffnung liegt im Licht.
Die Ton- und Wortmalereien haben einen Sinn: die innere Heimat in sich zu finden. Aber nicht nur für den Einzelfall (ego), sondern als Nachhaltigkeit (Sustainability) für uns alle.
Der erste Schritt
Der erste Schritt
die Sonne
in sich einzulassen
ist auf alten Wunden
und Sehnsüchten
nicht zu bestehen.
Wunderschön. In einer kleinen Rezension kann man mit dem kunstfertigen Wortspiel (vielleicht ist es kein Spiel) nicht konkurrieren. Jeder muss es selber erlesen. Was mir am besten gefallen hat, waren die Schattierungen des schwarzen Humors. Und das folgende Mantra in der Einleitung:
„In diesem Sinne sind wir alle Kinder der Erde. Es ist das Kind in uns, das dem Nachbarn die Hand reicht und die Erde für alle bewohnbar macht. Wir müssen es nur suchen wollen.“
Und dazu eine Lesung im Hamburger Raum: Am 21. März 2017 las Gisela Baudy (2. Reihe, 1. von links) ihre Gedichte bei einer bei einer Gemeinschaftslesung in Hamburg-Heimfeld (Kulturverein“Alles wird schön”, Friedrich-Naumannstraße 17, 21075 Hamburg) bei der Suedlese-Aktion der Künstlervereinigung Südkultur. Die Lesung ist der Auftakt der Literaturtage, die vom 20. März bis zum 14. April 2017 in ganz Hamburg-Harburg stattfinden.
Buch Bestellungen:
Gisela Baudy, Tonspuren – Lyrisches Tagebuch, Verlag Stimme fürs Leben e.U., Wien 2016, 188 Seiten mit zahlreichen Fotos von Chris und Gisela Baudy. ISBN 978-3-903032-08-8. Verkaufspreis 19,90 Euro.
Bestellungen bei Stimme fürs Leben.
ODER bei Amazon oder die kostenlose Hotline der Buchhandlung Osiander 0800-9201-300.
Renate Mousseux gathered with her friends Bruno, Barbara, and Brigitte at the Fountain Hills Gallery after a body language presentation. Like many, they had been looking forward to Renatle’s Mosaic of Life with suspense.
“Renatle, Mosaic of Life” is now out on Amazon. The cover looks sassy and the story is full of suspense. I am so excited! Renatle’s mosaic of life adventures came beautifully together in her memoir. It is out on Amazon as paperback, plus a digital version on Kindle. Here is a review from the Fountain Hills newspaper.
YOU ARE INVITED: Friday, January 27, 2017, 7 p.m. Renate will be reading excerpts from her book at my house. Please RSVP to my e-mail.
One fine day, I chatted Renate up after the German luncheon about doing a story about her for Amerika Woche. Right there my own life changed. For this interview, Renate and I met in an Indian restaurant. She gave me the full scoop about her body language expertise—and some playacting examples. We had a fabulous time.
Several weeks later, Renate approached me about writing her life story. I had no idea what all was to come in Renatle’s Mosaic interviews. I was in for some genuine enrichment.
We started taping Renate’s story. Once a month I drove to her house on top of a Fountain Hills peak and listened to her true tales. War times in Germany. Concealed at birth. Prankster childhood. Love gone awry. Down and out in Los Angeles. More than once, my jaw dropped. Renate laid it all out. Barred none.
I won’t give away more than what is on the back cover: Renate was the love child between a French jazz trumpeter and a German patrician business woman. Renate’s questionable existence was concealed from the family for months. Aunt Liesel finally discovered the baby and brought her home.
As a toddler, in 1944, Renatle survived the infamous Tigerstorm carpet-bombing attack on her hometown Freiburg (Germany). The whole town lay in shambles. In that night 3,000 people died. Renate’s uncle and other good Samaritans brought aunt, grandmother, and baby Renate to a Luftschutzbunker—with nothing else but a blanket wrapped around their nightgowns.
Yes, but her mother and father, Trudel and Emile, were buried alive in rubble of the dental lab where they worked. By a miracle, both were rescued days later and put into a hospital for a year. They never fully recovered . . . and then, mother . . .
Tears welled up in her eyes. She asked me to stop the recorder.
More pauses were to come. Why did Renate go to America? She was expecting and wanted to give her baby a home—but not a brute, bisexual, drug-addicted father. Renate escaped, but barely. Finally, things seemed to fall into place in Arizona, with her teaching immersion classes for French and German. It all seemed good, or was it? Her new husband had charm and pedigree.
“I never dwell on the past, even though I sometimes cry”, Renate said. She is one of the most cheerful and people-oriented persons I know. And like any serious Girl Scout she is looking to do at least one good deed a day. She always carries a gift for unforeseen occasions in her purse.
Now it’s two years later and the book is done. “Renatle” turned out well. And so did her book.
Since we started writing, Renate has made many appearances at TV stations commenting on presidential candidates’ body language or the expression of witnesses in high profile murder cases. She started her flourishing BodyLanguage4Success business after her retirement as an Arizona foreign language professor for almost 30 years. More information at BodyLanguage4success
All this fame could have spoiled Renate, but quite to the contrary she is a charming, helpful, and very open person. A gem. And I learned a great deal from her. Each interview and every editing meet was a lesson for me. Here we are at the Fountain Hills Gallery presenting Renatle’s Mosaic.
Andreas Kauer giving a tour of his woodworking shop to my friend Maria.
Sound soothes, sound heals—sounds good to me. Music always chases away my bad thoughts. It gets me into the swing of writing. Mellow music, especially guitars, brings out the best of my ideas.
We all know about Tibetan singing bowls, right? My daughter bought one in Sedona. But sound chairs and sound beds were new to me. I had never done any music therapy. What is it all about, I asked Andreas the Eibenklangzauberer from my home town Ascholding. He calls himself the “Yew Sound Wizard” for deep reasons. “Just try it,” he said.
Relaxing Sounds
I sat for 20 minutes on the sound chair made from curly maple. I let the continuous harmonics that Andreas played on the strings of the backrest wash all over me. It was so relaxing, sitting down, letting go—beautiful, easy, flying like a baby to be born.
I am not a candidate for yoga or meditation, too high strung. Yet these harmonics induced their magic on me. I eloped from my daily confines and my inner dictator. Yeah, now I am in love with these musical chairs for healing.
“On its back the sound chair has 32 steel strings but only two different notes”, Andreas explained. He built one of his two sound chairs himself. His favorite therapy instrument is made of yew wood.
Rare Woods: Yew
“The yew wood is the most important wood for me”, Andreas said. “It is among the oldest trees and has the calmest radiance.” As this rare wood is strictly prohibited from commercial use in Germany, he had the rawlings brought over from Ireland.
“I have furnished my therapy room entirely with sculptures and therapeutic instruments made from yew wood”, Andreas said. The yew artifacts create an inspirational atmosphere. Mind you, every part of the tree except for the berries is highly poisonous. But the energy is very positive.
And the poison is good in just the right dosage. Extracts from the yew’s needles—the tree resembles a scraggly stunted spruce—contain the chemical taxol. Known for its healing properties since ancient times, the yew is now being formally investigated as a cancer cure. Yew trees are rare and grow very slowly. They had become almost extinct in Europe in the Middle Ages because they were the best material for longbows.
Bottomed Out
“When I had reached the bottoms, living out of my car like a migrant, the yew trees talked to me,” the healer said. Several years ago, the formerly successful businessman had crashed from overwork and burnout. During his recovery he studied up on the energies of different woods. The yew tree spoke to him, like it did to the ancient druids. He sensed the energy transpiring from an eternal source.
Andreas’ clients have had amazing experiences on the sound chair. One man with a pinched nerve tossed away his cane after the session. Not every transformation is this drastic, but everybody feels better after the sound massage.
“It is my dream to build a sound bed from yew wood for cancer patients,” Andreas said with his calm and soothing voice. “I strongly believe the spirit of the yew can attune the cellular level. There is another hope for cancer patients.”
When Andreas makes his wood sculptures, he removes the decayed matter and sets the innate beauty free. He sands the wood ultra-fine and polishes the orbs and other pieces scrupulously with natural oils. He wants the therapy tools to be comforting to the touch. And here are some of Andreas’ fabulous sculptures:
An Fräulein Anna Waldmann, Schmiedmeisterstochter
In Schönegg, Post Dietramszell, Oberbayern
Am 2. April 1917
Liebe Base! Die besten Grüße aus dem Lazarett sendet Dein lb. Vetter Seb. Disl . Zt. Festungslazarett II, Reliktenheim I, Saal I, Warschau
Viel Grüße auch an Eltern und Pumperer Zilly
To Miss Anna Waldmann, Master-Smith’s Daughter At Schönegg, Postmaster Dietramszell, Upper Bavaria
April 2, 1917
Dear Cousin! Fondest regards from the sickbay sends you your dear Cousin Seb. Disl. At this time from the Fortress Sickbay II, Infirmary 1, Room 1, Warsaw Many regards also to your parents and Zilly Pumperer
This is a postcard from World War I. One day I rediscovered my grandmother’s correspondence. MIND YOU: The man lies in a “Lazarett”, no telling what his wounds. I don’t think the generals would have excused him for the flu. And there he sends “best greetings.” Never mind, he was still alive. That was the important message in all postcards from the war.
Mighty Old Postcards
Growing up, I used to think, “Wow, these cards are really ancient!” I kept them together like they were, in an old tin can for tea, ever since I crossed over to the American continent. Now these postcards from the war are even more ancient. The older I get, however, the more these relics seem like yesterday. 100 years is not a long time. 100 years ago from 2016, I would have been in the middle of a World War like both of my grandmothers.
Anyway, my grandmother Anna seemed to have had galore of boyfriends, judging by the stack of postcards she received from soldiers. The pictures from the front lines were newsworthy and showed captured cannons, bombarded churches and all kind of technology of war. The backside contained brief pencil greetings, no complaints whatsoever. Everything always seemed to be good with the troops.
Mail from the Frontlines
My grandmother wrote many letters to the front lines and encouraged the “homeboys” who she grew up with. Her two brothers were drafted as well. Oma kept the postcards from the field in a neat stack, which are my treasure now. Writing to soldiers in Word War I was like sending care packages to Iraq and Afghanistan. I always wonder, did these young men come home to tell their stories? Did they perish in the trenches? St. Mihiel was near the Siegfried Line.
Erich Maria Remarque was born the same year (1898) as my grandmother. He went to war too, was wounded and wrote a book about his experiences: All Quiet on the Western Front. It wasn’t usually quiet for very long. The grenades hit with awful blasts. My grandfather never talked much about the war action. He served in the cavalry on the western front. After he returned unscathed, he had a cross made out of grenade shrapnel that he collected in the field. A token of thanks to the maker of us all.
I don’t have any postcards from World War II. But I heard from a German lady I just recently interviewed that she, at the time an art student, was also expected to send letters of encouragement to soldiers in the field.
Let’s hope we will never need any more postcards like these.
Geschrieben den 29. 5. 18
Will Dir kurz mitteilen, dass ich in Frankreich bin, geht mir bis jetzt ganz gut, und bin gesund, was ich von Dir sehe. Auf baldiges Wiedersehen, grüßt Dich Josef Lämmler
Josef Lämmler, Feld Rekruten Kompy. 4a
2. bayr. Inf. Division
Written on May 29, 1918
I just want to briefly let you know that I am in France. Until now I am doing rather well, and I am healthy, which also seems to be the case with you. Looking forward to seeing you again soon. Many greetings, Josef Lämmler
Josef Lämmler, Field Recruiting Company 4a
2. Bavarian Infantry Division
12. Juni 1918
Werthe Nanni! Komme heute endlich dazu, Dir zu schreiben. Bin noch gesund und guter Dinge und mit meinem allgemeinen Leben zufrieden. Seid ihr wohl schon fest an der Landarbeit. Wo ist dein Bruder Kaspar? Hoffe immer auf Glück und freu mich auf ein frohes Wiedersehen. Freundlichen Gruß sendet Franzi
June 12, 1918
Dearest Nanni! Finally I managed today to write to you. I am still healthy and in good spirits and content with the general circumstances of my life. I assume that you are already working hard in the farm fields. Where is your brother Kaspar? I am always hoping for luck and am looking forward to a happy reunion. Sending fond regards, Franzi
So there is no global warming? Huh? Phoenix broke its all time record high this August. The airport thermometer registered 117 F (47 C). Even our conservative, local TV station believes it now. Global warming is here to stay.
But who is to blame? I have heard good people talk a lot of nonsense, such as, “global warming is an invention of the liberals,” or “yeah, the weather is usually getting warmer between two ice ages,” or “aren’t you always looking for a problem?” Meanwhile the permafrost is melting to release its mammoth ivory. We all (and our cars and consumption) are to blame.
Don’t look into the distance. Just cross your doorstep. We in Arizona are 43 Celsius hot on average in August. The poor gnome (above) from the Snow Bowl on Mt. Humphreys worries about the safety of his home. Something is burning in California all the time. Sunset Point on highway 17 closed its restrooms for the lack of water. Darn it!
Global warming is also staring me in the face in Germany. It’s heavy too. When I helped stack the yard-long logs at my old home, nobody denied it: tornadoes are not normal for Germany. They should stay with the Wicked Witch in Kansas or Oklahoma. No, I don’t wish a tornado on anyone. But twisters in Germany are hopefully not the new normal. The result of Bavarian tornadoes: Wood here, wood there, wood everywhere. My brother’s farm has become a fortress of wooden castle walls. He and his village neighbors don’t know what to do with that much fuel. It will last them perhaps ten years.
Those desperate showers of wood are the consequence of a spring 2015 tornado. It wasn’t convenient that the storm happened right before the hay harvest. It was rather tragic too. Several people, including a young mother of two, died in the tornado. One tree trapped her way, the next one fell on top of her car. That woman was innocent.
But, then, all of us is are innocent. Or are we? We drive cars too often. We use too much energy. Which Newton law is it?
Newton’s Law of the conservation of energy states that “Energy can neither be created nor destroyed, it simply changes from one form to another”
Energy is contained in fossil fuels, but once you release the heat (and exhaust) from the gasoline, it stays around. Energy can’t go away or escape into deep space. It just shifts into different forms. Some of these forms are noxious to life on the planet. The face of the earth has been changed through our exploitations and material consumption. Ditto, the exhaust and motion energy from a machine (car) are here to stay forever. As well as the coolness of the refrigerator, if you keep the door open too long. However it would be a paradoxical exercise to keep all the refrigerator doors open to cool off the global warming. We’d have to worry a few notches higher about the excess of freon eating up the ozone layer. Right, take your pick.
I felt the trees’ blood seep through the layers of my working gloves.
I picked up another stately piece of beech. It would have almost pulled me down. These one-yard split logs were heavy with their sap. They were as heavy as a “wet corpse,” the locals might have said. Too bad, these trees should have had much more time to grow. The tornado mowed them down.
This St. George is depicted in a very, very old house at the living history museum Glentleitn near Kochel am See.
I never knew that my friend Schorschi (Georg) Unterholzner was so much into saints. He usually writes Bavarian murder mysteries. In his latest publication, a pretty coffee table book “Faszinierendes Tölzer Land”, he came up with a story about a local St. George in the Bad Tölz Region. It may be a wayward myth that St. George was made into a dragon slayer, he argued. Because the name itself comes from the Greek organon, which means worker of the land. However, even land workers have turned their plough shares into swords. I believe that St. George became a warrior, because he had to defend his values. So let me have the joy to introduce to you St. George the Dragon Slayer. This fearless down-to-earth man is a saint for everyone, from Ireland to Asia Minor. Much more accessible than lofty St. Mike and hardly as nationalistic as Siegfried. Here is what I could gather about this soldierly landman and the dragons he might soon fight. Last time I checked on the dragons (above a London creature) they were still alive and well. When you travel England or Bavaria, you may spot some dragon tails. I have grown up with a dragon under one roof in my childhood home in Bavaria. It stuck its fierce head out from under the gables. This early image inspired me to write my adventure novel “Der Keltenschimmel” (The Celtic Stallion). I learned that the dragonhead was a charm against a fire catastrophe. A fire-spitter as protector. Makes all the sense in the world? Anyhow, dragons, St. George, and Celtic myths inspired my young protagonist, the hot-headed apprentice writer Katrina.
In Bavaria, dragons are lurking around every corner. The soldier’s memorial in my village is protected by St. George the Dragon Slayer and Patron of Soldiers. St. George is also the celebrity of the little village chapel (Schimmelkapelle), which is said to be built on a Celtic sacrificial site. Of course that chapel inspired all the imagination for my Keltenschimmel. It used to contain many dozens of pious votive paintings for a cure from illness or safe return from war. St. George (altar) is riding a white horse (Schimmel). Aside from the holy tangents, a ghost horse has been seen cantering around the little church and a witch livesnearby. DRAGON SLIDE SHOW
Let’s go to Munich’s Marienplatz with its neo-gothic city hall and Glockenspiel. St. Mary rules the heart of town there from her mighty column. Four little angel mercenaries at her feet fight off fierce mythological creatures. But one nifty reptile escaped the heavenly authorities. This sinister reptile is now crawling up the west corner of the Rathaus. It has always fascinated me.
Dragons rule London too! It seemed that St. George forgot to kill a few. In front of Westminster Cathedral, St. George dominates the scene, as he is also a part of the royal coat of arms at nearby Buckingham palace. But in other places dragons proudly fly about town. A dragon aggressively standing on its hind legs guards the bridge to the free City of London. Another flying reptile roams the air space around St. Paul’s.
The similarities between the British and Bavarian gothic do not end here. At the Liberty, I saw a Glockenspiel with St. George chasing after the dragon. No dragon at the Rathaus Glockenspiel in Munich, but a medieval court scene and joust. The dance of the coopers’ guild symbolizes the perseverance during times of the plague.
I have grown up with dragons nearby, such as the one under the roof of our 200-year-old Bavarian farmhouse. I was surprised that dragons were this popular in England too. The Queen’s Knights of the Garter and the Bavarian Knights of St. George share an important saint. And their dragons too.
Westminster Cathedral and St. George Column in memory of fallen soldiers
German romanticist writers had grand words when describing the multitude of colors and sentiments during autumn season. They might have gone for a leisure stroll in the forested hills behind their house and discovered “Cathedrals of Light” up in the autumn leaves. Indeed, when you look up from way below, as small as you are, into the multi-colored canopy above, you might think you are glancing into a kaleidoscope of stained glass bits.
Bunt sind schon die Wälder, gelb die Stoppelfelder und der Herbst beginnt. Rote Blätter fallen, graue Nebel wallen, kühler weht der Wind.
Colored are the forests, yellow are the stubble fields, and the fall begins. Red leaves are falling, gray fogs are wafting, cooler blows the wind.
Johann Gaudenz von Salis-Seewis
I picked the right time to experience the painted forest this year. October in Germany was one of the mildest and prettiest ever recorded. Indian summer is called “old wife’s summer” in Germany, and it really stretched far into what could be the muddy-moody that I am so familiar with. The muddy-moody can be alleviated with reading, sipping herb tea and eating the famous Lebkuchen.
Luckily, I had no muddy-moody experience. To the contrary, the skies were brilliant most of the days. I sat in a café in the remote Jachenau mountain village, drinking excellent coffee and enjoying homemade rhubarb cake with streusel. People—quite a few bikers—were basking in the sun around the Walchensee. The warming rays of the sun felt curative.
No matter where I walked, up the back slope of the Blomberg from the Waldherrn Alm, around the rural neighborhood around the Loisach or a brisk round trip through the hills, meadows, and forests of my home village, I saw decorative foliage everywhere. Many times the “Föhn” cleared the air in front of the impressive formation of the Alps so that the Zugspitze seemed to have moved closer to my village. Idyllic. The cows were still out this late in the year, and the grass was greener than ever. The regular clanking from the bells on the grazing animals lent this picture an almost Buddhist serenity. Would I soon encounter prayer flags in the trees at the top?
Of course not. Yet this part of Bavaria is full of roadside shrines or crosses for the victims of the road. Somehow many paths led me to interesting cemeteries. All gravesites were beautifully decorated, like little flower gardens. And some of the resting places had fabulous views of the mountain ranges in the distance. The vistas were nature’s creation for the relatives to enjoy in front of the departed. A comforting concept.
The splendor of colors was remarkable. I had not experienced the fall season in Germany for a long time. Many years of absence had made the leaves appear more colorful, the air more clear and the harvest moon more intense. One night I saw the blood moon, quite orange, dominating the evening sky, reminding me of the painter Caspar David Friedrich. Another night, the Milky Way sparkled as crisp as a polished Mercedes star down on me. What a “Herbst-Traum” this Germany can be.
“Kirta-Rutsche” in Hofberger’s carpentry workshop
A favorite tradition in Bavaria is the “Kirta-Rutsche.” This traditional swing, a suspended heavy board in the barn, is a hoot with the youngsters. For the Kirchweih (Patron’s Day), a special type of fry noodles are baked. During this harvest celebration, the mood is very happy.
On a whole different note, I was surprisingly “arrested” by TV actor policemen from a popular Krimi series, Hubert (Christian Tramitz) und Staller (Helmfried Von Lüttichau). Quite a unique experience.
It had to be written—I don’t know why.
Take plastic, for example. First we pump mineral oil out of a well from the earth. This goes to a refinery, to a plastic factory, which makes the plastic bottle. From there, the plastic bottle goes to the beverage manufacturer (maybe as throw-away water bottle), to the distributor, to the store, to the consumer (us), to the blue barrel, to the sorting & recycling company, to the shredder, to the melter . . . and then WHAT?
Recycling, is not a true cycle, but it is still the best we can do. We humans are ignoring the Sorcerer’s Apprentice problem all too often. We do things just because we can. And for the money. We say, let’s deal with the consequences (of plastic) later, or not at all? Let the kids deal with it?
