TOUCH THE STONE

A Christmas Story

Foreword

There was a time in my life when I wanted to be a writer. I was excellent at writing essays. But I really sucked at writing fiction. All of my stories were autobiographical, with some slight exaggerations. And I always wanted to write a Christmas story. I grew up with “A Christmas Carol” and “The Elves and the Shoemaker.” Of course there was the TV collection we adored as kids- “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer”, “Frosty the Snowman, ” Mr Magoo as Scrooge, “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” and my personal favourite “A Charlie Brown Christmas.”.So this subject seemed difficult, as everything has already been said.

So when I turned sixty, I decided it is now or never. I summoned up some true events from my life, a strange old woman who dared us to enter her yard and touch a large stone, another elderly woman who baked goodies every Sunday and talked ceaselessly about her diseased husband. I recalled a strange cook I knew in the army who had memorised the little speech Linus made during the Peanuts Christmas special. Then I remember my first year stationed in Germany as a young soldier and took part in a USO sponsored event and celebrated a Christmas meal with a German family. Being in Europe so far away from home I was also reminded that my cousin Arthur died here from the Spanish Flu, and I reflected on how lonely and homesick he must have felt.

I knew there was a Christmas story somewhere in there, one I had possibly missed while experiencing these various events. I added the missing ingredient, another one of my favourite subjects, “Love”, and the rest just wrote itself in a series of continuous conversations and metaphors.

We use metaphors the world over when we communicate with one another and these metaphors usually operate at a conceptual level. For example, people will typically use language about journeys to discuss the history and status of a love affair. It is used in such expressions as: “we arrived at a crossroads,” “we parted ways,” “we hit the rocks,” (as in a sea journey), “he’s in the driver’s seat,” or, in basic terms, “we’re together.” In cases like these, something truly complex (like a love affair) is described in terms of something that can be done with a body, as in this story, and travel through space and time.

This Christmas Story is for you, and dedicated to Richard and Greta and for all lovers who have crossed over to the other side, eternally or temporarily, because in the scheme of things, it is all the same.

1

“Touch the stone little boy, touch the stone!”

The old woman sneered, then she repeated her mysterious command. “Touch the stone.”

Without hesitation the woman leaned forward in her chair, her interest awoken as I slowly approached the large grey stone lying protruding in the ground in front of me.

On a dare on my sixth birthday, I had finally climbed the wooden fence into her yard, as my two friends stood by at the fence, safely on the other side mind you, and watched me now in utter amazement.

“Touch the stone.” she hissed again and then she laughed out loud. It hurt my ears, it sounded to me more like a cruel cackle.

We kids had heard she was some sort of a witch. Not beautiful and harmless, like Samantha on the TV show Bewitched, but more evil and sinister, like the wicked witch from The Wizard of Oz.

The witch from Lime Street. Her house was fairly run down, (but most of the houses in the south end of my town were run down in 1964) and the grass surrounding her garden in her front yard was usually uncut and overgrown. She spent the warm New England months sitting in a wooden chair on her porch, hanging out with a few of her many cats. She usually would ignore our childish taunts, unless one of us took her up on her dare to enter her yard, and touch her stone. Then she would come alive, and smile and screech at us to come forth and do so.

No one had ever actually made it that far.

We allowed our imaginations to run wild, and knew that something awful would happen to us if we actually touched the rock. For one, it was very close to the porch, we feared she would reach out and grab us if we ever got that close to her.

Or that something way worse would happen.

I was determined that today was the day. I took another careful step forward, which left the stone only about ten feet away from me. My heart was pounding in my chest.

“Don’t be afraid little boy, come here, come on over here.”

The sound of her voice stopped me. My left foot was in the air when she spoke, and I just stopped instantly, frozen in place, like the game of Statutes we played in the schoolyard. My so called friends now laughed at me from behind. They began comically clucking and calling me a chicken.

I turned to shoot them the evil eye and as I did, my foot decided to hit the ground after all, and to my horror, I tripped and fell to the ground.

I scrambled to my hands and knees and from this angle I could see the stone even clearer. It was not that far away. I knew I could crawl to it, in seconds in fact, touch it and make a retreat before the old witch could react.

“Yes, yes, I see that you are very close now. Closer to the truth. Come forth, touch it.”

Again, her voice spooked me. I was frozen on my hands and knees. The ridiculous clucking sounds from behind me continued. Nothing like a little peer pressure to make us all do incredibly stupid things.

I began crawling, slowly but surely towards the protruding rock. I stared at it, attempting to ignore the witch. But this turned out to be impossible. She leaned forward in her chair, and became extremely excited.

“Yes, yes, that’s the spirit sonny boy, come on over here, touch the stone!” She reached out with a bony finger, pointing at it.

That was too much for me, I was certain that she was reaching out to grab me. I quickly got to my feet, and turned and ran to the wooden fence. My friends were already gone.

The fence seemed much higher to me now, and I had to reach up to grab the top. I began pulling myself up, and that was the moment when then I felt the witch grab me from behind.

I wanted to scream, but could not.

2

Then mercifully, I woke up.

I was lying in a narrow metal bunk bed. I was surprised to see my blanket was an ugly shade of olive drab green. Then it all came rushing back to me. I was in the army now.

And just four short weeks ago, I had arrived in West Germany for a three year tour.

It was Thursday, December 23, 1976. I had pulled guard duty the night before, and thus, I had the day off. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, and we were given a long weekend.

I looked around my room. There was not much to see. Across from me against the wall, stood my standard issue metal wall locker, which now contained all of my worldly processions. Next to it, my duffel bag, containing my dirty wash. On the wall, a Paul McCartney and Wings poster hung. Paul had a bright red rose in his mouth. Close by, a rusting metal desk, with my College notebook and a pencil, and my swivel chair stood in front of my window, which faced out into the main street. Actually, it was practically the only street here.

I was stationed at a tiny ordnance casern in the south of West Germany. We housed nuclear weapons, nuclear war heads to be exact, and there were only two small companies, us ordnance guys to maintain the bombs, and the MP Company, to protect us from the Russians, terrorists and no doubt, from ourselves. We were less than 100 men and women in all.

I looked at my Big Ben alarm clock, and saw I still had time to hit the mess hall for some chow. I swung myself out of my bunk and quickly dressed. I put on my wrinkled fatigues from the night before. As I laced up my boots, my thoughts returned to my strange dream.

I had not thought about the Lime Street witch for years. Mrs. Natalie Pearson; that was her real name. A widow, a rather strange woman actually; who lived alone with her cats down the street from where I grew up. Sometimes she used to ride a bike late at night through the empty streets, and laugh out loud as she did so. It was more of a cackle, a creepy high pitched laugh.

There was indeed a large rock in her yard near her porch. And she would sit there, and if we stopped at her fence to shout insults at her, which I sadly confess, we sometimes did, she would counter with her creepy taunts that we should enter her yard, if we had the guts, and come in and touch her stone.

This was once upon a long ago. And she passed away when I was eight, which I remembered well. I had never touched the stone, until one snowy day right at the age of seven, right before Christmas. But, none of my friends were there to witness my heroic feat; in fact, I never even bothered to inform them about it later on. It had been an embodiment of hope, a private moment for me.

I walked down the stairs in my barracks. I rushed through the steel door, and instantly was slapped in the face by the icy chill of the German winter air. There was snow on the ground; we had already had two snow storms this month. Once, I would have been happy to see it was going to be a white Christmas. Now, it only made me even more miserable.

I was a bit homesick. This would be my first Christmas away from home.

I had even cried a little in my room yesterday reading a letter from my mother. It cracked me up now. I was a sensitive kid, but the hardness of my childhood had toughened me up. My father, like all the other dads in the neighborhood back then, believed in discipline, and thus he spanked us boys, and I got it often. Even as a kid, I was a bit crazy and I was always in trouble. I used to cry, until eventually I tried to adopt my older brother’s hard ass attitude, and would not give him the pleasure of seeing me cry. I toughened it out. Eventually I realized it was just what parents did back then to discipline their kids. Times have changed.

But it wasn’t just dad. The south end of Newburyport was a rough place. You could get beat up just by being in the wrong place at the wrong time or even by being forced by mom to go to the local drug store down the street at night. School was not any better. Our knuckles were struck with yardsticks, and we were even slapped and cuffed in the head by some teachers. (It was not funny like the classic Gibbs cuff from NCIS)

Once, I was telling a bawdy joke to a friend sitting in front of me, when our teacher, Mr. Moore, snuck up behind me and smacked me in the back of my head with the history book I was supposed to be reading. The impact was hard enough to send my glasses flying from my head to the floor. Again, I did not cry. I was just embarrassed as I reached for my glasses, and angry, angry at myself for allowing him to sneak up on me.

Even in basic training this big boys don’t cry attitude was strictly enforced. We were having a training class in hand to hand combat. The instructor, a large, muscular man, easily got through my half-assed cover and literally punched me in the stomach and then he casually held up his knee as I involuntarily bent over from his initial blow, and thus, effectively kneed me in the chest. I tumbled to the ground winded, as tears welled up in my eyes.

I was thinking, what the fuck, I had joined the army just to get away from home, not to become a goddamn punching bag for some sick psychotic asshole. Next thing I knew, I was being lifted to my feet by my drill sergeant. He then spun me around, and held my shoulders with both of his hands. He looked me in the eyes and said, “Hox, if this was war zone, you would have been killed while lying there thinking about how unfair all of this was, and waiting for your mommy to come and wipe your fucking tears away. Grow up. Embrace the suck. Life is not fair.”

He was so right. Nothing was fair as an adult. I did join the army because I had gotten into a small town jam. Back then, there were only two ways to get away from hometown if you were a poor man. You could become a boxer, or join a rock band. I was obviously not a good boxer and I could not sing a note.

Third choice, the only other choice available- be all you could be, join the army.

Life is not fair. My army recruiter told me that I could inform the army that I wanted to be stationed in Fort Devens, which was located in Western Massachusetts. Then I could go home every weekend and be with my girlfriend. I did as instructed. And I got my soup sandwich.

The army sent me to West Germany after my four months of training and my girlfriend broke up with me a few weeks after my arrival.

So yes, I had indeed gotten tougher over the years. But yesterday I got a little emotional. The surprising tears had come as I read about the Christmas preparations back home. I shook this off now and walked down the deserted street.

I entered the mess hall, which was warm and the smell of hearty food hit me. I showed the head cook my meal card and grabbed a metal tray. There was no line. I grabbed two portions of meat loaf, lots of mashed potatoes, a handful of peas and a tall glass of milk. I saw some of my workmates at a table and joined them.

“Hey man, awake from the dead?”

“Yeah, CQ runner sucks, but at least you get the day off.” I answered.

“Did you hear about Haynes?”

“No, how could I?” I was too busy trying to touch a witch’s magic stone.

“His old man died, he is leaving today on emergency leave.”

“Oh man, that is fucked up. What could be worse than having your father die three days before Christmas?” That was a question I should have never asked.

He told me about the Red Cross calling, and the arrangements being made. I listened thoughtfully as I ate.

After I finished off two pieces of chocolate cake, I bundled up in my field jacket and left the mess hall. I walked to the company parking lot. I had bought a cheap car last week, a very cheap Italian car. That was the reason I still did not own a TV, I opted for mobility.

My Uncle Earl had sat me down over a game of chess last month and made it clear to me that I had to get off the army base and go see Germany while I was over there. I could not waste any time preparing for a future that I had no control over anyway.

The other reason I got the car, was because it now housed my best sounding music source. I bought an RCA 8-track player in the PX. I had a Panasonic equalizer and Pioneer speakers in the back. It sounded damn good.

I reached my car, a Fiat 126, and climbed in. I cranked the motor and turned up the heat. Sometimes I drove around the local villages to listen to music, other times I just sat here alone in the parking lot. The gas was no problem. We had army ration coupons, so we did not have to pay the outrageous West German tax. Thus, we were paying only a 5th of what the poor Germans were paying for gasoline.

I popped in Led Zeppelin’s latest album, “Physical Graffiti”, and let Page and Plant take me over the hills and far away. Over an hour later, I shut down, my ears ringing, and headed back to my room.

As I was passing by the Orderly Room, the door swung open and Private Dorsche poked her head out and called me. Irritated, I spun on my heels and slowly walked over.

“I was in your barracks looking for you. I have some good news for you.”

I was intrigued, but skeptical. I imagined yet another night of extra duty. Perhaps walking the perimeter fences Christmas day like I had done on Thanksgiving?

“Yes Blaine, it’s about the USO sponsored German Christmas Eve event.”

Oh yeah, that. The USO had found some German families who would allow an American soldier, living on post, to come to their home on Christmas Eve for a festive meal. At the time I thought it sounded interesting, so I signed up. Turned out that they had way more hungry soldiers than willing Germans, so the names were thrown into a helmet; and I was not picked. I had not given it a thought since.

“Maybe you heard, Haynes is on his way back to the world.” How very American of us, we referred to back home, America, as “The World”.

“He was one of the chosen few. You were next on the list. Today and a wake up. Tomorrow night you will be taken to Bad Rappenau to eat with a German family. Top’s rules? You must shit, shower and shave, dress accordingly, and be here at 1730 hours, and the truck will drop everyone off.”

“Really? I was going to write you another love letter to try to finally get you out of that uniform.” Andrea Dorsche was nice-looking. She was also one of the few women stationed here.

“How’s that been working out for you? But hey, you can try again when you get back. I promise I will read your letter lying on my bunk naked. The truck will return around ten and bring all of you back. Are you excited? German food is the joint.”

“I’m surprised. Does that count? I have not had any contact with Germans yet, other than the one place in town, the Gasthaus where that ex-GI Andy lives. But, I only ate there now and then and called home on his phone.”

There were Germans in there too, eating, drinking beer and ignoring us as best they could. Who could blame them? The war had been over for thirty years already, and yet, we were still here, drinking their beer, screwing their women.

“Well then it is all set. Top says I must remind you, you’re representing America, the US Army. Don’t laugh. You must be polite, and you must not get drawn into a political debate.”

“What? I do not know a thing about German politics.”

“No, not that you fool. Germans are increasingly against the American military presence in the world. And they are anti-nuke. Do not forget your top secret security clearance, you are not allowed to admit that we have nuclear warheads stored here.”

“What? Well that certainly cuts down the list of nice dinner topics! And how will there even be conversation? I do not speak any German.”

Actually, I did find it all a bit obscene. The locals really did not know what we had stored here. Even worse, we had Chinook helicopters flying in and out on a regular basis, transporting these war heads to and from our depot. Flying directly over their houses. How do you like those apples Konrad?

“The stipulation from the USO is that one member of the family speaks fluent English, usually it is one of the kids, who then translates for the rest of the family. Just do not get drawn into any controversial subjects. You’ll do fine. You’re actually one of the few guys I have met who doesn’t belong in the army. You don’t need to worry.”

Later in my room, I really began having second doubts. I wondered if this was a mistake. The argument raged in my head. This Christmas I wanted to sulk, be alone and bath in my misery.

“You’ll do fine. It was only a meal amongst the locals.” She said. How could I possibly screw it up? Try to cop a feel from Mom when Dad is not looking? As I dozed off to sleep, I was trying to picture what it would really be like.

You need not worry, she said. Turns out, Private Dorsche was right. It exceeded all of my expectations, it was quite the memorable evening. And as far as my strategy for living life went, it was a game changer.

3

“Touch the stone little boy.” the witch called out.

I was crawling through the grass towards the stone. I was closer than ever. I kept my eyes on it, desperately avoiding the wide eyed glare of the witch.

“Yes, yes, very good. Come, touch the stone.”

I continued crawling. The stone was very near. The witch’s taunting became louder. Against my better judgment I glanced up at her. Her eyes were blazing fire. Catching my eyes, she smiled.

“Wonderful, yes little boy, your time has arrived. Touch it now.”

I had indeed arrived. The stone was enticingly near. I could reach out and touch it. My right hand reached forward, as my left remained pressed against the ground. I stretched, and the stone was so close.

“Touch the stone.” The witch’s voice was but a mere whisper, and it was directly in my ear. “Connect the dots.”

I managed to look away from her. My eyes returned to the stone. I reached out, and my fingertips lightly caressed it. Then I pressed my hand firmly against it.

Then, I waited.

It was icy cold, but as soon as my palm was pressed against it, I began to feel heat. Then, I felt pain, excruciating pain.

I was shocked. My eyes found the witch again. She was no longer smiling, although she was obviously amused. She seemed fascinated by the sight of me touching the stone. She also seemed to be anticipating something.

The pain persisted. It had begun in my fingers, spread quickly through my hand and then shot up my arm. Now it was so widespread, I was losing my breath. It was then that the stone under my hand began to soften.

The stone was changing its shape.

I could no longer move. Thoughts of flight came and went. The pain, a charge of cold electricity of sorts was constant, but no longer overwhelming.

Now the witch’s eyes widened in delight. I followed her reaction with horror.

The stone under my hand was transforming into something, it was transforming into something oddly life-like.

The form was curled up into a ball, similar to the position I was in now. I too watched in total fascination. Then, my horror grew as I realized it was a little boy.

The boy opened his eyes. They were cold and lifeless. He slowly stretched out of his curled up shape and sat back on his heels. He looked at the witch and then turned and looked at me. His eyes showed confusion, and then seeing me, sympathy.

I could not speak. I could not move. The pain was ceasing, being replaced with an intense icy cold feeling.

The boy slowly stood up, glanced back at the witch, then he rushed past me towards the fence, and freedom. I wanted to follow his escape with my eyes, but my head would no longer move.

I could not move at all. My limbs became heavier and heavier. I sunk completely to the ground, rolling up in a tiny ball. My hands felt like lead. I stared at them, no longer able to look anywhere else.

They were changing form now. They appeared to be melting into a mass of flesh, a cold gray mass. I wanted to scream, I needed to scream, but this too, was no longer possible.

Colors were removed from my sight. I lost all feeling in my body, as the ice cold sensation completely overtook me. In the darkness that ensued, I thought I heard the witch speaking, repeatedly whispering, “Connect the dots”, but then her words were no longer clear.

And then there was nothing, nothing at all.

4

I woke up with a start. Then I literally jumped out of bed, actually thrilled that I could move at all. I paced naked around the room for a few minutes, enjoying the magnificent feeling of movement, being able to move. The little things we take for granted.

I looked at Big Ben, and saw it was already seven-thirty. I still had a half hour for breakfast. I dressed quickly, and headed to the mess hall.

As I walked, I recalled my dream. I thought about Medusa and shivered once again.

The Lime Street Witch had us all spooked, for sure. We all had our theories as to what would happen if we actually gone into her yard touched that damn stone. It never occurred to any of us that she had come up with an ingenious (although quite weird) plan just to keep kids out of her garden. We were brats, we were always jumping fences and cutting through peoples yards taking short cuts.

We were incredibly young for our age, and quite naive, contented innocent members of the last generation of fortunate children to spend all of their free time outdoors playing. This all changed radically just a few years later.

Damn. And again, Mrs. Natalie Pearson pays me an after hours visit.

Sometimes I felt like David Carradine in Kung Fu.

This sensation had increased ever since I had joined the army. I would have these childhood flashbacks, triggered by an event that reminded me of something I thought I had lost. (Like your mind Grasshopper.)

This flashback one had me confused.

I assumed because it was Christmas Eve. I had a surprise run in with Mrs. Pearson one Christmas as a kid, the year right before she died. It could also be just because this was my first Christmas away from my Milk Street home.

I reached the mess hall and Private Banks made my eggs. Banks was one of my favorite people here. He was very strange, but also, very entertaining. There was not a whole lot to do here.

Banks claimed to be a Jesus freak, and would often give us the Lord’s word of the day as we waited for our food. I never knew if they were true bible quotes or not, as most of them were a bit outrageous. Things like- “Jesus said you will be like a tree firmly planted by streams of blushing water.” Or “Jesus said that prayers are often invisible and concealed in the dark closets in the church.”

Last week he said to me, “Jesus said every word of God is a precious shield to take and dispose of.”

One time when he was serving at lunch, I was holding out my plate for him to add the French fries to my cheeseburgers. He gave me two fries. I complained, and he frowned, and then gave me two more. I said, “C’mon Banks, stop fucking around, give me my fries.” He looked at me and earnestly said, “Jesus did not approve of French fries”.

This was my first Christmas on post. I was told last week to check out the Nativity scene Banks had set up at the Chapel. He had used cardboard and drew life-sized figures of animals and people, and set them up around a small cradle. He had set a real doll inside of the cradle. The drawings were actually pretty good. But when you got close, you then saw that he had glued a real beard to baby Jesus.

I couldn’t resist and asked him about it the next time I saw him in the mess hall and he casually replied, “Now Hox, do not play head games with me, everyone knows that Jesus had a beard.”

Today, I asked him what the Lord’s word of the day was. Banks flipped my cheese and tomato omelet and replied, “Christmas waves a magic wand over this world, and low and behold, everything is softer and more beautiful.”

“Jesus said that?”

“I said that.”

“Excellent. But seriously, no biblical quote today, today of all days?”

“Ok, try this. I read this yesterday in The Stars and Stripes, The Supreme Court has ruled that they cannot have the White House nativity scene in Washington, D.C. this year. This wasn’t for any religious reasons either. They just couldn’t find three wise men and a virgin in Washington.”

Now I laughed, Banks was in a good mood. He even continued.

“Seriously, I like to compare the Christmas holiday season with the way a kid listens to their favorite story. The pleasure is in the familiar way the story begins, the anticipation of familiar turns it takes, the recurring moments of suspense, the familiar climax and the revelation ending. It is all so reassuring, especially in this horrible world we live in.”

“You ought to have a tip glass sitting here, I would throw in a quarter right about now.”

And I totally agreed with him. The commercial aspect of Christmas had left me cold ever since I stopped believing in Santa Claus. As mentioned, I was a naive kid, I believed way longer than I should have. In fact, in second grade we did a quick poll, and just two other embarrassed kids, both girls, and I raised our hands because we still believed. Maybe there were more, but they were smart enough not to admit it.

Afterwards I got punched at recess by one of the tougher kids who called me a stupid pussy for believing in Santa Claus.

But the real proof of the pudding came with a slap.

Later the same year, I found a Mammoth Mart (A local version of Wal-Mart back then) price tag on one of my presents. I got sly and after we were finished opening presents I took the toy in question to the couch and asked my mother if Santa had brought me this. She replied yes.

Triumphantly I said, “Ah ha, you liar, then how come there is a Mammoth Mart price sticker on it?”

She slapped me and sent me to my room. My older brother Fred followed me up and he was laughing, asking me if I was really that stupid or if I just had a death wish!

Sometimes I was really that stupid.

Giving presents was way more fun. But even with that, I had discovered it to be hit or miss. So this present giving and receiving aspect of Christmas was not what made the holiday sacred to me at all. Years later when I had kids, this giving became magical and never went away again, but Christmas still meant more to me than making fucking Amazon even bigger.

Christmas just seemed like a more peaceful time of year. People got together. They broke bread together. Families reunited. Perhaps happiness cannot be measured in exact terms. But it is enough that we have Christmas to remind us that love, happiness, unity and goodwill are the true things that can and do uplift our lives. And these things do not cost a cent.

And all the things that made Christmas magic were not available to me this year.

I ate breakfast with a couple of my new friends. They too were all celebrating their first Christmas away from home. But no one seemed to really mind, so I did not voice any feelings of homesickness or regret.

No sense in getting punched and called a pussy.

Once again my belly way too full, I made it back to my room, and grabbed my car keys. Back in my ancient Fiat, I fired up the motor and turned on the radio. Time for a little old fashioned S & M. I tortured myself for over an hour. It was a blast.

On AFN radio the old Christmas classics were playing nonstop. This year, they were a bit hard to take. Amongst the more modern rock and country versions of “Frosty The Snowman” or “Jingle Bells” and “Silent Night” were the beautiful classics- “Let it Snow! Let it Snow! Let it Snow!” sung seductively by Frank Sinatra; “White Christmas” sung in slow motion by Bing Crosby; “The Christmas Song” by Nat King Cole; “Winter Wonderland” by Frank Sinatra and my dad’s favorite- “It’s Beginning To Look Like Christmas” by Perry Como. Not even the incredibly annoying “The Chipmunk Song” brought a smile to my face. And what kept that dipshit Alvin so distracted that he always missed his cue?

“Happy Xmas (War is Over)” by John Lennon sure sounded great though.

It was already five years old, but somehow I could definitely imagine people still listening to it in the future.

The Vietnam War was over, but knowing American Politics, there would be many more wars.

After that nostalgic carnival ride in the car, I needed a break. I walked to the gym, and there was no one there. I grabbed a basketball, and shot hoops for another hour or so. I eventually got tired of pretending to be Larry Bird, and left.

It was nearly noon, so I found myself bound for the mess hall again. I was immediately disappointed, Banks was now off duty.

I did my lunch time special, two cheeseburgers, hot fries and yet more milk. Being eighteen to me meant that one could eat as much as one wanted, and not have to worry about getting fat. I literally could have my cake and eat it too.

Even then, I knew that eating was one of life’s utmost pleasures.

My next meal would be inside of a German home. Maybe. I was still questioning whether or not it had been a good idea.

The more I thought about it, the more I felt like giving up my spot to the next guy on the list. By the time I had placed my empty tray in the dish rack, I had convinced myself to drop out.

My father had once said to me, “Life is basically just about showing up.”

I decided against showing up today. I made a bee-line for the orderly room. The normal crew was not present, as we all had the day off. I still figured the CQ on duty could take care of this.

I was wrong.

“You must be out of your cotton picking mind Hox. You can’t drop out now.”

“Why not? I know there were others behind me in the list, I can even go find one for you in the barracks.”

“Private Hox, let me set you straight. This my man, is firmly set in stone. It is like you made a contract, you dig? Look at this, you are expected to call on the German family in Bad Rappenau. Man, they live in a very nice neighborhood. You will be treated like a fucking king. Just eat, drink lots of free beer, and enjoy yourself. Maybe they have a hot daughter, get her phone number. Spread good will.”

Spread good will? That could be open to interpretation.

I had to admit, Bad Rappenau was paradise compared to Siegelsbach, where I was stationed. It was a Spa town. They had a nice downtown area, a few rehabilitation centers, and a community swimming pool with salt water and a wave machine. For sure, there were worse ways to spend Christmas Eve when there are no available roads leading back home.

I gave up and resigned myself to my fate.

I still had some time to kill, so I spent another hour in the Fiat listening to some Bob Dylan and the best album The Beatles ever made, the White Album.

I even drove the large circle of this army post four times. I never got out of second gear, but it still felt like I was getting somewhere.

And yet another illusion of life, running daily in the hamster wheel, expecting to get somewhere. I used to make the same mistakes everyday and wondered why nothing changed in my life. So I just keep running.

Ringo finished singing “Good Night” and I climbed out of my car and stretched. I could see the Chapel, and I decided to go inside. I walked over, grinning at the bearded baby Jesus again, and went in.

It was only a large room. The makeshift altar was small, only six soldiers could kneel at a time for communion. It was barely furnished, and the wooden cross behind the altar was fairly large. The pews were army folding chairs, and there were about fifty of them set up in neat rows.

I saw one person sitting in the first row. Not surprisingly, it was Banks.

I sat down in the back, and let my mind drift back to the Immaculate Conception church in Newburyport. There were some beautiful paintings behind the altar in that church. The images were simply stunning as a kid, and I imagine, probably still stunning to bored kids today. Flying angels, heavenly clouds, blue skies, and the magnificent depiction of the Virgin Mary, who in this perspective was taken from the Book of Revelations, where it describes “a woman clothed with the sun, with the moon under her feet.” The painting also shows the Trinity and the Eucharist with people both in heaven and on earth, for together they made up the Church. God the Father is painted as an old man, representing wisdom; both the Father and the Son are shown in the act of crowning the head of the Virgin with a garland of roses. The Holy Spirit is portrayed in the traditional form of a shiny white dove.

These were marvelous images that never left me. Hypnotic beauty. Isn’t it a pity that wars are fought and people die as various religions clash and demand you worship their particular God.

As a child during mass I would just stare at these fantastic paintings and allow my mind to wander wherever it wanted to go. In retrospect, I probably spent half of my childhood daydreaming.

I sat there for about twenty minutes immersed in reflection, when Banks stood up and broke the spell. He seemed surprised to see me, and walked towards me, then he sat down in front of me, still facing the alter.

“Do you remember the Charlie Brown Christmas special on TV?”

Of all the questions I pictured him asking me, this was not one of them.

“Of course. Everyone knows Charlie Brown’s Christmas special. Why do you even ask?”

“Do you know what the most powerful moment was?”

I was pretty certain I knew this one. Time for some religious brownie points. “Do you mean when Linus explains to everyone what Christmas is really all about?”

“Yeah, but what happened during his sermon that was so important?”

“Snoopy behaved for a change?”

He shot me a dirty look. I shrugged my shoulders. Then he began speaking, in a soft voice. I had heard it all before.

“And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were so afraid.” He paused dramatically.

“And the angel said unto them, fear not: for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord.” Another pause.

“And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.”

Banks finally turned and faced me. He was smiling.

I admit, I was sincerely impressed. “Wow man, that show first came on like nine years ago, you must have watched it each and every year to memorize Linus’ little speech like that!”

“Linus did not give a little speech. That was from LUKE 2:8–14, taken directly from the bible. But never the less, what did you miss, what happened during his reciting that was so important?”

No doubt I had seen the show each and every year since it came out, except for this year, but for the life of me, I could not recall anything out of the ordinary happening as Linus spoke. I told him so.

“It was subtle, but very significant. When Linus quoted Luke and said the words- Fear not, he dropped his security blanket. He dropped it. He lost his fear. It remained on the floor for the rest of his sermon, and he only picked it up when he was finished. Isn’t that awesome? With Jesus, security blankets are rendered unnecessary.”

Again, I was impressed. “Damn Banks, next time I watch it, I will have to look for that. I guess you must really hate the commercialization of Christmas.”

“Actually Hox, Santa Claus really does have the right idea- one is better off when one only visits most people once a year.”

He turned and walked out of the chapel without another word.

I sat there for a while longer, now lost in thought. His departing remark reminded me of someone who said something similar to me a long, long time ago. She was also the first person who ever spoke to me about Germany. And oddly enough, I had been dreaming about her off and on for two weeks now.

The wicked witch of Lime Street.

5

It was December 23, 1965. I was a little kid, going door to door, asking for donations to the Catholic Relief Service, a humanitarian aid organization which helps the poor overseas. (I did not know at the time, I was also living in a poor family, right here in the USA. Where was our aid?) Father Ritchie had given us this task in Sunday School. He told us we had a moral obligation to help others, and not just at Christmas.

I was doing ok, I figured I had raised about ten dollars thus far. It was bitter cold and I looked like I was freezing my ass off, which I was, so that helped. And I was only six and a half and still cute, so that helped too.

I had to stick to my turf, and thus had not strayed from my neighborhood. I had gone around the block and was now heading up Lime Street. I reached the witch’s house and was going to just walk by, when suddenly I stopped.

I stood at the fence, and I could see the protruding hump where the magic stone lie. Naturally, it was covered with snow. We usually had snow on the ground from the end of November until the middle of March. She had seemingly swept a path in the snow from her door to the gate. I knew none of us kids ever asked her if we should shovel her walk when we made our snow shoveling rounds to earn some cash.

I could not recall seeing her on her porch very much this summer. Some of the kids said she was sick. Others said she was just hiding. The last time she taunted me with her creepy dare was the summer before. I felt brave; I was now attending grammar school. I entered the yard, and boldly walked right to the stone. But I didn’t touch it. The more she taunted me about touching it, the scarier it seemed. She got to me once again, and like a rabbit I bolted out of the yard, as I had always done.

I stood at the fence and wondered what she did in there all day long, all alone. They said she was married once, but her husband died years ago. They did not have kids. She never seemed to have company. Now she just had all those cats.

Suddenly the door opened, and there she was, the witch was standing there in the shadows looking at me. My eyes widened and my feet wanted to run, but I stood there and felt my arm rising up. I waved to her meekly.

“What are you doing there sonny boy?” Wow, even her voice sounded old.

“Nothing.” It was all I could manage to say.

“Don’t tell me nothing. Why are you staring at my house?”

“I’m not, I’m going door to door, collecting for charity for Christmas.”

“Which charity?”

“The Catholic Relief Service.”

She snickered loudly. “Oh really. That rascal Father Ritchie got you boys doing his dirty work, has he?” she said and grinned at me. I got the message and my feet got their way. I started to walk away.

“Where are you going? I didn’t say no. Come on in, no sense waiting out here in this freezing weather.” She beckoned with her hand, and suddenly the irrational fear I felt with the stone was back. She disappeared through the doorway, and left the door slightly ajar.

I stood there, part of me demanding I walk away, actually, run away. But, another part of me spoke up, a part of me which would become more and more powerful as the years rolled by.

My curiosity.

No one had ever been in her house. Just then, an orange cat poked its head out the door, and leisurely stretched, then turned and thought better of it, and went back inside.

I opened the gate. I walked the narrow path, my feet crunching in the snow, and then I made an arc around the snow covered stone, and reached the porch. I peeked into the door, and saw a small alcove. There was a litter box lying there. It was full. The smell wafting out was not very pleasant. Another door lie ahead. I stood still.

“The door’s open sonny, for Christ’s sake, come on in.”

I went in.

6

Day turned to night quickly in Germany. The shortest day of the year was only seven and a half hours long. Naturally that meant in the summer time, it did not get dark until around ten at night. But now, in the dead of winter, it was already dark at four thirty. We stood in morning formation in the dark. We got out of work, and it was dark once again. It was depressing. Sgt. Rogers, a Vietnam vet who ran the supply room, called it suicide season.

It was nearly time to depart to meet the locals. I put on my only pair of pants that were not green or denim blue. I only had one dress shirt, and that was from my army dress uniform. Normally I was a flannel shirt type of guy.

I glanced out the window, and the foreboding skies from before still held. It was not snowing. My last hope was getting snowed out. I sat down at my desk and continued working on my journal. (I was once told, girls keep a diary, guys maintain a journal.) I was still writing about Banks when a knock on my door startled me back into reality.

“Yo, what’s up?”

“Let’s go Hox, the taxi’s waiting, he’s blowing his horn.”

I cracked up. It was an in joke. “Leaving On A Jet Plane” was an army specialty song. We had all lived through it. We all loved it, especially the Peter, Paul and Mary version.

All my bags are packed
I’m ready to go
I’m standin’ here outside your door
I hate to wake you up to say goodbye
But the dawn is breakin’
It’s early morn
The taxi’s waitin’
He’s blowin’ his horn
Already I’m so lonesome
I could die

So kiss me and smile for me
Tell me that you’ll wait for me
Hold me like you’ll never let me go
’Cause I’m leaving’ on a jet plane
Don’t know when I’ll be back again
Oh babe, I hate to go

I looked out the window and saw a deuce and a half out front of the barracks. Classy I thought, being dropped off in a big, ugly green army truck. I grabbed my jacket, the blue down jacket I bought the winter before at Mammoth Mart, and I put it on as I walked out the door.

I was relieved that I did not have to sit in the back. There were only three of us heading in the Heilbronn direction, so we all sat in front with the driver. It was only a slight improvement, the heaters in these trucks generally sucked.

The ride only took fifteen minutes. We all noticed that the few houses that were decorated with lights for Christmas were all using plain white lights. Our driver, Sgt. Hall told us they also use white lights for their Christmas trees. That seemed so weird to me, and so boring.

As kids, my parents used to load us into the car and we would go for rides and look at the decorated houses. Americans went all out this time of year. Nativity scenes were basically out. Now it was Frosty the snowman, Santa and his reindeer, and bright colored lights attached to houses, roofs, trees and bushes. It was quite beautiful to look at though, we kids loved it.

Private Dan got dropped off first. He actually seemed quite nervous. We dogged him about it as he climbed out, telling him to be extra careful, last year two GI’s never returned from their dinners.

Dan scurried away quicker than beer turned to piss.

I was next. We entered a nice street, with relatively big houses lining both sides. The truck pulled up to number 29, and I sat there looking out.

“Damn it Hox, just go. And don’t be the fucking Grinch in there, just relax and enjoy yourself.”

“Roger that Sgt. Hall.”

“Remember, I’ll be back in four hours, be there, be square.”

I jumped out. I was thinking that line was definitely square enough that Eddie Haskell would have probably even smacked Wally if he had ever used it.

There was a small yard in front of the house. This was surrounded by a waist high metal fence. I found the gate and walked through. I stood in front of the door, and the doorbell was lit up, as was their name- Jansen. I suddenly felt a little nervous. Now I understood Dan.

These damn Germans. The house was beautiful. This would be the first German house I had been inside of. I had been in a couple of restaurants; I had been in some nice stores downtown. All I could say is, wow.

More or less, I shared the same reaction John Lennon had when he first came to Germany less than 20 years ago. “This is the country that LOST the war?”

It was hard to believe. Everything was new. The houses were built out of stone, and they had these amazing wooden shades built in that they closed at night, giving the towns the appearance of being ghost towns, as you never saw any light shining from inside.

The roads were in great shape- no potholes, and no telephone poles either, the electrical and phone lines were buried underground. The sidewalks were clean- no trash, the yards were maintained, the fences painted, and everyone seemed to be driving a new car. It was all very impressive.

I pressed the doorbell. Seconds later I heard a voice coming from the doorbell, and realized it was also an intercom. The voice sounded tinny, and simply said “Hallo”

I leaned forward and said, “Your token American has arrived.” I heard a chuckle and then a buzzer. I stood there and waited. Then the buzzing sound came again, and I realized it was an electronic lock. I leaned on the door, and sure enough, it opened. These damn Germans.

I stepped into an alcove that led to another door. This door was nice, and made out of tainted dark yellow glass. Like all German doors, there was no door knob. It had a practical handle. (When you were carrying something, you could open doors with your elbow.) The floor was tiled. The ceiling was dazzling, made of wood with visible red oak beams. There was a piece of furniture standing near the door where various jackets were hanging. This also had a closet compartment, and the door had a mirror. I looked at myself and grimaced, I thought I looked kind of goofy with my Mickey Mouse haircut and black Army glasses.

The door swung open, and there was a young man standing there. He had long brown hair, it was down to his shoulders. I was envious. I was visually marked everywhere that I went over here with my short army haircut. Long hair had arrived in Germany, and many young males were wearing their hair fashionably long.

He thrust out his hand and said, “Welcome to our home. My name is Uli.”

I shook his hand, and saw some people standing behind him, waiting. “Thank you, my name is Blaine.”

“Wayne?” Here we go, I thought.

“No, Blaine, with a B.” This happened in America too, so why wouldn’t it happen here?

“I have never heard this name.”

“Me either. Maybe I will curse someone someday with it and give it away.”

He turned and led me into a hall that entered what appeared to be the living room. As soon as I entered the house my glasses fogged up. I removed them and wiped them off with my T-shirt. Instantly the extraordinary smell of roast turkey overwhelmed me.

7

I slowly turned the doorknob, and entered into the kitchen. The fantastic scent of pastries being baked overwhelmed me. My glasses instantly fogged up. I took them off, and I wiped them dry with part of my sweatshirt. My vision restored, I saw that the witch was crouched over, peeking into her oven. I hoped she didn’t have any kids being roasted in there.

She opened the oven door, and the smell of apple turnovers instantly escaped. She seemed satisfied with what she saw, and she quickly closed the door.

I was standing in a typical tiny south end kitchen. She had a checked linoleum floor, and a stained white ceiling. There was a gas stove next to an old cupboard. I could see various dishes and glasses inside. There were cabinets hanging from the other wall, with pressboard counters underneath. Next to the cabinets hanging on the wall was a framed picture of a handsome man in uniform, whom I assumed to be her late husband Richard.

Under the window, which looked through white curtains out at the stone in the yard, was the sink, which had two sections. There was an empty dish strainer on top. In the center of the room was a small wooden table. She had a white table cloth covering it, and four wooden chairs surrounding it.

I stood in the doorway, ready to give my pitch. The fear I had felt outside had seemingly been eliminated by the succulent scents of the pastries in the oven. Never the less, I was still anxious to leave.

“Yer one of those Hox boys, right?”

“Yes.”

“Your father is a good man, good man. Pity he gave up his upholstery business. He fixed up our couch six years ago.” She walked over to cabinet and took out a small pan. “It is cold enough to catch your death out there. Quite the cold snap we are having. Let me make you a cup of hot cocoa.” She reached into the refrigerator, and took out a bottle of milk.

“No, that’s ok. I am sort of in a hurry.”

“Where’s the fire Sonny? In a hurry, well that’s a crazy thing for a boy your age to say. You got all the time in the world. These turnovers here are nearly done; don’t you want to try one? Quite good oven fresh you know.”

She put the pan on the stove and poured some milk into it. She turned the dial and a pretty blue flame of fire appeared underneath. “I don’t get much company anymore. Christmas time some people stop by, and then I don’t see them for another year. Better this way. Not that I have anything against people. I just feel better when I don’t have any around.”

I was thinking that maybe if you were a little nicer they would come more often and even stick around. Maybe if you weren’t bewitching little kids with your damn enchanted stone.

She stirred in some dark cocoa and added three heaping spoonfuls of white sugar, and as an afterthought, a fourth. She slowly stirred as she spoke. “You know my husband Richard has been gone for seven years already. He was only sixty-three when he passed. We were born the same year. Turn of the century. A lot has changed since then.”

I did the math in my head. She seemed older to me than 70. But 70 seemed wicked old. And being born in the 1800’s seemed virtually impossible. I still stood there, and I was getting warm with my hat and jacket on. I took off my hat.

“Yes, and take off your jacket too. I don’t bite. And despite what all you kids think, I am not kooky.” Now she looked over at me, and added with a wink, “Or a witch.”

Now I was embarrassed. She beckoned to a chair, and I slipped off my jacket and did as I was told, I sat down at the table.

8

Everyone had shaken my hand. Uli’s mother- Christina; Uli’s father- Wolfgang, Uli’s very cute younger sister- Katrina and his grandmother, who he affectionately called- Oma. They were all impeccably dressed, including Oma, who was also wearing an apron.

“Do you have a large family?” We had sat down in the living room. I was on the couch, Uli to my left, Katrina to my right. The mom and dad were in chairs facing us, and Oma stood next to the Christmas tree.

By the way, the tree was magnificent; it was decorated with bright red bulbs, and only red bulbs. But I could not hide my surprise seeing it also had real white candles attached to it, and they were actually lit. My father, who lived in constant fear of the house burning down, would not have ever allowed this in our house. At least that explained why the other Christmas trees I had seen over here were only decorated with white lights. The dancing flames were very pretty.

“I have two brothers and two sisters. I am the middle child.”

“Where do you come from in America?”

“Massachusetts.” Here it came, the standard response I always got over here.

“You mean like The Bee Gees song.” Bingo.

Then Oma said something, and Uli translated. “Where in Massachusetts?”

I gave my standard answer. “A small town around 40 minutes north of Boston.” Again Oma said something, and Uli asked me what the name of my town was.

“Newburyport.”

They all glanced briefly at Oma hearing this; and she smiled. Now she sat down. Then dad said something, and Uli asked me if I wanted a drink before we sang. Before we what? Sang?

I said yes, and they offered me the choice between spiked Eggnog, Coke, wine, red or white, or a beer. I chose the beer. The mom got up and headed out of the room. Oma had been staring intently at me, and now, she stood up slowly walked out of the room.

“The Bee Gees make good disco music now. Do you like disco music?”

“Disco sucks.” Yet another typical answer. I actually liked some disco songs, but it would be a sin to admit it to any of my rock and roll friends. Sign of the times. I had been to a German discotheque, and the European electronic music was basically appalling. But, girls danced with girls over here, so it had actually been fun.

“What music do you prefer?”

“I usually mix it up. I love rock and roll music. But I kinda like The Beatles.”

“Really? I prefer The Rolling Stones. Much better rock and roll band.”

I remembered the warnings I had received from Andrea about being polite. So I bit my tongue. This was the third young German that I had met who tried to convince me The Rolling Stones were a better rock band than the Fab Four. They would claim things like The Stones were playing “Satisfaction” while The Beatles were doing “She Loves You”. I would begin by reminding them that “She Loves You” came out in 1963 and “Satisfaction” came out in 1965. Big difference.

Then, I would toss in this tiny fact, if there had not been The Beatles, there would never have been a Rolling Stones in the first place. The Beatles had not just opened the door in America and the world for other British bands, they had fucking kicked it down.

Plus, the single “She Loves You” could very well be the most dynamic single rock and roll had ever seen. If a future historian were to select one single tune to characterize the Beatles’ appeal and the stylistic structure for which they then became world famous, he would be forced to choose “She Loves You” The song starts with a mini power play from Ringo on the drums, and then actually begins with the chorus, something that had never been done before. The electric instruments are mixed more progressively than before, especially McCartney’s bass, adding to the sense of musical power that the record provides. Then to top it off, the lead vocal is sung by both Lennon and McCartney together, switching off between unison and harmony, as only they could do.

“She Loves You” is the song that thrust the Beatles supremely into the spotlight. Part of this was the sheer effectiveness of the song’s hook; each chorus or refrain pounds the hook into your head until it’s firmly imprinted in your brain. It was “yeah, yeah, yeah” chanted repeatedly and emphatically enough to become eternally stuck in your head.

Do not come to me trying to convince me that “She Loves You” was not rock and roll or that The Stones were a better fucking rock band. Yeah yeah yeah, he had touched a raw nerve. Naturally, I said none of this to my friendly hosts.

The mom returned and gave me a frosty mug of beer. I thanked her. Uli said it was a family tradition to sing a few Christmas carols together on Christmas Eve. I was curious, and at the same time, perplexed. Thinking back to my childhood, I did not know any families who sang Christmas carols on Christmas. Actually, I did not remember any carols being sung door to door either. Not in the south end of Newburyport. It seemed to be a myth like Santa Claus. I had only seen carols being sung on TV.

Then the dad simply said, “Now, we sing.”

Uli asked me if I knew the song “O Tannenbaum”? He added Americans called it “Oh Christmas Tree”. I knew it of course, from grammar school. He said I could sing it in English, they would sing it in German. I nodded, and politely decided it was lip-sync time.

The dad nodded, and they began. “O Tannenbaum O Tannenbaum,”

It was kind of nice. They sat there relaxed and sang together. When I would catch someone’s eyes, Uli or Katrina, I was smiled at. I moved my lips, hummed actually, and no one seemed to mind.

“Now we sing one you must know.”

It was “Silent Night”. I said, “Oh, an American song.”

The dad began talking, and Uli translated.

“Silent Night is not an American song. An Austrian priest, Father Joseph Mohr, wrote the words. The melody was written by Franz Xaver Gruber. They performed their new Christmas carol December 24, 1818 during the midnight mass at St Nicholas church in Oberndorf, a village no larger than Siegelsbach.”

“It was what we now call a smash hit. It spread very quickly from mouth to mouth, from church to church, town to town, country to country, year for year for many decades. It was not recorded on a vinyl album until 1905. Yes, this was an English version. Perhaps that is why you mistake the song as an American creation. I believe it has been recorded in over 140 languages.”

I was impressed. And I sang along with them, obviously in English. And I admit, it was actually pretty cool. I had not expected this. At one point, I realized that Oma had also rejoined us. She was leaning on the chair the mom sat in, and singing very softly. She was also watching me the whole time.

9

The witch, Mrs. Pearson, had been making small talk now for ten minutes. Twice she was interrupted by meowing fat cats, who she instantly pacified into silence by feeding them. She finally finished up my hot cocoa, and carefully poured the steaming liquid into a cup. She brought it to the table, and set it in front of me. I thanked her.

“Sonny, I like it that you have good manners. I’m sure your father has taught you the importance of being polite. I apologize for not having any marshmallow fluff for your drink, but I do not eat fluff-a-nutters at my age. They don’t agree with my dentures, if you know what I mean.” She chuckled again.

I nodded. A “Fluff-a-nutter” was a New England sandwich made this white marshmallow fluff and peanut butter, quite a sticky creation. She was looking into the oven again. I took a sip of my hot cocoa and it was excellent even without the Fluff. I drank again.

“But maybe I was wrong. You know you should answer people when they speak with you for Christ’s sake. What’s wrong with you, didn’t you hear what I said?”

“Yes I heard you, and I nodded my head.”

“When I hear you outside with that Glynn boy, you seem to find your voice just fine. You two boys seem a bit on the wild side when you are together.”

I smiled. My mother thought Billy was a bad influence on me. Billy’s mother had told him many times that I had a bad influence on him! Mrs. Pearson was spot on with her observation. We were both insane.

“You know, I admit, I was as surprised as we all were that you survived that terrible accident. Damn beer truck ran you over at the package store, your ears must have been ringing that day; everyone was talking about it.”

I nodded again. I figured they must have been saying how stupid I had been to crawl under the parked truck in the first place. I was just chasing my ball. When the truck pulled away from the curb, it was too late to retreat.

“And they said you would never walk right again, and here yer are. I remember you riding that red tricycle, flying by here as you went around the block, again and again. I used to enjoy riding my bike too. But you, lordie, dead of winter too and there you were, peddling along, come spring and summer you were still riding, reckon your parents had to pry the handlebars out of your hands at night to get you into bed!” She cackled again.

“I loved my tricycle, but I do not remember the accident at all.”

“Thank the lord boy, it must have been quite nasty. Ahh, splendid. It appears the turnovers are finished. Maybe you could help me.”

She reached over the stove, and I saw a decorative heat plate hanging next to her stove just like the one we had hanging in our kitchen. It was a cast iron base, housing a painted ceramic tile normally used to place hot pots and pans on. Ours had a picture of a man and a woman kissing. The lettering said- “Kissing Don’t Last- Cookin’ Do”.

I did not understand what it meant. My Uncle Earl had given it to my father, who was his younger brother. My brother had told me it was a clever in-joke between brothers. My mom was the sister of Uncle Earl’s wife, and my mom was the pretty, fancy, prancy one of her family who hated cooking, while Earl’s wife Kay loved cooking. I still didn’t get it.

She handed me her hotplate, which had two women painted on it, collecting apples into baskets. I set it on the table. Then she gave me a rag and asked me to remove the baking sheet from the oven. “But be extra careful, don’t burn yourself.”

I was extra careful. There was little or no baking going on in our kitchen, but we used the stove oven to heat up cans of potato sticks, and I knew how hot it could be. I got the pastries out and safely to the table.

“Wonderful. Give them a few minutes to cool, and then we can try them.”

I had to admit, she was a lot nicer than I expected. But, I had also stayed longer than I expected to. And I remembered why I was here in the first place.

“I did want to ask you for a contribution Mrs. Pearson.” She glanced up suddenly; seemingly surprised I had used her name. Then her facial expression softened and she smiled.

“Sonny boy; can’t say that I rightly trust those Catholics. My Richard was a Baptist. You know, Baptists are also Christians, but Christians known by baptizing professing believers only, as opposed to dunking poor innocent babies.”

I was confused, and she must have seen it. “Do you even remember being baptized?”

“No, I was a baby.”

“My point exactly. Did they ever ask you if you wanted to be a Catholic?”

“No, why would they? And my father is not a Catholic. My mom is, and she sends us to church.”

She grunted. “Ok, ok, ok. Let’s not talk about it. But, you know, you can believe in God without being a Catholic. People get too wrapped up in their system of belief, thinking God, the bible, religion, and the church is all damn one thing. It is a misconception that we have to believe in all of it, or nothing at all.”

“Father Ritchie said our way is the way.”

She snickered again. “Aww fiddlesticks. My Richard always said you should never argue about religion or politics. All you do is get yourself all riled up, and let’s face it; you can’t change people’s minds once they are fixed upon something. People are very pig headed you know.”

“So you will not give to this charity?”

She laughed. “Sonny, you got your bullheadedness from your father. I might be able to part with a dollar, maybe. But now, now I think we should try these apple turnovers. Now that sonny boy; will bring us both closer to God.”

10

Turns out, Uli was just as old as I was, 18. Katrina was just seventeen. (You know what I mean) And did I mention she was cute? She had finally talked to me after we had sung four Christmas carols. She whispered that she found all this singing really cheesy. She told me she was going to college next year in Heidelberg. It was the first time that I discovered that college was free for everyone in this country. You just needed the grades to get in. Free college education. These damn Germans.

Katharina also confided to me that she preferred The Beatles over The Stones. She said Mick Jagger was ugly. I laughed. I told her even Ringo could sing as well as Mick, if not better. I was thinking I might just get that phone number.

We had moved to the dining room to eat. They had me sit next to Katrina. Uli sat to my right. The parents were across from us, and Oma was at the end of the table. She now spoke again to Uli.

“Oma asks if your grandparents are still alive.”

“One of them is, yes, my grandmother. She was over eighty. I call her Nana though, not grandma or grandmother, or even Granny.”

“Nana. Was she your Nanny?”

“No, no, it is a regional thing. America is big, almost like Europe and we all speak English, but the slang is different everywhere you go.”

The table buzzed. Uli told me that in every region of Germany people spoke a different slang. Then he said, “Oma is 84 years old.”

Oma shot him an angry glance that instantly silenced him. I took a sip of my beer, my second, and asked about the traditional turkey sitting on the table.

“No, we do not normally eat turkey on Christmas. This is for you. We usually eat goose, maybe even ham. But we always sing Christmas music first, then we open our presents after we eat.”

I had seen some presents under the tree. I hoped I would not have to sit through their ritual, I was bad enough knowing tomorrow morning I would not be sitting next to the family tree at Milk Street. Uli then asked me about our family tradition.

“Christmas Eve was the best night in my childhood. The anticipation was always greater than the actual presents themselves Christmas morning. We kids were all so excited we couldn’t sleep. I always read comic books all night with a flash light on Christmas Eve.”

Of course, they did observe the Santa Claus myth, although they did have their Saint Nicholas. The presents were usually large, meaning one high-quality present and some trinkets. In direct contrast, my parents believed in sheer bulk. The pile under the tree Christmas morning was huge.

“My father used to give the presents out to us, one at a time. We would sit patiently and watch each person open his present and then dad would give the next one out. So the whole process would take a few hours. It was fun.”

“Wow. So different. We exchange gifts tonight, and we just take the presents with our names on them ourselves. Very quickly finished. So, your dad was Santa Claus, yes?”

“Sort of. Later I found out mom did most of the shopping, and all of the gift wrapping. She also saved up money all year long in a bank service called “Christmas Club”. I come from a poor family, but just because of our big Christmas’, I never really noticed until I was older.”

The dining room was adjacent to the kitchen, and now the mom and dad were up and carrying in hot food. The table quickly filled up, there was mashed potatoes, bread dumplings, red kraut, green beans, thickly sliced bread, gravy, and then the dad carried in the big bird and ceremoniously set it down in the middle. I was sure it was not a “Butterball” but it sure looked good. He carved up a bunch of slices with an electric knife and placed them on a large platter. Then he sat down, and everyone looked expectantly at me.

Oma said something and Uli looked at me and said, “So, will you lead us in a prayer?”

Oma said, “Nein, nicht so, Grace.” I was surprised; it was her first English word tonight. But it would not be her last.

“Will you lead us in what Oma calls grace?”

“I would, but I don’t really know what to say. My family did not say grace before meals.”

The table buzzed again. “Oh we now feel relief. This is good, because only Oma believes in God in this house.”

11

“I was blessed by God Blaine.” After we had finished our first turnover, she had stopped calling me sonny boy. “He wanted Richard and I to be together. He allowed for it to happen.”

I was munching on my third turnover already. They were extraordinarily good. Mrs. Pearson had been talking about her Richard the whole time. He sounded like a corker.

“He certainly believed in living your life completely. He said God gave us everything we need to lead a good life; we just have to open our eyes to it all. He called it connecting the dots; we just have to connect the dots.”

We had a game we played in school that we called dots. We would make a square out of many dots, and take turns making lines, connecting two of them. Eventually, there were so many lines; you could complete a square with your line. In the end, the person with the most squares won. She laughed when I told her about it.

“Yes, that sounds much better than Tic Tac Toe, at least someone actually wins. But Richard was talking about living your life this way. It was a metaphor. Do you know what a metaphor is?”

I shrugged my shoulders. I didn’t have a clue. My attic was still a little dusty.

“I’m sorry, of course you don’t know. A metaphor is just an expression, or a figure of speech that we use that describes something that has similar characteristics to what we are talking about. It isn’t literally true, but it helps explain an idea or make a comparison. For example, I was always considered the black sheep in the family. This is true. But if you take this literally, it will probably sound very strange, right? Are there actually any sheep, black or otherwise, in my family? No, of course not.”

She stopped abruptly, but I had a feeling she was just warming up. She bit into her turnover, and slowly chewed. She continued.

“Richard so enjoyed the flow of words. I loved the way he talked. I could listen to him for hours. And I learned to expect surprises; he had a dry sense of humor and a witty turn of phrase. He got this way when he went away. He used to say everyone should get away from their hometown at least once, just to see that there was more, so much more. I know he was living proof. The war changed Richard, it really did. He served in the big one you know.”

“I didn’t know that. World War Two?”

“No silly, World War One.” Apparently I didn’t even know what the big one was either.

“Yes, he was over there in Germany. He was there from 1917 until the beginning of 1920.”

Again, I was clueless. I knew there had been two world wars, and I knew from watching “Hogan’s Heroes” on TV that the Germans had been the bad guy.

“It was a horrible war. Naturally, all wars are horrible, but this one, well this one really shocked the world. It also seemed like God was totally disgusted with mankind at this point. Did you know that the influenza virus of 1918–1919 killed more soldiers than World War I itself? We called it the Spanish flu. Can you believe that somewhere between 40 and 50 million people died from the flu? It was the most devastating epidemic in recorded world history.”

I had just finished my last bite, and tried to imagine what she was talking about. I knew the flu was what we kids called “the bug”. I had it last winter, and it was way worse than having a cold. I had a bad fever; I was puking my guts out, and could not get out of bed for days. When it was finally over, I still felt weak for over a week afterwards. But I didn’t know you could die from it.

2020 would change all of our attitudes and thoughts about the Spanish Flu.

“The flu killed more US soldiers than the war itself. Did you know your mother’s cousin died from the Spanish flu over there? I believe he was stationed in France.”

I didn’t.

“Yes, his name was Arthur. He was even a buddy of Richards. They played football together in High School. Arthur’s portrait is hanging in the city library you know.”

Now I knew. Creepy Arthur, the ghost in our attic. I did know the portrait, because one hung in our attic too. We all were afraid of it, because his eyes followed you wherever you went, and he seemed really angry.

Now I knew why.

“Well over 14,000 German troops also died from the flu in 1918, which no doubt helped led to Germany’s surrender. But it was so much worse. 500 million people caught the flu. Very dark times for mankind.”

I had heard enough.

This was Christmas and my thoughts revolved around good things, not the dark ages. My cocoa was gone, and I couldn’t eat another bite. I thanked her and slid my chair back and stood up, thus announcing I wanted to leave.

“Oh for Christ’s sakes, just relax, wait, please don’t go yet. It has been so good to talk to someone. Richard would have been 70 yesterday. I miss him terribly you know. I only mention the war because he survived it and he also survived the flu. I knew him before the war, but we did not fall in love until after the war. And he talked about Germany a lot. He lost something in Germany, and it was more than his innocence. But more importantly, he also lived to tell the tale, and it was marvelous Blaine, simply marvelous.”

12

These damn Germans. The meal had been awesome. The food was fantastic, and not just because my only meals these days were from the mess hall. But it was the pleasant company that really made it special. I had never experienced a family meal quite like this. They talked and joked throughout the whole meal. And they drank, oh yeah, they drank a lot.

Back home we also sat together for a meal on Christmas, and on Thanksgiving too. That was about it though, perhaps because our kitchen table was not big enough to hold all 7 of us at once. Plus, my father was a sales representative, and rarely home at mealtimes. We usually ate in front of the television, using TV trays or just balancing the plate on our laps. I grew up in a house where the TV was always on.

I was amazed that all of them spoke pretty good English. The dad and especially the mom opened up as the meal progressed, and the wine flowed. (I stuck with my beer.) Uli told me at some point that his mother’s mother, Oma, insisted that her kids learn English at a young age, long before it was popular to do so. She had, in turn, made sure that he and Katrina began learning English at a young age.

Oma had also had a bit of wine, and she told me her name was Greta. She began asking me questions at this point. She seemed totally fascinated with my hometown Newburyport. I told her a little about my childhood in the tough south end, memories that seemed shallow to me, but she appeared interested anyway. I even told her about the beer truck running me over. Uli grinned and asked if it was American beer and Oma’s glaring stare stopped him from bringing the punch line.

Then I told her a little about the town history, that the first US Coast Guard station in America had been built there, or that Newburyport had a rebellious tea party weeks before Boston had the famous one.

I told her about William Lloyd Garrison, who was born just one street away from where I grew up on Milk Street. Garrison, who was black, was a leader of abolitionism, and the development of the underground railroad to bring slaves into the safety of the north.

I told her about Lord Timothy Dexter, an eccentric Newburyport business man and wannabe writer. (The city was full of them.) He wrote “A Pickle for the Knowing Ones or Plain Truth in a Homespun Dress,” in which he complained about politicians, the clergy and his wife. He had his gorgeous house on High Street decorated with 40 statues including George Washington, Thomas Jefferson and of course, a few of himself.

Oma laughed about this. I eventually ran out of stories and she excused herself, and left the room. I also had to use the bathroom, and asked where it was. Katrina quickly offered to show it to me. We got up, and I followed her down the hall. She smelled nice.

I was still at a good age. Something as simple as this was so enticing. We shyly exchanged sweet nothings. But, she blushed, and we didn’t exchange phone numbers.

Then I entered the room she pointed out to me. Damn. Even the bathroom was impressive. The only time I ever took a shower growing up was in High School after gym class or practice from the various sports I played. We only had a bathtub back home at Milk Street.

They had both a bathtub and a separate shower stall next to the tub. It was totally glassed in. There were two blue porcelain sinks side by side along another wall, and there stood another strange piece of plumbing, which I recognized only from pictures, as a Bidet. I played with the idea of actually using it to wash my butt, but decided against it.

Next to this sanitation masterpiece was a blue toilet, which seemed to hang in the air out of the wall. Unfortunately, like most German toilets, it had that annoying tiny shelf in the bowl. When you finished doing your business, the steaming pile of poop sat there staring back at you. I was curious as to why this way so, but decided this was not a subject for a Christmas dinner.

I walked by the telephone in the hall, and quickly memorized the number written on the dial. Then I returned to the living room, seeing that it was later than I thought.

It was closing in on ten o’clock, and my driver and limousine would be coming to pick me up very soon. I felt a twinge of regret. The evening had been so fun, and so pleasant, I had been able to totally forget my homesickness.

I mentioned the fact that I was about to be picked up, and they seemed disappointed too, especially Oma. She asked Uli if she could sit next to me for a bit. The mom and dad exchanged knowing looks.

Uli smiled and got up, and Oma slid in next to me. She had a yellowed envelope with her and she told me there was a reason that she was so curious about my hometown. Then she threw me for a loop when she asked me if I liked horses.

13

Mrs. Pearson was suddenly teary eyed. I was as uncomfortable as a young boy could be in this situation. I almost preferred the scary, mean hissing witchy woman I knew from past summers on her porch pointing at the stone, to this old, vulnerable sad woman crying over her deceased husband.

“We had such a good life together. And I was so lucky. He almost did not return from Germany.”

I had sat back down, after her gentle insistence. She had told me I reminded her of that little boy Theodore from that television show, “Leave It To Beaver”. I found it ironic, as I saw my big brother Fred as a real life Wally. So, I stayed there with her, what else would the Beaver have done?

“Do you like horses Blaine? Richard had a soft spot in his heart for horses. Of course we could never afford to own one. He worked all of his life up the north end at Towle Silversmiths. He made good money too, but we could never have afforded a horse. Well, maybe we could have bought a horse, you know, but then I would ask him about the cost of the rest, keeping it in a barn, and hay, feed, vet costs, all of that upkeep jazz, and then Richard used to shrug his shoulders and say, if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.”

I told her I liked horses. I asked her if she liked the TV show “Mister Ed”.

“You mean that talking horse on TV? Oh yes, he is quite funny, but Wilbur is such a dope. Do you want to hear something gruesome?”

I did not. But of course, this could have been a rhetorical question, another lesson given to me that afternoon by Mrs. Pearson about the magic of communication between people.

“Richard saw many dead horses over there in Germany. Did you know that over 8 million horses and donkeys died in the big one? 8 million! Horrible isn’t it? That animals have to suffer from man’s stupidity. Simply awful.”

Again, I was shocked. So many dead horses. And not from the flu.

“After Richard returned from Germany, we ran into each other downtown at a ballroom dance. I knew him from school years before, but it was so clear to me from seeing him again that he had changed drastically. He seemed so worldly to me now. And his eyes, those watchful eyes, so susceptible to pain yet still so compassionate. Yeah, he had seen things no man should have to see.”

She paused again, tears welling up once more. I glanced out the window. It had begun snowing. There was something special about a white Christmas. I was about to point this out, when she continued to speak.

“He courted me after that. Every time we would spend time together, I would learn a little bit more about him. It was like the many layers of an onion. Layer by layer peeled away and as the nucleus became transparent, Richard became the most interesting man I had ever met. He loved Germany. Strange isn’t it? He hated the war, but he loved Germany.” She had made me another cup of hot cocoa and now she poured it in my cup.

“You know the war ended in November, 1918, but it took another year before the damn Germans would sign the peace treaty. So the Allies maintained their naval blockade of Germany. The warships remained in place against a possible continuation of German fighting, so naturally, food and other goods were also blocked from entering.”

I was confused again. But, she continued.

“An Allied task force was made to help feed the German population, and Richard was transferred to Hamburg. German people were grateful to be around the Americans. The Russians were literally raping women and plundering villages, vicious victors taking brutal revenge. He stayed in Hamburg until the Germans finally signed the Treaty of Versailles a year later. So the last year of his service in Germany was very peaceful, no killing at all. He told me he loved it. After we had been dating for months, he finally proposed to me. And on this very evening that he proposed he finally opened up to me all the way, and told me just why he loved it so much.”

14

Everyone was huddled around Oma and I. Uli and his mom stood behind us. Katrina leaned over me, our shoulders touching. It was so nice, feeling her so close. Her scent overwhelmed me. The little things.

Oma had some black and white pictures from her youth and was proudly showing them to me.

“It was a difficult time in Germany. The war was finished, but we still had nothing to eat. The warships were blocking the harbor. The American and British soldiers were everywhere. I remember I got my first chewing gum from an American. I lived on a farm, and we had always managed to hide our livestock from soldiers, both German and Allied. So we had milk, butter and cheese. We had chickens, for eggs and we had two horses. We were lucky.”

“Tell Blaine about your boyfriend Oma.” Katrina said, seemingly directly into my ear.

“Yeah Oma, tell him about your American boyfriend.” Uli chimed in.

“Yes, there was a boy. A man, of course. We found love. He was very good to me. My father and my brother were dead. One day he came out of the morning fog. He helped me every day. He worked on the farm, brought us food from the army. He showed me such kindness.”

15

“Richard told me that there were practically no young men around anymore in Germany. The war and the flu had taken nearly all of them. Women were everywhere trying to latch onto American and British men, desperately looking for a way out. Richard wanted no part of this.”

I sipped my cocoa, wondering how long it took until Richard changed his mind.

“I think it must be extremely hard to be so far away from home. I think it must be so lonely. I think you eventually change the way you see the world. Maybe your essence remains the same, but something inside you changes. After being in Hamburg for three weeks, Richard had met a German farm girl nearby.”

16

“Ya, we found love. Good love. He was such an interesting man. Painted pictures with words. My English was not so good then, but I learned very fast. Sometimes I would question his logic, and he would laugh and tell me to make connections, to connect my dots.”

She paused, smiling and her eyes closed momentarily, then she continued.

“Many evenings after the chores were finished we went for a ride on the healthy horse together. Sometimes two of us on one horse. He loved the horses. Later we wanted to get married. We wanted forever.”

17

“Richard said he fell in love with her. He even said he would have married her, but the army frowned on this. It was very complicated to get permission to marry a German. You needed vitamin C, you needed connections.”

She sipped again from her cup. “In fact, he said he had to keep their relationship top secret, or the army might have transferred him again.”

18

“Turns out, forever was not possible for us. My government did not want us to marry Americans. The US army did not want their soldiers to marry Germans. It was terrible time.”

She sipped on her wine. “One evening my cousin stopped by our farm. She brought me news. She had maybe a job for us. She also had my uncle’s Rolleiflex camera, her father; my uncle had just died from the flu. She took three photographs, one of Richard on Alonso, my horse, two of us together on Alonso. We were like Romeo and Juliet, yes? Forbidden love. We found real love, but no forever.”

19

“Yes Blaine, they were together for nearly a year. Richard risked a lot of trouble by being with her. But, he said he did not care.”

I smiled again. I knew how us south end boys felt about rules. Rules were made to be broken.

“She had horses. Two horses. One was old and sickly, a horse with no name. Richard could not remember it. But the other one was strong. He had a funny Italian name. Sometimes they used to ride him together in the evenings. Mind you, it was hard for me to hear all of this back then, despite the desolation, it sounded so goddamn romantic.”

20

“I think you believe these rides sound very romantic, ya? Maybe sometimes, but the rides were often very sad. How you say, tragic. Yes, tragic. He was frustrated with our private love. The risk of discovery was always present. Radio news told us my government was going to sign the peace treaty. We had begun missing each other even though we were still together. Do you understand this? The end is always near.”

21

“Yet Richard claimed it was all very tragic at this point. He had difficulty enjoying their cloak and dagger love anymore. Can you understand his situation? They were still together, but already he was pining for her, the way it was, the way it could never be again. The good news came that the Germans were finally going to sign the Treaty of Versailles, and Richard realized the good news was in effect- his bad news, that he would ultimately be sent back home to Newburyport.”

22

“I had family in south Germany, near Heilbronn. My cousin and I were offered a job in a newly reopened hospital. Hamburg was suffering so much. There was no work. No money. There was much hunger. I was the oldest. My mother and three sisters insisted that I go, to help them, and perhaps to help me, before something horrible happened to me and my American lover.”

23

“Richard said one day he showed up, and she was preparing for a journey to the south. She had been offered a job, and she had no choice but to accept. The family needed the money. It was final. It was over. A week later, the Germans finally signed the treaty. Four weeks later, Richard was back here in Newburyport.”

24

“It was so very sad. I had never seen a man cry before. Saying goodbye is such a difficult thing to do, and saying this goodbye, a final goodbye is much worse, knowing never again, so heartbreaking.”

She paused, and I nodded knowingly. Ever since joining the army I had said way too many goodbyes myself, I had discovered firsthand what final goodbyes were really like. There was nothing quite like it actually. And I have really come to hate airports.

“But experiencing this tragic type of goodbye makes you appreciate what you have right now, even more.”

I couldn’t have said it better. Life can be so damn good in the here and now.

“So now my cousin come back to our farm on her way to Heilbronn. We were travelling together. She had the developed photographs with her. We had forgotten them. They were so beautiful. I gave him two of the photographs. I wanted him to remember me, always. The pictures were a piece of time. He was happy, and told me to promise him that I would love again. I made him promise the same thing. Blaine, I keep my promise.”

25

“It came as it had to come. She left for her new life, and he returned home to his old life. At first, when I heard about his big love in Germany, I questioned being together with him anymore. I was thinking, it is too late, he has lost his heart already.”

A cat jumped up on my lap. I was happy for the break. Mrs. Pearson was staring blindly out the window again. I started patting the kitty. I was instantly rewarded with the running motor of his purring.

“But then I realized if he was meant to be with this German woman, they would still be together. He felt the same way. He was meant to be with me. He would never forget her, but he said he had fire in his heart and love in his soul. We became soul mates.” She stopped and smiled. She took another sip from her cup and continued.

“Richard was not one to philosophize about her, but I was thinking from what he said that maybe they found each other just in the nick of time to save their individual sanity. Richard was such a positive person, and so many of the men who were lucky enough to return after the war were not happy troopers. They were bitter and angry, or worse, they were shell shocked. This German woman reminded him that love is real, and that there is so much in this life to love. Sometimes you have to just open your eyes to see it, that’s all.”

The kitty purred contentedly in my lap. I knew she was right. An hour ago, I was convinced that she was a mean old woman, possibly even a witch. Now, I saw this was not true.

The other lesson I learned that day would not be revealed to me until many years later, in a place far, far away from my hometown Newburyport.

26.

“Oma has a special place in her heart for Americans. She told me about her secret love when I fell in love the first time two years ago.” Uli said and smiled at his grandmother.

Greta was also smiling now. Her cheeks were a little flushed, but she also had three glasses of red wine behind her.

“Oma has always enjoyed life. Even though she had to suffer through another horrible war twenty years later when Hitler tried to take over the world.” Katrina said.

27.

“He never heard from this woman again. He sent one letter off to the address of the farm in Hamburg, but never received a reply. He said he had only thanked her for everything she had done for him in the letter, but that he had done so in their final evening together too. Richard understood the value of gratitude. Now, let me show you these pictures.”

She pulled two black and white pictures from an envelope. The white edges had yellowed, but the photographs themselves were stunning. There was a man and a woman sitting together on a large black horse and another one of just the man sitting on the horse smiling. The man was not in uniform. The woman was very beautiful, but I did not say this out loud. They both were smiling, but their eyes were in fact, visibly sad.

“I know, you must be thinking, why didn’t I rip up this particular picture of both of them together when he showed it to me back then. I was jealous, yes, very much so, but not for long. I understood. You see, I am thankful to this German woman. She made Richard a human being again. And he spent the rest of his life with me. So, yes, I am also thankful.”

The kitty jumped off of my lap, and I decided it was high time to leave. I took another glance at the pictures, and started putting my jacket on.

“Yes, it has gotten late. Thank you Blaine, for stopping by. Perhaps you should stop by again after Christmas, maybe I might give you some money for that charity of yours.”

“Thank you Mrs. Pearson, for the cocoa and turnovers.”

“Yes, the turnovers. Let me wrap up a couple for your siblings.” With that she was at the counter busy wrapping up four pastries in tin foil.

I took another long look at the old black and white pictures from Germany. They were amazing. I enjoyed looking at old pictures.

The stories that they tell.

28.

Oma lit up. “I am so grateful for my year with my sweet American. He made me see that even in the darkest times, there is still light. When he raved about his hometown, I could see it. When he talked about life, I wanted to live. When he showed me that he loved me, I could feel it.”

Now the old woman was suddenly still and blushing; and everyone exchanged knowing looks. I grinned myself; I knew exactly what she was talking about.

29.

I stood before Mrs. Pearson, and held out my hand to shake hers. But she surprised me and grabbed me and hugged me. For a second, the terror of the implications of touching the stone in the yard returned, but this passed instantly.

“Have a very merry Christmas Blaine. Enjoy these times, time slips away from you, quicker than you think.”

I walked through the door and stopped on the porch. I saw the fence beyond. The small yard sure looked different from up here. I headed down the path.

30.

I was happy the army had not allowed me to weasel out of this evening. These damn Germans were full of surprises. It had been wonderful, in so many ways.

The wisdom we can gain just by showing up and paying attention. The door bell rang, signaling that my ride had arrived.

I finished off the last sip of my beer and scooted my chair back from the table and stood up.

“Now now, your driver will wait one minute for you, I am sure.” Oma said and reached back into the envelope where she had shown us pictures of her farm life back in Hamburg. She pulled out the last one. “You really must see this one.”

I smiled and sat back down.

31.

The icy cold attacked my exposed face. I hustled through the snow. This time I did not veer around the hump in the snow. I approached it, and crouched down and quickly wiped the snow away, exposing it for what it truly was. Then, I touched the stone.

What happened? Nothing happened. I giggled.

I looked back and Mrs. Pearson was still watching me from the kitchen window. She shrugged her shoulders and smiled.

I waved at her and called out, “Merry Christmas” and then I ran all the way home.

32.

Oma took another look at the picture, then she held it in front of me, looking me straight in the eyes. It was a large print. She gazed at it again, and everyone else seemed to know what it was, because things became very quiet and solemn. Oma smiled, and glanced quickly at her daughter. The mom smiled back.

I did too; the unity of this family wowed me.

Then she looked at me. “Thank you for coming here tonight. I talked my daughter into this USO thing, it felt right, but I did not expect a miracle.”

I smiled, having no clue as to what she was talking about. Maybe the miracle of me surviving that beer truck running me over?

“Have a merry Christmas young soldier. Oh ya, and thank you Blaine for your wonderful stories, when you spoke about your hometown earlier, I could see it, once again.

I smiled, and gazed at Oma. “Once again?” I thought to myself; that was a weird thing to say.

Then she turned the photograph around and I took a look at it, a good look at it.

My jaw dropped.

I looked at Oma again, and she was smiling, slowly nodding her head. “Ya ya.” was all she said at first. I just stared at the picture.

Then she spoke, “This was my favorite horse, Alonso. And this was my sweet American. This was the most important time of my life. I lost his love on this day, but only physically. Our love never really died. I then met a great man in Heilbronn and had a wonderful marriage. He became my soul mate. Now that I learned how to love, I could never forget. The best love is the kind that awakens our soul and makes us reach for more, love that plants a fire in our hearts and brings peace to our minds and that is what my American gave to me. So tell me, do I do my Richard poetic justice?”

I knew from Richard’s wife, the witch from Lime Street, that this was just a rhetorical question.

And the picture, of course, it was Richard Pearson and Greta sitting on Alonso, travelling together through space and time…

“Christmas waves a magic wand over this world, and low and behold, everything is softer and more beautiful.”

Eugene Banks 1976