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| Ville de Remich |
From
Germany, I headed west, to Luxembourg, crossed the boarders with little to no
difficulty. I went by car, a 1967-VW I had purchased a few months earlier, dull
green in color a tumult of rattling sounds, with a sick motor and weak body
frame—and two-hundred and fifty miles to go, it would be a quick trip I told
myself, the car should make it; again as usual, I was bored with my military
life, and wanted to go someplace, and I was stationed in West Germany, it was
the winter of 1976. And there I was
flying down these narrow roads with lights and shadows ahead of me a tremulous
steering wheel, and my two twin boys, Cody and Shawn, in the backseat.
The road was dotted with quaint, rural
hamlets that most people associate with fairytales. The midwinter sun was nice
on my forehead, and winter in Luxembourg wasn’t as extreme as it was in either
Germany, or half as extreme as in my home state of Minnesota.
It
was the day before Christmas. The trees in Luxemburg, were filled with crystal
like frost, tall pine trees, clouds low, cold
breathe, my heaters were not working well—but working, and the car was
starting to overheat. But the landscape, the wooded areas were beautiful, which
kept my mind off those little incidentals.
The hum and rhythm of the car only put a
trance on boys, they’d fall to sleep, wake up play with their toys, Cody with
his toy car, fall back to sleep, wake back up to see where we were, what was
going on. Shawn was always trying to get close to me, trying to jump up in the
front seat: the boys were four-plus years old.
I stopped the car to have breakfast, the
street was of cobblestone, and the guesthouse was old Germanic in style, the
proprietor with an apron on looked at me and my two boys, it was Christmas Eve
morning—in Luxemburg, and no one was in the guesthouse, no guests that is, no
one but the proprietor—he and his wife, an old couple.
“… vhat you need something?” said the
old man.
“Yes,” I replied, “for me and my boys, a
room for the night and breakfast.”
“Vell, we closed, Christmas,” said the
old man, then the old woman, his wife looked somewhat worried if not surprised,
said, “Okay, we can I guess, give you a room for tonight only, and breakfast,”
the old man had looked at the boys, the car and me, and with a sigh, put a
smile on his face, in agreement with her.
The boys and I sat outside around a
wooded table, and chairs, my car parked alongside the curb of the road, it was
chilly but there were light rays of sun beaming down upon us—it felt like
Indian Summer in Minnesota, so we ate on a table set aside by the doorway
to the café, as the old man stood watching over us out of curiosity.
I ordered eggs and bacon, toast and jam,
milk and coffee for each one of us: we
all sat waiting, salivating, we were hungry.
I had thought she understood the order, she brought three pouched eggs,
which I did not know how to eat, but would learn quick—with instructions of the
old man, and Cody and Shawn digging into the eggs as it were a watermelon. They both looked at me, and I laughed, and by
the time we ate the eggs, we were still hungry, the eggs never seemed to fill
us up, what we got of it. Oh well, it was an experience: the agonies of
Luxemburg.
It was
Christmas day, and we had said our goodbyes to the owners of the guesthouse,
and had that same two-hundred and fifty miles to travel back to Darmstadt, and
then onto Babenhausen where we lived. As we got on our way, it seemed to be a
long road back, our brakes were going out—metal
on metal—squeaking, and the
radiator was burning up, and you could smell it. Whatever could go wrong went
wrong with the car.
The twins knew something was wrong but
not exactly what. As we drove further, into a hilly area, the sky turned dark,
and the transmission was jamming in first gear, couldn’t get it out, thus I
drove in first gear for miles and miles and miles. The heaters had completely stopped working
the car was spitting and sputtering, and then the fan belt had broken. It was
turning out to be a worrisome Christmas Day.
The boys had insulated snow suites on, I
had purchased them in Minnesota, oversized knowing they could and would grow
into them, and this day I was glad I had.
Finally we drove alongside a guesthouse,
it was closed for business, but in the back of the building, some lights were
on. Actually, we were on a lonely road, deserted somewhat. And I really didn’t
know what to do, and I put the hood up of the car and went and knocked on the
door, asked to purchase some food for the kids.
A middle aged man in the house saw the car from his window, came out,
took a look at the motor, went back to his garage, found an old fan belt, it
was too big for my car, very loose to say the least, but it was better than
nothing, and it worked, he gave it to us at no coast, a Christmas gift.
“You got to drive slowly now,” the
German said, indicating if I didn’t and if I went over too many bumps, the belt
would fly off and perhaps get entangled into my motor, and loosen up or break
my fan.
Well, what could I say but thank you,
and he and his wife gave me a hot cup of coffee, and the boys got some bread
and cheese with sausage, and hot milk and they would not take any money, it was
Christmas Day, and they felt they just couldn’t. It all took an hour or so, and I felt I was
intruding, but in life to get to the next step sometimes you have to lest you die
where you stand—; in a like manner, I had learned a single failure does not
mean a final defeat. And as I drove
away, I think they both had bitten their lips, hoping we’d make it safely back.
And we did, in the gray dark of the evening.
Note: originally written in 2002, reedited, in 2004, and 6-2012
