I pulled my groggy, travel-worn head up off the pile of junk on which I was sleeping and focused my blurry eyes to look out the window.
Sheep.
Wait. Where was I?
After two days of traveling across the United States crammed next to the worst-smelling man I could have imagined, a delay in a Georgia airport where my guitar was nearly impounded, a night stranded in Paris’ airport, an arrival in Frankfurt’s heavily-armed terminal (two words: large guns) and a drive through the countryside of Western Germany, I was confused. And tired. And after two and half days of being alone with only foreign-tongued strangers, I felt isolated, even though now I was with my Aunt and Uncle. As soon as I arrived at my destination I discovered my feeling of isolation compounded by a desolate street, dimly-lit houses, mountain hills and……sheep. What the…? And they didn’t just stay in the pasture.
“Helga likes to have the sheep come into her house,” my aunt said as she saw my confused expression. The sheep were entering a door to the house across the street as I watched with my mouth hanging open.
My Aunt cheerfully jumped out of the car to greet the stranger in the doorway of the house opposite the pasture of sheep. Once I emerged from the car I could see his cheerful, Einstein-like face, and heard my aunt explaining to her aging distant relative that she had brought a young woman to take care of his house during his time of surgery.
“Kleine Mädchen!” he said with a bit of "oh crap, this is who is taking care of me?" in his voice. “Little girl!”
The sun was setting and a heavy cloud of Schwatzwald mist began to nestle down around the buildings and the fields nearby. It was autumn and the Black Forest hills were scarlet, gold, and smelled like heavy pine. If I hadn’t been so exhausted, I might have been enchanted by the little village and my new surroundings.
One thing I should mention that is of utmost importance in this story: I was sent, by my dear Aunt, to take care of her relative and his home in Germany. I did not know this relative, nor did I, by any means, understand a word of German. And the elderly relative, unfortunately, did not understand a word of English. It was quite the bind.
Uncle Fritz, as my aunt called him (and I followed suit) lives in a large, old house, that he put back together after it was bombed to pieces during WWII. A genius engineer and inventor of sorts, his patents span all of Germany and are quite diverse in their subject matter. So, too, is his taste in architecture. Somehow he brought all of those different tastes together into the creation of one eclectic house.
The first entry-way to his home, as I discovered that first night, is a small room at the top of shallow stairs. To the right are protruding, pastel-painted ceramic monkeys pasted onto the wall. They are the "hear-no-evil, speak-no-evil, see-no-evil" monkeys. A glass door and wall to the left reveal the car port, which used to be the yard behind the garden gate. Up a few small Spanish-styled steps is a large, heavily-wooded, wrought-iron-decorated door that opens up into the second entry-way of the original house.
Italian mosaics decorate the first part of the dim little square room, but to the right, toward the staircase, the room becomes decorated in an African theme. The only part of the house that feels quintessentially “German” is the breakfast nook with its heavy wooden table and carved-wood decorations and the unique windows of the house.
While sitting around dinner that first night, Uncle Fritz, with his comically large hands, feet and ears, expressive face and loud voice, spoke frantically in German though neither my aunt, uncle and certainly not me, could really understand him.
The dishwasher in the kitchen was open and as we sat there. My Aunt screeched at a mouse that ran across the floor and into the dishwasher. Uncle Fritz laughed and stood his six-foot-four frame up and hobbled over to the dishwasher. He swiped the door shut and turned on the machine with a laugh. Clapping his hands together he returned to the table and our mortified faces.
He is indeed, a beloved character. My life has been shaped significantly by my experiences with him in that village so far away. Reflecting back on that period in my life, I can honestly say that some of the best things in life make absolutely no rational sense.
