Harvest Holiday

The autumn school holidays are coming to an end here in Germany. For two weeks in late October, school children throughout the country get a break. Many families take this Indian summer opportunity to get out of the country or into the countryside, little gets done because so many parents take this holiday from work.

HH is in his first year of school and it seemed he had just gotten his new rhythm down, getting up a little after 6AM, bathing, eating breakfast, a little Lego play of course, and then off to school. This break turned things around a bit, even though he spent the first week with his afternoon group taking field trips to the Zoo, visiting a Piano maker, making Pizza and generally having a good time in a semi-organized fashion. We did, however, take the chance to get out of town and went for a visit with Oma in the Eifel region nearby.

The days were bright and cool and the landscape was full with color and bounty. It was harvest time after all, the reason behind this break in the first place. Not that long ago, this time would be used to bring in the crops and the children would be out in the fields alongside their parents, digging in the rich, wet earth for potatoes. I would venture to say that most of the children in HH’s school did not get their hands dirty digging potatoes over the last two weeks. HH, however, did.

We had taken long walks in the forest nearby, looking out over the cliff sides into the sweeping green valleys of the Eifel National Park, gardened with Oma, and generally had a relaxing time in the country. Then on our last afternoon there, one of HH’s older and somewhat distant cousins came by with his son to dig potatoes. It was cold and the earth was damp. The work was done by hand except for the hand-driven plow that lifted the raised rows of earth to expose the treasure of the potatoes that rolled out by the dozens each time it made a pass. HH and I scrambled along behind it, tossing the dirty spuds into a wicker basket that would later be dumped into large burlap sacks. It was truly surprising to see just how many potatoes lay beneath the surface in such a small space.

HH took to it with relish and worked with his older cousin who had to watch his hoe when HH reached into the nearby dirt to pull out an escaping potato. Our “help” probably slowed down the process, but after a few minutes of it we got into a rhythm and made a pretty good crew.

It’s hard work bending and digging and hauling and HH’s mother kept her distance. When she did come out to see us, her cousin came over to her and reminded her of the late October when she was 5 years old and sat in a field nearby wet, cold and crying. She told me about it later, about how this time of year was a hard one and that she and her sister worked in the fields with their parents. There was no child care for the little ones, and they worked or sat in the dirt until it was done.

Our experience was different - exhilarating and novel. But it did offer a small glimpse into the food chain, a chance to see where our food comes from and how much work it can be to get it to the table. It was similar to an experience that I had as a child somewhat older than HH is right now. We too dug potatoes on an autumn day and the memory of it has stayed with me.

When we got ready to return home, Oma brought out a large sack filled with potatoes, small ones the size of a grape. When we were digging that afternoon, I had mentioned to my cousin that these small potatoes would be great to pan cook, whole, with a bit of olive oil and rosemary. He had collected them and when I got home I opened the bag to find hundreds of the tiny things, many of which we had for dinner last night. HH even tried a few.

Later we called Oma to get our cousin’s telephone number to thank him for the gift. When we told her why we were calling him she laughed; these small potatoes, the ones I treasured for cooking, were generally culled from the crop and fed to the pigs. She couldn’t understand why anyone would want to eat them.

But eat them we did and the meal that night was a happy one, something about knowing the food, taking it out of the earth with our own hands, made that dinner special. How far we have come from our agrarian roots, that we now romanticize the digging of potatoes on an autumn afternoon.

Gardening at Night

The garden is pushing the last, late flower burst of the season into the air. The coming frost will soon send most of them to sleep for the winter and kill the unlucky ones who were never intended as more than summer guests. The garden is an ever-changing work in progress that puts on its greatest show in from April through September.

Now, as the leaves fade and drop, stems wither and colors fade, the gardener dreams of the coming spring and wonders which of them will make it through the winter and of those that survive, which will flourish and grow to their full potential. The gardener sees not only what rests in the bed before him but what might be. One shouldn’t rely on his observations because they are always hopeful, he sees the stub of a rose crushed by summer revelers as the full and robust plant it may yet become. He imagines the lilac in full bloom, tall and rich white in the background, the lavender bushy and deeply scented, a harmonious yet seemingly random collection of living things fed and watered and whispered to, the product of a thousand gentle touchings and encouragements.

That’s your grandfather jumping out of the plane …

This weekend HH’s grandfather, T. Moffatt Burriss, was honored for his courage during World War II in the capture of the brides in Nijmegen, Holland in the battle known as Operation Market Garden. Beatrix, Queen of The Netherlands, Prince Phillip of Great Britain, US General David Petraeus, the US Ambassador to The Netherlands, the German and Polish Ambassadors and numerous other military and civilian officials gathered to recognize the sacrifices American soldiers made during the liberation of Europe. It was an eventful and memorable weekend and His Holiness was there.
He missed a day of school and would be three days away from his favorite toys, but when promised a hotel room with a television, he was willing to go along. Before we had even left the neighborhood he was asking how long it would take to get there and when we were coming home. I explained to him that we would be going on a long trip, like when we went to America this summer. He got it and really didn’t bother with the question more than once or twice more during the trip. Later that morning, in a cow pasture about 20 minutes outside of Nijmegen, he watched his “Big Pa” parachute out of an airplane four days before his 90th birthday. He hit the ground smiling and we were all relieved. Another veteran jumped with him but his landing was not so smooth. He’s fine, but he had a few cuts and bruises and required a visit to a local hospital.
It was a powerful moment witnessing these two men who in their 20’s had jumped from their planes into a battle where a huge number of them would not survive. The impression I was left with was not just how remarkable their accomplishments are, but how it must feel for them to be in that pasture together, sixty-five years later. Whenever two or more of the veterans were together, one could almost sense the bond between them. Few experiences in life bind men together as do the nearness of death and the loss of friends.
We spent the weekend attending commemorative events and watching parades. But we took a big break in the middle for HH to visit one of the local playgrounds in Nijmegen. I’ve attached a picture because it was probably one of the nicest playgrounds I’ve even seen. We spent a good deal of time there and then took a long hike through the Dutch countryside. It was a full day and we expected HH to go right to bed. And we almost made it until he turned on the TV and caught a German Volksmusik program that he watches when he visits his German Aunt and Uncle. For those of you who have never heard or seen this music (I say seen because the costumes are a major part of the experience) it is very traditional, with accordions and rousing choruses and dirndl skirts for the ladies and lederhosen for the men. It’s beer hall music, German country and western and HH loves it. He was clapping along and laughing – he even knew some of the singers. It is all lip-synched and most of the performers were fortunate that the lighting technician was a forgiving person, but he enjoyed it and we enjoyed him enjoying it.

The big celebration was on Sunday and the entire city of Nijmegen was locked off – no traffic in or out. The Dutch have become very serious about the Queen’s security following a recent incident where a man drove his car into a crowd, killing seven, during an appearance by the Queen earlier this year. We sat in the VIP section behind the Queen and the other dignitaries, but we didn’t see much of the Majesties from our seats. It was nevertheless memorable and I hope HH will in fact remember some of it. Although if I had to guess, I would say the playground and the Hotel TV were probably the things he most enjoyed about the trip.
We made it home to Cologne and are awaiting word that Pig Pa made it home to the US safely as well. He is a remarkable man, not only for what he has done but by what he continues to do each day - engage life. Even while acknowledging the extraordinary events of his past, he was active, jumping out of that airplane at his age – at any age – and when he hit the ground he wasn’t saying how he was happy just to have survived, he was making plans to do it again. That’s a lesson worth remembering.

First Grade

Tomorrow HH enters the first grade.

Last night he let it out; his energy level over the last few days had built to such a peak that we thought it must be the product of a growth spurt coupled with some hormonal abnormality and topped off by a measure of Jet-Lag. Seems the issue was what he was going to wear to school.

For those of you, like me, who thought that five-year-olds had a limited concentration span and remembered only those things related to chocolate, Lego and Pokémon, not necessarily in that order, we were wrong.

Last year HH was required to endure a number of admissions interviews. We looked at three schools and each of them had its own form of interview/test to determine if the child in question had the goods to make it at the respective school. He did fine, was accepted to all three and in the end chose the school he wanted to attend. During the course of one of these interviews he was shown a picture of the boys’ choir. The boys were dressed in long black robes with white collars as they stood in the choir loft of the Dom Cathedral in Cologne. Last night before falling asleep, HH explained that he was not ready to go to school – it was just too much trouble – and the primary reason was because he did not want to wear one of those black robes to school each day.

I didn’t even remember the robes, or the picture for that matter, but HH had kept that image tucked in the back of his mind for the last eight months. Now, I’m not sure he was really so worried about having the wear the robe to school, or that he had even given it a moment of thought before last night. It is just as likely he was digging deep to find an excuse, any excuse, to delay the start of school, much in the same way that he will come to the table and tell me that he won’t be able to eat the broccoli that’s sitting on his plate because he wasn’t allowed to watch the last installment of Bob the Builder. But it was impressive nonetheless that he conjured up that fleeting image of the boys in black and slipped it into his argument against going to school.

First grade. Now the fun begins; peer pressure, new friends, sports, helping him with his homework (in German no less!) after-school activities, girls, dating, driving! I’m getting ahead of myself, I know, but as I look back on the last few years, the HH years to-date, it seems like not that long ago he was just a toothless bundle in a Baby Bjorn, nodding and cooing as I carried him from place to place. HH is setting off on his own now, a bone-crushing school bag strapped to his back, and I must get used to waiting, waiting until the end of the day to hear the stories he chooses to tell.

Summer Time

It’s cold and sitting here in the pre-dawn chill; it seems more like autumn than summer. His Holiness crept out of his room a little while ago shivering and crawled into bed with Mama. Much earlier, too early for my own good, I had taken up my place in the tiny living room of our cabin, pecking away at my notes for a meeting I would be having later today to plan a new playground here in Smallwood.
It’s been a cool, rainy summer in the southern Catskills but it has been a great one. In a little over 72 hours we will be making our way back to Cologne where I will once again take up my struggle with the German language and HH will enter the first grade. Where did the time go? It seems like yesterday that we arrived in America and how is it possible that HH is already starting school? Wasn’t I just bundling him into his Baby Bjorn and walking him down to the Union Square Farmer’s Market to sniff the fresh herbs and flowers?
I was sitting by the water with a friend yesterday, a man who has two children about HH’s age, and we were talking about our perception of time, of how it speeds up as we age. As we watched our children digging in the sand, I tried to will the moment to linger. I had charged the battery in the digital camera that morning and had taken shot after shot of the children, realizing the photo ops were dwindling and wanting to save as much of the experience of summer as possible before we returned home. From experience I know these pictures will be viewed over and over again in the coming months, as winter settles in and the dull gray canopy that passes for sky reasserts itself over our lives.
One morning soon, HH will wander into our kitchen in Cologne, sit on my lap and the two of us will look at pictures from this summer. And far sooner than I care to acknowledge, sooner than I can even imagine, I will be sitting in a kitchen somewhere alone, paging through the images of summers passed, times I could not stop or even slow

Breakfast at Blanche’s

One of our summer rituals is acting out the characters who inhabit the legendary breakfast spot, Blanche’s Diner. HH is the waiter and I am the cook. He takes the orders and serves the plates while I remain in the kitchen cooking. Each morning he constructs a small door between the kitchen and the living room, made from the lids of his two plastic toy tubs to make sure I stay in the kitchen. I’m forbidden to leave.

We have one customer, Mama, who eats alone on the front porch. HH eats his breakfast in the kitchen, crawling up on a stool that is still too high for him to manage comfortably, or safely, but that’s the way he likes it. He doesn’t have too much trouble mounting the stool but getting down from it is precarious and about 50% of the time he ends up on the floor. It doesn’t matter. He just picks himself up and goes about his work. Serving breakfast is serious business for HH and he isn’t going to let a little spill off the stool stop him. HH has a special voice he uses when he adopts the character of the waiter Joe. It’s a very New York sort of accent, classic 1950’s Cab driver style and he insists that I use the same style of speech. It’s tough, street talk with a bit of swagger and attitude, a cartoon version of hash slingers from another era and nothing at all like the real Blanche’s Diner.

Earlier this week we made our annual visit to the shrine of small town truck stop food in this corner of the Catskills. Mama was out of town and the two of us set off early in the morning to pick up grass seed and Pokémon cards – he had his shopping list and I had mine. On the way back we pulled in to Blanche’s and settled in at the counter for breakfast.

The diner has been there for as long as anyone can remember, sitting on the crest of a hill on highway 17B, a few yards down the road from Mongaup Valley in the town of Bethel, NY. Most of the customers are regulars. If you didn’t know it was there you probably would just fly right by it at 55MPH on the two-lane road. I’ve missed it a few times, even when I was actually looking for it. It’s not a silver metal airstream-style diner that catches your eye. There’s no flashing lights or paved parking lot, just a small sign that says “Blanche’s Diner” in front of a modest wooden building.

Blanche’s is a local institution. The county judges used to hold their regular weekly conferences over breakfast at Blanche’s, there is always a police cruiser in the parking lot, and on our most recent visit one of our town council members was rehearsing a speech he was about to give on the new natural gas pipeline. For decades a local radio station would call Blanche each morning to report the weather. Blanche doesn’t do the weather anymore, but she still runs the place. Normally she sits at the counter talking with customers until someone wanders over to the cash register to pay. Then she slowly gets up and takes their money, offering lollipops to the children, always checking with their parents first to make sure it’s ok.

Penny and Bud do most of the heavy lifting. Penny is the perky blonde waitress who never forgets a face and Bud is the cook, cool and steady and determined to give you a side of potatoes with your eggs whether you want them or not. They have both been there for as long as I have known the place, but they haven’t seemed to age. The linoleum that used to be under Bud’s feet is about the only place that looks the worse for wear. Penny knows what most people want before they say a word. “Western, wheat toast, coffee light – right?” She confirms rather than takes orders most of the time. You rarely see a menu at Blanche’s. They exist, but even irregular regulars like me are loath to admit we haven’t committed the offerings to heart.

HH loved every minute of it. We sat on short stools at the end of the long half-circle counter that rings the prep area. From there we could see Bud working the grill and Penny placing orders and picking up food. To our immediate left were a dozen large paper coffee filters filled with fresh ground coffee ready to drop into the steaming BUN. We were sitting on the business end of the counter which was perfect for us because we consider ourselves as part of the team. HH ordered large – a short stack, side of bacon, side of links and milk. He ate it all without lifting his eyes from Penny and Bud for any longer than it took him to spear a piece of pancake.

I don’t claim to know what prompts HH to want to inhabit one character or another or why assuming the roles of waiter and cook thrill him like they do, but I love it all probably as much as he does. My reasons are likely different than his; there’s a dash of nostalgia in it for me, American Diners are one of the things I miss living in Europe, the chatter between the cook and the waiters, the small-talk the customers exchange, all in my native tongue, all familiar and speaking of home.

In a few days we will be returning to Cologne, but I expect we will be taking a little bit of America with us. If you happen to be walking under our kitchen window one morning on the Brüsseler Platz, you might just hear the sound of two street-wise New Yorkers serving up an American breakfast of eggs, bacon and toast, to Mama, our one and only customer. And even if she’d rather be having a brötchen with butter, she’ll eat it with a smile, she’s a regular.

Summer anyone?

Yesterday it rained. Again. It was cold and windy and I closed all the windows in the cabin to keep the chill out. HH and I spent the day indoors. It is nearing the end of July and we haven’t had one week that has felt like summer, not a stretch of even three days when the temperature reached 80, or the sun stayed out and the ground stayed dry from dawn through dusk. But yesterday was cold, even when compared to the dismal norm we have become accustomed to this summer. So we stayed inside the entire day and indulged ourselves; we binged on the pleasures we most enjoy yet often deny ourselves, or more accurately, that I ration. HH spent most of the day watching cartoons, Abbott and Costello, The Three Stooges, Superman, Spiderman and Sponge Bob while I sat on the porch reading a crime novel, the most recent installment in a marathon of blood and gore and terror that I’ve subjected myself to this summer.

Over the course of the last 8 weeks, I’ve read about 20 books and all of them, with the exception of one David Sedaris collection of essays and a trio of CIA spook thrillers by David Baldacci, have been about murder and mayhem. This reading material feels oddly suited to the seasonal disguise that summer has adopted, pretending to be early spring or fall. The dark, wet days and cold nights have been the perfect environment for immersing myself in this dismal genre.

HH on the other hand has discovered cartoon Superheroes and, with a little coaxing from me, the slapstick comedy of the middle of the last century. He has also learned to manipulate the keyboard of my laptop. He can now turn it on, enter my password, access the Internet and browse the selection of PD cartoons available on Hulu and YouTube. I will have to change the content filter on my browser. There are some strange variations on Batman and Spiderman out there that have nothing to do with the cartoon characters that inspired them and I don’t want HH to find himself sitting in front of a video featuring fetish Spiderperson – where the webs they weave are more akin to Japanese bondage than crime-fighting spider silk.

Yesterday I read and he watched cartoons. We ate chicken nuggets and donut balls. We took a break in the late afternoon to play our favorite game of Mack and Hop Sing, did some drawing and coloring, and took out the trash, but aside from those brief detours into the realm of active, or constructive activity, the majority of the day was devoted to guilty pleasure. And it was good.

The problem is that this summer we have found ourselves all too often banished to the indoors of our tiny cabin in the woods. After a few weeks of this internment, I exhausted my list of constructive play ideas. Call me lazy, call me a bad parent or - in the words of the late Henny Youngman – Just Call Me!

I hope summer returns this week or next week, or in my lifetime. I want to change my reading list and I need some time to make the internet safe for HH before the cold weather and the habits it has spawned set in for good.