Fifty years ago, a determined family of four brave souls arrived in Chicago to begin their new lives in America. They were searching for the American Dream. Sure, the great immigrations of the last century were long gone, but the American Dream has this fantastic quality of never dying. With the drive to discover the freedom and greatness of America, these courageous few turned their backs on the affairs of the past.
And they knew the past all too well.
Alfred, the patriarch of this brigade, knew only to well the shadow of their old home. Germany was a wasteland, not only physically, but psychologically as well. Alfred had grown up in the same area as his wife Gisela in the Black Forest. A child when World War II engulfed civilization, and a mere boy when Hitler summoned the youths of Deutschland to do his bidding. Alfred was forced to join the army. Unwilling, however, to shed blood, Alfred waited for the proper moment. When the detachment arrived in the Black Forest, he fled into the hills, knowing the country far better than his pursuers. In the woods, he discovered many others sheltered there, hiding from the terrors of the Nazi. Alfred made do as best he could, but he could not hide forever.
The soldiers found him. Predictably, they were enraged by such insubordination and decided that the boy along with the others from the woods be executed. Alfred was set upon his knees and there he awaited the final shot.
But then they came. In all the glory of propaganda posters, the American air machine roared overhead. They rained tons of bombs down on the camp, sending the Germans scampering to their shelters.
Alfred got up. He ran like never before, and in his own words: "I staid hidden this time."
With such a story of real courage and sheer spunk, how could I dare not take interest in my heritage? Although Alfred is my mother's father, my own father one time told me that "our family is so German, it's sick." In many ways, we are a stereotypical European family. Fellowship in family and friends, the magnificence of food, and the discipline of hard word are critical components of our lives. Above all others, we hold to this maxim of Ben Franklin: "Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to prosper." Even now, I'm looking at a series of steins all in a line in our dining room. Beneath them are two ornaments straight from Germany. One says, "Gott schutze unser Haus." God bless our house. Faith brings us together often. My mother and father were the first pious Christians in our family, and, through their testimony, most of my extended family now firmly holds to the Truth.
So, what about me? Where am I in all of these Deutsche Rowdytum? That's easy! I'm proud of my heritage. I love being German, and I love my family much. Almost daily I hear about the complaints of my peers. I just don't understand how not to get along with my family. They are my best of friends, and, until recently, nothing was more important to me than them.
So, putting an end to this absurdly lengthy post:
Mutti, Vatti! Ich liebe dich!
Pretzel Twister, thanks for rock'n'roll music, The Simpsons, and all the belly laughs.
John! Thank you for cooking better than anyone has a right to cook. And for getting me eaten alive by Sea Chiggers.
Jake, you allow me to vent all my pent up video game insanity. Thanks for being my comrade and chainsawing the bejeezus out of some Locust.
Furball! O'Nelle! JDAWG! And the many, many other titles that you have. Here's to you being a light in a dark world and an encouragement to all who see you. And thanks for that Tyler guy.
Speaking of, Tyler. You, my friend, I have only to thank for the hours of LEGO Batman and LEGO Star Wars. There is no comparison, and I'll never forget swimsuit stormtrooper.
The Rock in a Hard Place, Brock, you are THE MAN. You are a mastermind, and a powerful ally. May the Force be with you. Always.
And lastly I save for you, Jennifer Brooke Hall.
I love you, and thanks for the hat.
