Afton---Movin' On

We moved from Vohringen to Herrlingen following the return from our May trip. This time we lived in a family house, upstairs from Herr and Frau Iforgotthelastname and their son, Hans Fried. It was soooo tiny. One bedroom, and the kitchen was the size of a small closet, a small broom closet. It was clean and cute, with a killer view of the valley. But there were no Heidi and Cleve interventions, no Johnny and the barmaids, no bar music and rambunctious teenagers drinking below us, no condoms on the stairway, no drama. Ubiquitous peace and serenity. A fresh start. I loved it! Oh, how I loved it!

I remember hanging laundry out on a clothesline that was square, about four or five lines deep. Even when it was cold outside, this was our ritual, bringing in frozen clothes at the end of the day. It seemed so healthy and timeless. Washing the clothes was funny though. We rented a small machine, equipped with a centrifuger to wring the water out of the clothes, which it did with unbounded exuberance. It would get going at the speed of sound and dance across the floor in a most ungraceful posture, bumping and grinding like it was personal; it would take two of us to hold it down during that part of the cycle so it wouldn't go crashing into the wall or through the floor. A form of entertainment actually.

The bonus was that Hans Fried spoke English. Like so many of the teenagers did. So he was able to tell us all sorts of important details, like when the garbage men complained that the Americans filled up the cans with too much garbage. Those disposable diapers of yours. Almost every day thereafter, Daddy would have to put a bag of garbage in the car to take in and unload on base.

One day in the fall though, Hans Fried was at school and not able to bail me out when I really needed an interpreter. You and I were alone when I smelled something burning. I became more and more alarmed the more acrid the air became. Where there's smoke, there must be fire, right? That's it---our house is on fire!!!

I grabbed you and ran down the stairs and knocked on the door. "Fire, fire!" I yelled to Frau. She smiled, obviously clueless. "Fire, fire," I repeated more loudly. Doesn't help much to amplify pointless noise. "Iglesia," I pleaded, which is Spanish for church, I think, but it was all I could come up with. I mean I knew "lederhosen" and "wienerschnitzel" in German, but come on. I motioned around, held my nose, rolled my eyes, flailed my free arm. OK, you try doing "fire" in Charades. She smiled. I had no phone to call anyone for help, no Americans in town I could run to, limited options; so I just stayed there looking panic stricken and wouldn't leave.

Finally, she had me come in and I immediately noticed she had been cleaning out the fireplace and starting the first fire of the season therein. I pointed to it. And breathed. And smiled.

Surely it pays to learn a language. Or be gifted at Charades.