Today, dressed in flowing robes with a mitre atop his head and a long staff topped by an elegant crozier in his hand, the Bishop visits village homes, seeking out children to see if they have been ‘naughty or nice’ throughout the year. 

St. Nicholaus Visits Homes During the Evening of 5 December

Nicholas is welcomed into the home (usually in the family room or Stueben) and the  family gathers about him. Nicholas then recites a short poem. Each child then stands before Nicholaus and he addresses them, noting the highlights of their yearly adventures (as provided to Nicholaus by the ever-helpful parents).  The wise saint then tenderly addresses them, praising their good behaviors and admonishing them to remain on their best behavior during the coming year. If a child has been good (and almost all are!), they receive a small gift from Nicholas.

Then, of course, there are those whose behavior during the year past was less than laudatory. In times past, these children (usually boys) were handed over to a rather nasty creature called the Krampus…a terrible fate indeed.

A Rather Nasty-Looking Krampus Approaches. A Thrashing is Sure to Follow.

Krampus is the ancient Alpineland manifestation of evil nightmares, akin to the wonderful Brothers Grimm fairytale creatures from our childhood days.  It is a long-haired hideous ape-like biped, sporting long pointed horns out of each side of its head. Rather nasty looking fangs and a long pointy tongue are found within a malodorous twisted mouth. Krampus oozes Albtraum evil from every pore. They prance and run, growling and loudly proclaiming their presence by ringing huge bells attached to belts about their ‘waists’ and rattling large rusty chains.

Another Krampus on the Prowl

Krampus is not alone as such fearful creatures that accompany St. Nicholas can be found throughout most of Europe and come in many forms. In other parts of Austria and throughout Germany, one might find Knecht Ruprecht and “Swarze Peter (Black Peter), who, dressed from head to toe in black, looks more like a deranged chimneysweep than a fearful fiend. Whatever its transmogrified form, most parents will not permit Krampus to enter their homes when there are very small children about; only the older children need take heed.

Whatever its manifestation, Krampus takes the miscreant child, and provides some type of punishment…. be it a light slap on the rear with a bundle of branches, or some other form of “strafe”…all this to instill sufficient fear into the child so as to preclude further misdemeanors during the year to follow. Susi tells me that a couple of misbehaving lads from her school days were locked by Krampus in the school coal cellar for a short time as their punishment.

Of course, all of this comes from the notion from time immemorial that the best way to deter (if not extinguish) negative behavior is to instill the fear of punishment. Can you imagine such things occurring today outside of continental Europe? Poor Krampus would be hauled posthaste off to prison, charged with child abuse, hate speech, bigotry, pedophilia, non-inclusivity, violating separation of Church and State and committing acts of terrorism against children. Such mad sad times in which we live.

As all of this transpired last night (on 5 December), when a number of  us here in Pinswang converged on the Glueheweinstandl…a small wooden hut located on the village square. It is here during the entire period from Advent through the New Year that friends and neighbors can gather and, standing in the bitter cold, enjoy cups of piping hot spiced mull wine, snack on Spatzelkraut, a wurst or hot cheese waffle. It is here also that the news of the day is transmitted throughout all gathered via  the ‘bush telephone’… informal banter and chatter.

There is no better way to discover that someone has been sent to the hospital, or it is someone’s 60th birthday on Friday or that a new market is to be built near the village, or that European Union technocrats are again limiting the amount of milk that Austrians can produce and have created laws dictating when farmers may or may not spread fertilizer on their own fields…..such matters. Now, these might not be worldly items of great import to many of the elites in Brussels, but to those living the realities of daily Austrian village life, such news is as important as the blood flowing through our veins. Yet, midst all this, our conversations invariably turn to this most beautiful time of the Tirolean year.

A quick glance about us shows that some homes are already decorated with Christmas lights….small electronic stars glitter in windows and both trees and bushes, now devoid of anything green, are bedecked with strings of white lights.

From within some homes, one can hear music being played or sung. Indeed, as we travel the days through Advent toward Christmas, there is still much music to be made and heard. It is not of the wonderfully celebratory nature as heard in the US and England; rather, it reflects the serene reflective anticipatory quiet as we wait for the birth of Our Lord. Indeed, social merrymaking generally tends to be rather low-key during this time; all must be patient and wait until Christmas Day.

Yet, there is still great joy in this time. Concerts are everywhere as are the wonderful Advent Markets (also called Christmas Markets or Christkindl Markets…depending on where you are). Wooden stall are built in town squares, in courtyards within the walls of ancient castles, on the grounds of Abbeys (photo attached). They are bedecked in colorful lights as is the Christmas tree that dominates the Markt. The huts are filled with vast arrays of colorful hand-made gifts. There are skillfully crafted wooden toys and Christmas tree decorations, thick woven winter socks and fleece-lined slippers, freshly baked goods, smoked meats, carved figures for the Krippe (Nativity scenes)….nothing from factories or imported from Asia…all is made or produced by hand. Most sellers manning these booths are ones neighbors…. locals from the surround.

The Weihachtsmarkt in the Nearby Bavarian Border Town of Füssen

Choirs, brass ensembles and village bands provide music of the season. Visitors stroll from hut to hut, or lean against small high-pedestal tables…. balancing a 6-month old in one arm, a hot wurstsemmel in one hand and a Gluehwein in the other. The brittle cold air is filled with the mixture of talk, laughter and music.

Now that work is becoming less hectic, everyone will spend as much time as possible with friends and family. Susi and I will also visit with neighbors, just stopping on by at the spur of the moment, small gifts in hand, to spend quiet evenings chatting, eating freshly baked Christmas cookies and cakes, sipping a schnapps or two, singing (every family has instruments and all can play and sing) and enjoying the ever-present Gluehwein. Thereafter we’ll walk back to our own hut….slowly, savoring the late night stillness of our valley, the crunch of our boots in the fresh snow, the wisps of flakes falling on our faces, anticipating the comforting warmth to come as we near our home there in the snowy darkness far across the field.

September 2001/2011

The news reports here in Austria are filled with information regarding the 10th anniversary of the attack in New York; the start of a new chapter in our world’s history. There are the inevitable interviews with the oh-so-gescheit talking heads, expounding their views on an event that happened when they were nigh entering  puberty.

There is an almost visceral reflective sorrow amongst the collective ‘us’ as all recall where we were and what we were doing when the news came. The pull is very strong to tell someone, “I was here when the towers fell”. And so we do, whether in the US, the UK, Austria or throughout the European continent. For 10 years is a milestone in our remembrance.

As a Naval Officer on active duty, I was stationed at the Naval Postgraduate School in Monterey, California where I was a member of the military faculty.

Early on that fateful morning, as I prepared to depart for my office on the quiet, warm placid Monterey Bay, I recall watching the attacks unfold, there..so far from New York, Washington and Pennsylvania. The word spread quickly that we were now on the highest level of national alert. All of us in uniform responded immediately.

Military facilities were secured. Large caliber heavy weapons appeared, leveled at anyone entering these secured areas.  Emergency plans were opened and read, new duties and responsibilities disseminated, postgraduate education forgotten as we were placed on war footing.  We watched…and waited for orders on how to proceed.

Susi was at home here in Austria. When her call finally got through to me, she told me that all in the Tirol thought that the radio reports regarding the attacks were dramatizations…something akin to the ‘War of the Worlds’ radio broadcast made during the first half of the last century. It was shortly thereafter when the shocking reality set in that Austria along with the rest of the nation states of Europe joined the US in that all-too-brief moment of complete unity. Twas a fleeting moment indeed.

Later that same day, I gathered a group of military officers and their families from around the globe who were attending classes at the Naval Postgraduate School and discussed the terrible events that had transpired.  All voiced in no uncertain terms full support for the US and what responses that surely were to follow. Our uniforms, our insignia and ribbons..all the glistening martial accoutrement with which we were bedecked seemed to suddenly take on greater historical importance…more than ever, they now defined us amongst men, for some of us were now going to see our planned lives irrevocably altered. It was and remains our calling, our purpose.

Just before we went our separate ways as the sun was setting, I suddenly began to sing ‘God Bless America’. I never really liked this song….this bit of the late 1930s that to me had sounded more Hollywood than heartland. But at that moment, the words had transcended their origins. They had become more of a proclamation…a hymn of sorts… in allegiance with the many innocents whose lives had been lost on that clear Manhattan, Alexandria and Shanksville morn.

I was a lone voice, for none of the others there knew the song. Yet, they understood the meaning and recognized the intent. Tears came. It was incredibly difficult to get the words out; emotions and fatigue were overwhelming as we approached the end of that very long terrible day.

I attended my first Bergmesse (Mass held in the mountains) this past Sunday, high in the Alps overlooking our valley. Susi and I, along with hundreds of local folk and guests from many surrounding villages made the trek up to this site to spend this Sunday…a gorgeous cloudless warm breezy day…. high in the Tannheim mountains that overlook Pinswang and a host of other nearby villages and towns.  We hike as much as possible into this lovely Alpine range; many trails course up and along the mountain, each bringing new sights and experiences.  On this day we wandered up the steep path to the Musauer Alm…a lovely high altitude verdant rolling meadow surrounded by the yet higher peaks and deep rich forests.

Cows grazed nearby, bells on leather straps about their ‘necks’ providing a faint lilting sound in the whispering Summer winds.

Father (Pfarrer) Bader set up a small table in front of a beautiful old Wegkreuz…a large wooden handcarved Crucifix permanently affixed into the earth on a hill overlooking a natural grassy amphitheater. At 1100, all gathered fore the Cross and altar…the Mass began. The surrounding  trees were our flying buttresses and the higher peaks our spires.

Pfarrer (Father) Bader prepares to begin celebrating Mass. A splendid old wooden hand-carved Wegkreuz can be seen behind Herr Pfarrer.

For our music, we all sang the Deutschemesse by Franz Schubert; the splendid village band (Musikkapelle) from Musau providing the orchestral guidance. Herr Pfarrer lead the Mass under these crisp neon blue Heavens. The sounds of his voice and the music we all made wafted midst these rolling hills.

With the Ite Missa Est, we slowly made our way to the nearby Musauer Huette….the venerable Inn that has been serving wanderers and hikers in the mountains for many years. The remainder of the day was spent there, enjoying the folk melodies played by the Musikkapelle from Musau and our village, Pinswang, feasting on fresh bratwurst, potato salad, rich home-baked cakes, beer and schnapps, and moving from table to table to chat with friends, old and new.

The Musauer Huette; a lovely inn located high in the Tannheimer mountains overlooking Reutte, Pinswang and Musau. The Musikkapelle played under the umbrellas on the right, whilst the rest of us sat at long tables; eating, drinking and basking under the glorious midday sun.

Yet, the true highlight of the day was it’s beginning..when, exhausted from our long trek up the mountain, we sat together on that rolling green mountain meadow, listening to the liturgy or Our Lord in a place just a tiny bit closer to Heaven itself.

On the way up to the Musayer Alm, a break in the trees reveals a lovely view of Pinswang far below. The Ulrichskirche can be seen on the left. The Lech River separates Pinswang from it's 'sister' village, Musau (lower foreground). The mountains on the other side of the valley are the borderlands between Austria and Germany. The Forggensee (Lake Forggen) in the upper background is in nearby Bavaria.

We drove over the high alpine Timmelsjoch which yielded vistas we have not seen since our travels up Pikes peak in Colorado Springs not all that long ago. The roads are steep and thin…barely sufficient to accommodate vehicles traveling in opposite directions…winding their precipitous way well above the tree line up to about 2,300 meters above sea level. I fear that my mountain driving still leaves abit to be desired, as by the time we reached the local roads on the other side of the Timmelsjoch, poor Susi’s face color looked something akin to a green pepper. A brief moment to pause and regain our stomachs, and we moved on to our destination..Meran (Merano), where we spent four days in restful bliss. 

We stayed in rooms at a delightful mountainside farm/Bed and Breakfast…the  Bäcksteinerhof…located in the village of Obermais that overlooks Meran. Obermais is dominated by large old homes and farms…some dating back to the 13th century. All are surrounded by the natural beauty and wealth of the Südtirol….orchards of apples, pears, vineyards as far as the eye can see.all thriving in the rich fertile soil of the mountain surrounding Meran (indeed, all of the Südtirol).

The  farm was first settled in the late 13th century and had been owned by the Familie Verdorfer for more than two centuries. The original house in which the family resided was replaced many years ago by lovely large farm home built in the traditional Tirolen style. The large ancient barn remains. In addition to the private residence of the family Verdorfer, this lovely farmhouse now has five spacious guestrooms, each with a large balcony overlooking the surrounding apple groves and the valley far below.

Backsteinerhof...a Splendid Farm-Based Bead and Breakfast in the Hills overlooking Meran. The farmhouse can been seen in the lower right of the photo. Other large farms can be seen above and behind Backsteinerhof...all surrounded by expansive apple groves.

Upon our arrival at the Bäcksteinerhof , we were greeted by Frau Verdorfer who runs this lovely quiet  Bed and Breakfast and Herr Verdorfer who manages the farm itself.  Our hosts were very friendly and gracious indeed. We knew in an instant that we had found the perfect place to call home during our stay in Meran.

A tour of the house revealed it to be very lovely indeed…clean, warm, inviting. It is decorated with many items from the original house. Each guestroom has its own bathroom with shower. For breakfast, Frau Verdorfer treats her guests to a wealth of local foods…breads, cheeses, cold cuts, jellies, eggs, juices, teas, coffee and a freshly baked cake. Should you be considering your own journey to Meran and its environs, might I wholeheartedly recommend considering lodging at the Bäcksteinerhof. You can learn more about it by accessing their webpage at: http://www.baecksteinerhof.com/.

The splendid room that Susi and I occupied was blessed with a southerly view overlooking the wide expanse of the valley far below and the range of mountains on the other side. We had a balcony on which we would sit in the evenings as the 35+-deg. heat of the day cooled and light evening breezes refreshed…..sipping a local red in between mouthfulls of aging gorgonzola, salami and thin crusty bread…watching the stars appear both in our clear sky and in the homes below and on the mountainside. 

Our days were slow and romantic as we wandered the paths around and through Meran (a 30-minute walk from our rooms), tracing the steps of the many who have come to this very place for ‘the cure’. For the waters about and under Meran are said to possess unique elemental qualities that can rejuvenate the old, fortify the young and bring contentment to all those in between.

The Kurstadt Meran (Merano)

A brief pass through a local cemetery reveals that this quaint notion might have been more in thought than deed, as the majority of stones suggest that those seeking the cure ended up finding their final eternal relief whilst in Meran. Indeed, one could see grave after grave marking the earthly bed of a Prince from Liechtenstein, a Polish Baroness, a wealthy American, Russian nobility, Prussian senior officers….so many nobles and notables…all who arrived in Meran for the cure, and stayed. 

Midday Summer promenades along the Passerfluss (the river Passer) surrounding the walled city of Meran took us past the elegant 19th century Kurhaus, where Kaiser and Queen took the waters…past shaded cafes giving pleasant pause where Susi and I sipped ice coffees in an attempt to escape the Mediterranean midday heat…to a bench aside the Passerfluss under a large tree…sinking into elderly half-sleep to the steady lull of flowing river waters. 

Evening meals at the local inn, the Mosl, were simple and of overwhelmingly large portions. Our guilt from gluttony was assuaged, however, by our after-meal treks back up the hillside to our rooms. Each step took us higher amongst the endless groves of young very green apples. November in Obermais…and indeed, the whole of the Südtirol…will become a very busy place as pickers from across Europe will converge here and set to work harvesting the millions of tons to be sent to markets and into storage. The mountains will be covered by humanity then, toiling to bring this treasure under cover before the first ever-threatening hailstorms begin. 

Susi and I also walked the ‘Wallweg’…a thin forest path dug into the earth and stone of the steep mountainsides, along which miles of trenches have been dug by hand. It is along these Walle that the precious mountain waters flow from high atop the surrounding peaks down the mountains to the valley and river below. Shunts have been built into the main artery along the entire length of the Wall, such than water can be carefully channeled to each farm. There is a team of  inspectors who ensure that the trenches are cleared of debris. There are no engines to drive this process….no mechanics to repair faulty pumps…it is simply melting Winter snows and gravity that drive this simple elegant system. It has functioned as such for many centuries and, precluding any further human or otherwise catastrophic intervention, will probably continue to do so for countless harvests to come. 

Susi and I had heard from friends that whilst in Meran, it is essential to pay a visit to the nearby Schloss (Castle) Trauttmansdorff located but a short drive from Obermais.  The castle itself has been the seat of Austrian nobility since the 14th century.  It has had a tumultuous history that has seen it fall to ruin and restoration (see: http://www.trauttmansdorff.it/History.html). Today, the castle is a museum surrounded by some of the most glorious international gardens in the world. Although only opened to the public since 2001, these gardens have already become one of the world’s most visited.

Schloss Trauttmansdorff

The gardens are divided into four major themes…forests of the world, the sun gardens, landscapes of the South Tirol and the water and terraced gardens. There are miles of paths connecting the palette of colors and shapes…a botanical paradise sporting representatives from every clime and altitude. There are cacti, a sheath of sand shaded by large palm trees, roses, lily-laden ponds stocked with fish from Japan, meadows and thick forests and a pair of high-altitude lookouts from which observers can view the schloss and its rolling environs.  The gardens and schloss combined are so expansive that what was originally anticipated to take but a few hours turned into a full day of exploration. More information on these magnificant gardens can be found at: http://www.trauttmansdorff.it/The_Gardens_new091009_The_Four_Garden_Worlds.html

After some days, it became clear to Susi and me that it was time to move on, and we sadly departed Obermais and once again took to the local roads..this time headed back toward Austria. We elected to employ an alternate route….not only for a change of scenery, but in order to prevent an encore of Susi’s previous bout with my mountain driving. Yes, the more placid route via the Reschen Pass would be the best option. After detouring briefly toward Bozen (Bolzano) where we purchased a couple of large clay pots (for which this area is famous) for Susi’s plants, we took to the route toward home. It wound its placid way through some of the most beautiful scenery one can imagine…replete with ancient villages, monasteries, castles and other fortifications from wars past and very far past. 

Susi and I paused in our travels in an area known as the Reschen Heide…a rolling expanse of green surrounded by high-snow-topped peaks. A midday coffee at the Cafe Andrea quite unexpectedly revealed to us that we were within a short walk to Mals…one of the most ancient villages lining this old trade route connecting Italy to Austria and Switzerland. Ones attention is immediately drawn to the five towers that dominate the skyline. We had to investigate, and temporarily abandoning our car, made our way into the village.

The Medieval Village of Mals (Malles) at the Foot of the Reschen Pass

Mals was much older than I had thought…a pre-Roman Empire agrarian community nestled at the base of sheltering hills. Immediately one could see lines of Gothic period stone walls into which private dwelling had been built. The first tower one encounters is that of the oldest Church in this part of the Tirol…the 8th century Church of St. Benedict. It was small, built for a small village of that time.

The 8th Century Benediktskirche (Church of St. Benedict) in Mals. It is one of the oldest Churches in all of the Tirol. The tower was built later, in the 12th century. This church contains paintings and frecoes that are amongst the oldest in all of the German speaking nation-states of Europe.

A few streets away, one could see another church bell tower…this one from the 14th century….and there, a few streets away again, was another tower of a church built in the 16th century. For you see, unlike some many other sites where Churches were built on the exact same sites as their predecessors (and in the process, destroying or updating the older structures), churches in the this part of the Tirol were lovingly maintained and preserved. As villages and populations grew, rather than replace the older buildings with larger newer ones, a new Church was built a few streets away. This practice is but one reason why so many ancient Italian villages still are dominated by these picturesque reminders of a long colorful history.

Ancient Dwellings in Mals (Malles)

We arrived back in Pinswang this past Wednesday, to be greeted by high winds, hail and fierce rain storms..typical for this time of the North Tirolean year. We had little respite, however, before the next bout of festivities commenced. It is the celebration of the Sacred Heart of Jesus (Herz Jesu)…an historic religious and national fest whereby portions of the alpine surround are set alight in the symbols of our faith….large crosses, hearts and other symbols are created by setting lantern fires up on the mountainsides and even atop on many peaks. In the Summer dark, Susi and I could stand in the field about out house and see these fires ablaze, some set many miles away. It is a glorious sight that is hard to describe.  

Yesterday, Sunday, following Mass, we celebrated once again..this time for our local patron Saint…Ulrich, whose name graces our village Church. It all started at about 1030 and went well into the evening…wonderful music, lots of food, lots of beer…much friendship as many from the village were joined by guests on holiday. Susi and I headed off at about 1630 after a full day…leaving behind only the heartiest to hold down the fort until the benches were eventually stacked and tables folded in the glow of the spots shining on the Ulrichskirche late last night.

Having been afforded the opportunity to spend the remaining three years of my Navy career as a Military Instructor in Colorado Springs (a rather unlikely spot for a naval officer), I eagerly made my way westward. Having (at that time) spent more than 27-years proudly serving in the military, I believed it was now time to impart some of what I had learned to these very bright young’ns who would shortly be commissioned as Air Force Officers.  

I knew that my three-year tour as one of only seven Navy Officers assigned to teach (as part of an inter-service professional exchange program) at  the USAFA was going to be something of a cultural minefield. One of the most daunting challenges I had to face wearing Navy Blue amongst the masses sporting light blue was to be the Navy-Air Force football game, of 2006. Held on high-altitude home turf, the onslaught of verbal jabs, taunts and PowerPoint sabotage came fast and furiously; the paced quickened indeed as the day of the game approached.

During the week prior to the game, I made a gross tactical error whilst awaiting the start of my Thursday Human Factors class….I briefly left the classroom to fetch some books, leaving the laptop computer containing all of my course files unlocked and the PowerPoint brief that I was to present selected.

Upon my return, the room was filled with Cadets…my students…who snapped to attention in the most professional form. The class commenced. Immediately, I knew that I was in trouble, as my third PowerPoint slide proclaimed “SINK NAVY!” over a photo of an exploding warship. I smiled and let it pass, but the feeling of impending doom lurked within my sobering brow. Sure enough…another two slides later, “GO FALCONS!” (the Falcon being the USAFA mascot and symbol) with a periscope view of a torpedo headed toward an aircraft carrier. The chuckles from the peanut gallery grew louder as my visage turned from accepting to feigned annoyance. 

The Cadets didn’t miss a beat, “Sir, we’d like to make a bet with you!”

“What type of bet?”, came my hesitant reply.

“If we (the Air Force) win the game on Saturday, you will have to teach the first class thereafter wearing an Air Force uniform! We’ll supply the shirt and cover (cap), your other course section will give you the pants. Is it a deal?” The speaker was one of my brightest and best, and his sardonic smile suggested a devilish streak within that I had not heretofore observed.

“OK…it’s a deal, ” I replied, “However, if…no…WHEN the Navy wins the game this Saturday, all of you in both classes will have to submit to me one-page essays describing why you wish you had attended the United States Naval Academy instead of the USAFA. Is it a deal?”

After a few moments of thought and not being quite certain what to do, the class speaker replied in a no-longer-brash tone, “Sure”.  It was complete. Now we had to wait. I waded through the remainder of the brief, shaking my head in wonderment as to how the Cadets had managed to slip 20 more BEAT NAVY, GO FALCONS, crashed Navy aircraft and sunken Navy ship slides into my brief in the few minutes I was absent from the classroom.

Now, I was still not at ease, even after the class ended. Tension was mounting. Several visiting Navy Midshipmen…exchange students from the United States Naval Academy spending a year that the USAFA…had painted the open air stadium seats with the words ‘GO NAVY’  in huge bold white letters that could be seen from way across the interstate. Air Force Cadets were holding Navy uniforms hostage…as evidenced from some of the bizarre garb being worn by the Midshipmen during the day.

I had also heard the horror stories of decimated Navy faculty offices, furniture being moved elsewhere and substituted with plastic lining and real goats leaving their enduring marks in another Navy Officer’s academic digs. How to keep this happening to me…I had to think fast. I started dropping some not-so-subtle hints to all within hearing that my office contained invaluable…indeed, priceless relics that, if moved, would certainly result in the destruction of historically critical and irreplaceable artifacts…something about which my ‘uncle’, the Secretary of the Navy, would not be pleased when informed.

I was not convinced that my ruse would work and contemplated installing sensors in my office that, when activated by an intruder, would trip deafening alarms, blinding lights and assorted video cameras so as to catch the felon in the nasty act.

I worked very late that Thursday evening, and when I finally left my office, I was convinced that I had eluded a nasty attack. I went home, relaxed and complacent. Alas, tactical error number two.

The next morning, the Friday before the game, I went to my office very early…the sun was just showing itself over the rolling horizon to the east, turning the western front range a rich deep shadowed golden. I turned into the corridor leading into department spaces and headed for my office.

Stopping at the door…something was amiss…no light was streaming out from the windows atop the wall between my office and the corridor. They were ‘blackened out’ by…something. I knew that an attack had occurred…but how? When? I opened the door into my office very…very slowly, expecting a pail of something liquid to tip and cover me in Air Force Blue goo of some sort. Nothing happened. I carefully switched on the light. It was only then that the dastardly handiwork became clear.

My office walls and windows were covered in USAFA stickers, magnets, posters…a sliver or two of morning sunlight broke through the cracks between Air Force Academy calendars and recruiting posters taped to the huge glass windows overlooking the Aeronautics Laboratory building and valley below. My desk, bookcases and files were happily still in place, but covered with Air Force paraphernalia of all types. In place of the two chairs and the couch usually occupied by students and guests, there was now a large children’s plastic swimming pool, inflated and filled with water. A plastic model of an aircraft carrier, a Navy diver and some other related times were submerged…sunken in the foot or so of water that sloshed about with each step as I entered my office.

A Pod of Cephalopod Mollusci Attack Defenseless Navy Ships and Personnel at the USAF Academy

Hanging from the ceiling above the pool was a small model of an F-15 look alike, dropping paper cutout bomb on the unfortunate sunken inhabitants of the pool. Attached to the bomb was the inevitable ‘SINK NAVY’ scribbled on a small piece of paper.

Adding Insult to Injury: "Go Air Force, Bomb Navy" Could be Seen Written on the Side of the Huge Bomb as it Fell onto the Already Decimated Naval Forces

Yet, this was not the worst part of this treachery. For the moment I opened the door into my office, I was beaten into submission by a veritable wall of rotting something smell. It was as if I had just fallen head first into a pool of 2-day old dead squids. And you know what…..I wasn’t far off. There ‘lolling about’ in the undulating plastic pool of death were five large decomposing octopi, their tentacles lapping in the waves, intelligence long lost from their tiny sightless eyes.

Now, I do love the smell of fresh fish…the harbor markets in Seattle or Monterey suggest that delicious morsels from the sea will soon be gracing my dinner plate. Not so with this stench…it was toxic, a superb weapon of mass destruction that wafted through my open door, polluting the entire 5th floor. My best laid plans to protect the Navy oasis had failed; the enemy had succeeded. There was nothing more to do than accept my fate and proceed with head held high. Yet, even in defeat, there can be small triumphs.

I left the door to my office opened all day that Friday. My colleagues were none too pleased with the miscreant perfume that would just not weaken.  Word about the attack on the Navy spread as quickly as the smell. Curious Instructors were bringing entire classes past my office, gazing in at me as I attempted to work, scanning my digs as if seeking out a stuffed extinct curiosity behind museum glass…holding their noses against the ever-faster rotting tentacle flesh…commenting, smiling and some showing abit of pity. Such circumstances can be little different for denizens of the local zoo, whose sad eyes and melancholic demeanor suggest despair at unjust incarceration to those with a bent toward anthropomorphism.

Finally, about midday, a colleague (I’ll call him ‘Mit’ to protect the guilty) suddenly appeared at my portal, his visage reflecting a mixture of surprised glee tinged at the edges with a pinch of guilt. Indeed, I no longer wondered about the locus of the attack…the mastermind behind this infamy. It was an inside job…the absolute worst kind of treachery!! 

Mit could not hold his secret any longer, and admitted all. He and his kids had invaded my office late on Thursday night and set their plan of defending the Air Force’s good name into play.

But where did he find the octopi, here in the middle of the land-locked American southwest?  Mit revealed that he had purchased the octopi the day before, arranging to secretly meet a restaurant supply truck at a rest stop somewhere along the interstate near the Academy. I wish I had a photo of the exchange; Mit giving the driver a wad of money and in return receiving a large brown trash bag filled with what later was identified as thawing octopi. What a sight that must have been.

Mit and I were soon laughing about the entire operation and quickly took pity on our colleagues occupying nearby offices. We placed the very nasty carcasses into Bio Hazmat bags and left them for disposal. Mit and I then dumped the water from the pool, inflated it and restored my office to nearly its original state.

That evening, only the glue from the tape holding the posters and calendars on the windows gave evidence that something quite remarkable indeed had happened. The stench eventually disappeared. My colleagues were happy. Mit and his kids were happy. The Air Force was happy…oh yes, except for my students.

You might recall the bet they made with me mentioned earlier? Well, Navy won that game. The next Tuesday, there were almost 35 ”Why I Should Have Gone to Annapolis” essays on my desk.

The Ulrichskirche, glistening as morning’s beams come stralling through the thick baroque glass windows, has taken on the visage of this late Lenten weekend. For it is Passionssonntag…Passion Sunday. All free-standing and Altar Crosses and images have been bedecked in deep purple cloth, and will remain so until Easter.

Pinswang's St. Ulrichskirche on Passiontide Sunday, April 2011

Ulrichskirche Crosses and Images Covered for Passiontide

During Holy Week (Karwoche) before Easter, many of us from the village will transform this area fore the High Altar into an 18th century Heilige Grab (Holy Grave), which will remain in place until after Easter. You can read more about the Ulrichskirche Heilige Grab in a previous chapter of this BLOG (April 2010).

It is also during this period of Lent, on the first Fastensonntag (Fasting Sunday) that Pinswangers celebrate a fest that pre-dates Christianity…to a time when the Celts inhabited our valley. It was at that time that figures representing the change of season from Winter to Spring were paraded about and then cast onto large fires, symbolizing the end of the dark cold months. Over the centuries, the figure came to represent an old hag, who (in her current appearance) carries an umbrella and a string of large sausages.

Village children up to the age of eleven gather in front of Peter and Gertraud’s beautiful old farmhouse at the western border of the village. Then as the sun begins its descent behind the Lech mountains, one of the stronger lads hefts the hag aloft and the now 40 or so strong gathering of Pinswang’s children process down the main street…the hag held high at the front of the line. She is spun about, the sausages flailing, and the children cry out, „Vivat hoch, die Hex hat Durst — sie will auch eine lange Wurst!“ (“The witch is thirsty and also wants a big sausage!”)

The Children's Procession

The ‘Hexenverbrennen’ procession wends it’s way through the village, stopping at both the Cafe Appenstein and Guthof zum Schluxen for a cup of hot punch and (for the adults), hot spiced wine. Just as the warm elixir starts to have its soothing effects, it is time to press on up onto the mountain side towering over the Via Claudia (Roman Road).

Some elect to take the short but steeper route, following the cowpaths that create ridges along the face of the mountain. Others stay with the narrow asphalt path that winds its way up to the meeting area where all gather for the official ceremonies of the evening.

As the sun makes its final farewell beyond the distant mountainous ridge, a massive bonfire begins to burn. Dry crisp discarded Christmas trees form the previous December and January are now piled high and are set alight. An inferno of crackling branches send burning particles into the deep purpling March evening sky. A universe of stars wafts about us, sweeping above and through the large crowd of spectators (mostly parents and friends of the children in the procession).

In the midst of this pyrrhic spectacle, is the old straw hag, perched atop her upright wooden post. She, along with the old dry wood, succumbs to the bonfire before us. But, this is just the start of an even more spectacular even to follow…the „Scheibenschlagen“.

The boys who have been part of the procession have with them long tapered branches, looking not dissimilar to the “Tom Sawyer” wooden fishing poles fashioned for ages by such young boys and girls throughout the world…the type with a long thin string and hook fashioned from one of mother’s sewing needles affixed to the end. It is doused into the deep employing an unfortunate worm skewered to the hook and wriggling about…a perfect meal for a finned scaly freshwater delicacy.

But these poles are not for fishing. Rather, their tops are whittled to a point that is to be inserted into a thin wooden square, whose aerodynamically curved underside is designed to provide lift. The boys, their older Brothers and Fathers  are all wearing sets of these wooden squares on ropes strung through holes in the center of each square …hanging about their bodies in a manner akin to a bandana of bullets sheathed about soldiers or desperadoes.

Now, in the clearing atop the mountain overlooking Schluxen, with the old Hag about to relinquish her load of sausages to the fire, the boys and men take these slender wooden rods and insert the tapered end into the hole atop one of the wooden molded squares. They then place the square into the fire, holding it therein until it too is alight.

Setting the Wooden Disks Alight

The poles and their slowly burning wooden projectiles are held aloft into the cooling night, and are waved about slightly so as to keep the slight burning alive.

Then one at a time, each of the men and boys goes to the edge of the cliff overlooking the vast farmers fields below. There they stand to the slide of a wooden plank..about four-feet long, whose end facing over the cliff is slightly elevated.

It is time to launch these bravely burning wooden projectiles into the night sky. Each ‘shooter’ begins to swing the long rods, much like a golf player set to hit a very long drive. With each backward and forward swing, the wooden disc glows and burns more fiercely. The swings become elongated, traveling more than 180-degrees from fore to aft terminal point.

Suddenly, at a time when the shooter feels right, he lowers to rod and projectile toward the upward sloped board, and strikes it as if striking a golf ball. The burning wooden disk slaps the board and disengages from the tip of the rod. If the timing and angle of motion are correct, the disk will fly off into the pitch night sky, high into the air over the grass field below. It will sail for perhaps hundreds of feel, spinning wildly and shooting off tiny pieces of burning spark.

A Burning Disk Strikes the Launching Board and Flies Off Into the Night

Eventually, as speed and lift dissolve, the disk make a rapid descent…it’s landing marked by a final splash of orange that is quickly extinguished in the wet soil far below.

This remarkable shooting star spectacle continues for the next couple of hours, with three or four disks being shot forth simultaneously in a literal volley of rapid fire.

Eventually, the time comes for the crowd to descend back down the mountain..all the way dodging the remaining disks being launched from the heights directly above.

Once again, the night is quiet…the stars are fixed in the heavens. The rite of Spring had come and gone and the old hag will have to wait another year for her grog and wurst.

As we make our way along the darkened Via Claudia back to our home, Susi and I cannot help but think about how lucky we are to be living here in Pinswang. As local traditions, religion and cultures are being subsumed by those who wish to do away with the notion of national identity, we feel doubly blessed to be living in an oasis, where beliefs and practices associated with ones treasure of historical foundation remain alive and celebrated with great love.

Scattered about these forest-bedecked hills are scores of ancient villages and farmsteads. Gothic spires and Baroque Zwiebelturme (onion domes) pierce an intensely blue fore-noon sky. One sees massive farmhouses dating from the 16th century and clusters of private homes, inns and small shops. These villages (separated by countless acres of cultivated land) seem to spring directly from picture postcards; tourist office ideals that are pleasing to the eye, evoking a sense of warmth, gemuetlichkeit, and beauty…visions that one would certainly entice any traveler to immediately depart the local road and stop even if just for a moment or two of quiet solace. There is an almost innate, natural appeal to this scene; the beauty is immediate, restful and refreshing. It draws one without any expense into its universal harmony. 

What is immediately noticeable is that nowhere is there to be seen the rows of post-modern single slab-roofed sterile bunkers that one sadly encounters sprouting in the midst of and about some otherwise lovely historic Tirolean villages and towns.  Here, throughout this part of the Allgäu, there is continuity between the old and new; tradition is considered the heart of rather than anathema to the general aesthetic. Nothing is permitted to clash with the eye and soul…nothing to obliterate the almost transcendent sense of historical surround that, in the quest to establish fashion and recognition, too many town and city planners purposely eschew in their quest for architectural secularism. 

Please do forgive this moment of detour from the discourse at hand. It is just that as one wends one’s way through this serene pastoral scene, it is especially the lack of such visual discord that prepares the traveller for what lies ahead atop a lush plateau not very far at all from Pinswang. For we are headed to the village of Ottobeuren; more specifically, to the magnificent Benedictine Abbey that has made this village a center for pilgrims, tourists and wanderers since the Middle Ages.

As per the abbey website (http://www.abtei-ottobeuren.de/Kloster/geschichte.html), ” Ottobeuren was founded in the year 764 by the Graf Silach. Monks from St. Gallen and Reichenau, villages  near the Bodensee,  were the first to occupy the new Abbey. Interestingly, the Abbey, at its inception, was independent from any state ecclesiastical body; the responsibility for the oversight of the Abbey fell directly to the Kaiser. The monastery was the Church for the village of Ottobeuren as well as for twenty seven surrounding villages, and remained so until 1802 when it, along with other monasteries and religious bodies were secularized by the monarch.  Ottobeuren was re-dedicated as an active Abbey in 1918 and has remained so ever since. Today, there are approximately 22 monks that live and work in Ottobeuren.” 

One is immediately struck by the size of the structure; a towering edifice whose twin towers can be seen beacon-like by the traveler kilometers before reaching the village itself. Each tower is capped by an almost flattened Zweibelturm and double transept cross. A large clock face graces each tower.

Ottbeuren Abbey

The ornate Baroque facade is punctuated by masterful artistry in colorful Luftlmalerei (paintings on flat surfaces that create the illusion of multi-dimensionality)  and intricate metalwork.

Yet, it is upon entering the Abbey’s Basilika Church of St. Alexander and St. Theodor that one truly can appreciate the height of 18th century architecture and painting masterwork.  I have created a composite Powerpoint photograph of the High Altar and ceiling over the Transept. Whilst not perfectly aligned, I believe it provides some idea of the grandeur one sees within the magnificent Church. You can see it by clicking the following link:

OTTOBEUREN PANORAMA

Everywhere one turns, one is greeted by such human expressions of glory. The walls, side chapels and roof are covered in a host of frescoes by Tirolean masters F.A. Zeiller and Franz Jakob, elegant fragile filigree and luftlmalerei. Glassed cases atop altars contain holy relics of ancient venerated Saints. A splendid 13th century Crucifix can be found in front of the ‘Volksaltar’.

13th Century Crucifix

Unfortunately, on the day of our visit, Susi and I also encountered miles of metal scaffolding that created a complex skeleton within most of the Schiff (the part of a Church before the High Altar where the pews are situated). A new inner roof was being constructed. The work exposed many of the ancient beams that supported the roof very high above us. This is part of a general restoration of the Church that will be underway for some time to come. Do not be alarmed or disappointed by the mammoth metalwerk built for the restorers; for the visitor can still wander about the aisles, into the side chapels and up to the High Alter…to see with great clarity the majesty of this stirring example of the Bavarian Baroque Master Architect Johann Christian and his colleagues.

 The Abbey is also known as a center for its splendid music, both at Mass and in concert.  We were unable to see the magnificent 18th century Riepp organ as it was encased in sheets of plastic covering to prevent damage during the restoration.

After visiting the Basilika, Susi and I sought out the splendid Kloster Library and music archive.  Another disappointment awaited us, as both were not available to visitors; apparently, this time in February was when many Bavarians were on skiing vacation in Austria. Still, abit of our disappointment was assuaged when we entered the warm, comfortable Kloster Cafe. Hot Klosterkoffee and a slice of fresh Torte designed to nourish the belly as well as the soul.

A brief walk about the lovely village, and it was time to retire to our metal steed, already straining at the bit to brave the winding mountain road that would mark our descent from the plateau and back in the direction of our beloved Alps.

Susi and I elected not to follow the rest of Europe as they headed off on every highway and path to their respective holiday destinations; no..we stayed near home, thus avoiding (at least, for the most part) the 50km blocks of (mostly) stop and (a little) go stau (traffic…primarily from northern Germany and Holland) that characterizes travel anywhere near the Alps during these holiday seasons.

Christmas Eve and Day in Pinswang this year were lovely….snow falling, beautiful Midnight and Christmas Day Masses and much needed rest for all. The days that followed were spent greeting and visiting with friends..exchanging gifts, eating far too many home-baked Lebkuchen and Christmas cookies.

New Years Eve and Day were likewise quiet (we were never big New Years Eve partygoers). Susi made us a splendid late dinner, after which we went for a walk about our village. The Gluehwein (hot spiced wine) stand was not as yet opened, so we strolled along the ancient Roman Road (Via Claudia), along which our house sits. The stars shone and the windy cold was biting. Still, we were snug, each within our multiple layers of sweater, shawl and overcoat.

At midnight, we turned on the radio, listened to a broadcast the deep sonorous clarion of the Pummerin…a huge, beautifully cast bell in the tower of St. Steven’s Cathedral in far-off Vienna. This was immediately followed by a performance of An der schönen blauen Donau (The Blue Danube Waltz) by Johann Strauss. The sounds of the Pummerin and Blue Danube Waltz provide the traditional welcome into the Austrian new year. It is very moving indeed, not only of a hopeful future, but the recognition of and respect for nation, history, tradition and culture…not easy during these days when such identity-defining attributes are being swept away.

The sixth of January, was a national holiday celebrating the visit of the Three Kings to the manger in Bethlehem (Heilige Drei Koenigs Tag). After attending Mass, we (as well as all the other homes here in Pinswang) were visited by said nobility and their two escorts…the Sterntraeger (literally, the carrier of The Star) and the youngest toting a basket filled with brochures. (Interestingly, all were girls from the village…not a boy to be seen.)

The Pinswanger Sternsaenger

Together, this troupe is called the “Sternsaenger”. Each year, some of the children from our village (and indeed from villages all over German speaking Europe) dress as the Three Kings and make their way from house to house collecting a few alms for the poor…mostly in the Third World.

At each stop, they sing a short song, followed by the recitation by each of a short poem about following the Star of Bethlehem. The carrier of the brochures then gives one to those listening; in it, there is a description of the charities being supported during a particular year by this Star Singer program. Kaspar, the bringer of Gold, appropriately holds a gilded box, on the lid of which is a thin slit into which donations for each household are slipped.

The Kings and escorts then wish all a Happy New Year and leave. Once the door is shut behind them, the Sterntraeger takes out a special stick of blessed white chalk and, on the wooden frame above the door, inscribes the date and initials of the Three Kings in this form: 20 C+M+B 11. In reality, the initials are a short form for the blessing, „Christus mansionem benedicat“ (that is, Christ, Bless this House). When these distinguished visitors knock on our door at this time next 6 January, they will change the 11 into a 12.

For the remainder of this Christmas season (which lasts until the celebration of Marialichtmesse on February 2), we will venture forth to our neighbors to partake of an old and wonderful tradition..the Krippl’eschauen (seeing the Nativity Scenes).

In every village, there are artisans and master builders who construct gorgeous elaborate Nativity scenes…some in what is called ‘Oriental’ style (depicting the Holy Family, shephards and their flocks and the Three Kings in a scene depicting Bethlehem. Others show the Holy Family etal in a traditional Tirolean mountain village setting. The figures are hand carved and the highly detailed structures are built from scratch.

Of course, when you visit a home to see the Krippe, the host family always bring small ‘shot’ glasses filled with all sorts of Schnapps…pear, peach…sweet or ‘scharf’. On pain of being labelled rude, impolite and at the risk of creating an international incident, an American in Tirol dare not refuse.

Thus, by the end of the day, as the feeling of well-being floods over those enroute to the next house, all Nativity scenes begin to blend together and the ‘ahhhs’ and ‘ohhhh’s with which one praises the builders and their creations tend to sound more akin to ‘ehhhhs’ and uhhhhhhs’. One does one’s best to remain upright and mobile for the duration of the tour.

I am amazed by the stamina and mental fortitude exhibited by the ‘Einheimisch’ (locals) who seem unfazed after their 3rd or 4th schnapps.

I, on the other hand, notice that beyond one tip of the glass, my eyes become disconnected from the brain and start to swivel about in a somewhat uncontrolled manner. I feel as if I am trodding upon marshmallow earth and my tongue quite independently elects to no longer function…at least with regard to the pronunciation of any European language with which I am familiar. Rather, I hear myself transmogrifying ‘sh’s into ‘th’s, ‘t’s into ‘z’s…and my German discourse begins to resemble the cries of a barbarian storming the Gates of Vienna.

Krippl’eschauen thus ends on a foggy but enriched note. I invariably promise myself to be the greeter rather than the greeted next year.

So, further into the new year’s fray we plunge.

This ancient well-trodden path is preserved in as natural a state as possible. Still, it must be maintained and at all times kept passable. It is therefore the responsibility of the Agrargemeinschaft (the local agricultural committee) to maintain the Via as it courses its way through Pinswang and up into the mountains forming the border with Bavaria. Overgrown bushes and trees must be cut, the natural path kept clean, snow plowed…all of this falls under the purview of Pinswang’s team of naturalists.

Thus, in the few thaw days of Spring-like temperatures between the last snowstorm and that we have just today experienced…when the garden sprouted the season’s first spinach and bees mistakenly took to wing…far too early and dangerously so, the Agarargemeinschaft dispatched their expert tree and bush cutters to the Via.

The treaded cutting machine made its way onto the soft gatsch earth, sinking some inches into the sodden snow-soaked soil that had, just a day before, been coated in an icy glaze. The young pilot in his small control cabin, went from one overgrown bush or tree to the next, expertly guiding a rather nasty looking claw-like pincer that grasped the botanical detritus and crushed it within tons of pulverizing steel foot-pounds. The offending tree would creak and snap as the claw thing raised it skyward, swung it over nearby suspended electrical lines and deposited it with remarkable care into a large trailer attached to the tractor.

This panzer tree eater made its way along the Via, passing the Kratzer (the path across the mountain to the former border checkpoint near Fuessen, Germany), the ancient Celtic burial mound, the medieval Schloss im Loch mountainside fortress and the large Earschbach pond where, during heady warm Summer evenings, one can be serenaded to sleep by the choir of tiny green frogs that make the marshy weeds of the Earschbach their home.  Now, as it trundled its way to the portion of the Via directly in front of our home, here came Huber, one of our neighbors, curious about the mechanical commotion.

It is the way here in Pinswang, that when a friend comes by, just passing the gate from one point to another, that friend will stop, toss a loud ‘Servus!’ in the direction of the house, and wait to see who appears.  Whomever does respond, it is often with a flourish and a return shout of ‘Servus, Gruess Ench!’

An offer is then made for a quick Schnapps or beer. In most cases, the Besucher (visitor) will reply with a, “No, I am just on my way to see Oma” or “I can’t this time…must get back to the house” or something to that effect.

The standard retort follows, “O’, c’mon…yes…just for a moment”.

The besucher politely smiles and surrenders…which he or she had planned to do anyway.

On the day that the tree eater came, the Schapps flowed, for not only did Huber appear, but shortly thereafter came George, Peter, Anni, Edith, and others, all curious.

The tree eater stopped, the pilot left his control-filled cockpit and joined what quickly became a celebration of friendship and fine Schlehen, a light blackberry elixir that is soothing upon entry and produces a warmth as it makes its way from throat to the deeper recesses of ones digestive tract. 

Sadly, as the master of the tree eater was on duty, he could not partake. However, he quickly became engaged in the ‘bush telephone’ banter whereby the latest news, scandals, rumors and other such critical village reportage was exchanged in the finest of northern Tirolean dialects.

This spontaneous fest continued for well into the next hour, as the first signs of evening encroached on an otherwise splendid afternoon. With the first chill, our friends began to make their way from our gate….each resuming the trek to an originally intended destination. The tree eater pilot secured his machine, for it was too late for its maw to masticate stumps and dry dead tree trunks any further.

Susi and I zipped up our coats against the reminder that Winter was still with us. We took our now half-empty bottle of Schlehen and retreated back to the waiting warmth of our Stueben. Susi jotted a quick note on our shopping blackboard in the kitchen: “More Schlehen”.