Happy New Year from Pinswang! The green Christmas mentioned in my last BLOG post has extended into an equally green New Year with nary a flake in sight. We shall see what the remainder of the winter has in store. Despite this, Christmas here in the Tirol has, for the most part (as you shall soon hear), been wonderful.

The Masses on Christmas Eve and Day were transcendent and of great beauty, with Blech (brass) and Holz (woodwind) ensembles providing the music for the liturgy. On the 26^th (St. Stephan’s Day), the music at Mass was provided by a splendid Blechbläser ensemble from our sister village, Musau. Our children and grandchildren visited with us here in Pinswang and we had a delightful Christmas family celebration. Susi prepared a splendid feast, after which we adjourned to the top floor family room and opened colorfully wrapped gifts.

It should be noted here that the unwrapping of gifts may, in fact, be a function of a host of social, cultural and economic variables; something not immediately apparent until visitors or expatriates view said activity as it is performed. Now, know from what follows is that there is no one correct way to deprive a treasured gift of its precious wrap. In America, for example, I have observed throughout my lifetime that the term unwrapping is something of a misnomer, as the often highly decorated paper that has been lovingly form-fitted to the gift and adorned with fanciful strings, bows, glittering flakes of unknown and probably unhealthy substances or other small accoutrement, is torn asunder in the most barbaric manner. Adults do so employing limited motions of the hands whilst the gift wrapping explodes into a storm of airborne shards as children eagerly seek the prize buried layers within. The red, blue, white, green and yellow on dark background remains of HoHoHoing Santas, dancing elves and fairies, mistletoe graced ringing bells and flakes ‘a fluttering lie scattered everywhere, akin to the detritus littering a still smouldering battlefield. Even after a time-consuming effort to locate and discard in the bin all of these remains, there inevitably remain some that, tucked under an edge of carpet or behind a long curtain, will reveal themselves many months later.

In contrast, throughout much of Europe, those receiving gifts will painstakingly remove the tape, ribbons, bows and, slipping fingers in the spaces between each place the paper has been folded, slowly, carefully pull the paper apart in such a manner that, if correctly accomplished, the paper can be re-used for gifts for others next Christmas. Again, there is neither correct nor incorrect here, merely an observation made. Still, I must confess, I rather prefer the American version of ‘unwrapping’; it is definitely not proper, environmentally anathema and, as such, evokes an elemental child-like joy that too many of especially my age have long since forgotten. But I digress……

We sat together in the warmth of the slowly darkening late winter afternoon room, the small comforting white lights of the ornament bedecked Christmas tree providing star points against the purpling outside the large windows overlooking the village. I read a couple of wonderful Christmas tales, one of which being the story of life, death and life provided in my previous BLOG entry. The other was an account of ancient times, when a horrible robber appropriately christened ‘Horrificus’ confronted Our Lady and the baby Jesus enroute to Egypt. It is a delightful and funny tale which I plan to translate and publish herein prior to Epiphany (O dear, this needs an update: Should now read, ‘prior to Easter’).

Our Christmas celebrations were then saddened by the death on the 27^th here in Pinswang of our beloved village Priest, Father Simon. He was our dear and close friend for many years and his death has hit us hard. Father Simon had a long and rewarding life (he was to turn 90 this coming March) and although becoming frail, he was 100% cognitively clear until the very end…..which came but a week after he returned to Pinswang after a brief stay in a nearby hospital. I am told that he died comfortably and without any pain, surrounded by family and friends. It was for me a great honor to play the church organ for him throughout the day on Friday (the 29^th) as Father Simon lay in state within the church. Yesterday a Requiem Mass was said for him. The entire village said goodbye and the good father was taken to his home in Mittenwald, a town across the border in Bavaria. This humble, wise and most noble of men will be buried there in his family grave on Tuesday.

The 28^th was Holy Innocent’s Day when, in an attempt to eliminate the newborn Lord, male babies were murdered by Herod’s house guards. This day is remembered in Austria by a host of different traditions. Here in Unterpinswang, a group of boys, most no older than 9 or 10, take to the village streets and, in the still pitch early morning (usually at about 5:00a), go from door to door yelling, “Hola Hola, Bierezelta, siasß oder sau’r, raus met’m Bauer!”, the meaning of which is very strange: “Health, Health (or Attention, Attention), fruit and nut cake with beer and Lebkuchen, sweet or sour, out with the farmer”! Each boy has a small can hanging via string about his neck with an opening cut into the top…the perfect place for the adult to insert a Euro or two for each. In other regions, the children also carry thin branches with which they lightly swat at the adults; revenge for Herod’s murders, and as such, the acts of all miscreant adults.

It is the 31^st of December and most of Europe is now less than a few hours away from the new year. Susi and I celebrate New Year’s Eve quietly at home; a wonderful dinner is often followed by a relaxing evening ensconced in a book or watching an old movie as we await the turning of the year. Then, at about 11:30p, we (along with much of Austria, Germany and Scandanavia) seek out a television broadcast of ‘Dinner For One’; a short black and white English theatre stage piece which, since being put to film in 1963, has become a much beloved cult classic here in Austria and Bavaria. For those not conversant in the German language, please note that although the introduction to the film is in German (The work was recorded by the North German Broadcaster (NDR)), the play itself is in English.

‘Dinner for One’ is the story of Miss Sophie, a rather grand lady who, having just turned 90, is celebrating her birthday with four of her dear friends. Unfortunately, none of the said friends is able to attend the party, for you see, Miss Sophie has outlived them all. Yet, Miss Sophie’s likewise aging butler James has set four places for the deceased and, to please Miss Sophie, goes through the motion of serving them a full four course dinner. With each course Miss Sophie instructs James to serve a different bit of liquid refreshment. With each round comes a toast to Sophie, and the poor butler must drink all that has been served. By the end of the evening, he is, shall we say, thoroughly in his cups, the result playing out with each of the butler’s excursions ’bout the party table. The audience watching the antics is in hysterics with laughter as poor James succumbs even further with each toast. You can find ‘Dinner for One’ on YouTube at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=To8g9XxAdXs  . I have also attached the video herein below. After watching, you might, like me, wonder why this piece has not become popular worldwide.

Then, exactly at midnight, the Austrian State television and radio broadcaster, the ORF, broadcasts the ringing of the Pummerin, the largest bell of the Cathedral in Vienna. This is then followed by a performance of Strauss’ An der schönen blauen Donau’…the Blue Danube Waltz. At the same time, the entire country becomes alight with fireworks, accompanied by the pealing of church bells from every steeple, everywhere. The sound echoes throughout our valley as explosions of glorious incendiary color can be seen in every direction, some being launched from the valley floor and others from refuges and inns high up in the surrounding Alps. It is a grand and exciting spectacle which welcomes the arrival of the new year, each and every year.

Tomorrow morning it is off to New Year’s Day Mass at St. Ulrich’s church where I will be playing organ and there will be a brass quintet also providing the music. Thereafter, the six of us will head off on our rounds, visiting friends and colleagues who were or still are members of the village band (Musikkapelle). We typically make three stops; the first at the family H. where, sitting about a large kitchen table, we devour sandwiches, Christmas cookies and commence what might be referred to as the ‘great imbibing’. A beer is usually followed by a schnapps or two, all of which it thankfully dulled by the aforementioned sandwiches and cookies. Then it is across the street where we greet another family, who plies us with even more schnapps…a requirement as at each of these stations we usually stop to admire the family’s nativity scene (Krippe). Some of the Krippe are quite modest whilst other (such as that pictured below) truly grand works of art indeed. It matters not, for all have been created with great care and are to be equally admired.

Having done so, it is then customary for the Master and/or Mistress of the house to join those who have inspected, admired and praised said Krippe (a procedure known as ‘Krippeleschaun’) to swiftly down a Stamperl (shot glass) of schnapps; neither the type nor brand of which is critical, for all are collectively known as ‘Krippelewasser’ (Krippe water) or (depending on the household preference) ‘Gloriawasser’. Christmas cookies are likewise offered.

By this time, the stomach-coating defenses offered by the earlier sandwiches have begun to falter and I tend to start experiencing the very slight but recognizable effects of the mixtures of William’s pear and hazelnut elixirs. However, my colleagues display no such impairments as we trundle on to the third station. It is here with family O. that we are treated to a view of their very beautiful Krippe and a seat at their table by the warm sleep-inducing enclosed tile fireplace (Kachelofen)….at least, I seem to be the only one who seeks a brief bit of respite from the celebrations as the others are full bore into yet more cookies, beer and schnapps.

Having reached my limit, I can no longer partake, at least of more than a single bout of the William’s, but my friends appear to possess cast iron digestive dispositions along with highly trained finely honed nervous systems. They show absolutely no signs of impairment, diminishment or any other manifestation of cognitive or motor skill deficits and are as awake and jovial as always.

Finally, it is time for all to depart and head their separate ways the short, walkable distances to home. I do so as well, my ‘goodbyes’ and ‘have a great days’ somewhat distorted by a mouth seemingly full of cotton. I have partaken of only very little throughout the three station stops, yet as this type of refreshment and I greet one another only on occasion during the course of the celebratory year, my resistance to its effects is, if you will, limited. Thus, my steps along the thin path back to our house across the farmer’s fields are slowly and very carefully executed; the ground beneath seems somewhat less than solid as I wend my way onto the ancient Roman Road that courses by our house.

Entering and bounding up the stairs, I find Susi watching the New Year’s Day concert being broadcast via Austrian State television, the ORF. I greet Susi, ask her who is conducting the Vienna Philharmonic and, sitting on the couch, proceed to immediately fall asleep, the somnambulant qualities of the Williams et alia finally taking effect. Upon awakening an hour or so later, the concert is coming to a rousing end with the Radetzky March. A brief word or two to Susi about the tempo and I again fall into blissful loss of situational awareness, only to fully awaken yet another hour or two later. To paraphrase Evelyn Waugh, I suspect that the “fault lay neither in the quality no quantity (for it is not great), but of the mixture”. My New Year’s Day is already more than half over; the remainder thereafter enjoyed in a most welcome rested state.

Christmas celebrations in Austria continue until Epiphany (Heilige Dreikönigstag). However, the actual Christmas season continues until early February when we celebrate the presentation of Jesus at the Temple. It is then that the Krippe are carefully dismantled, the figures wrapped in cotton, and the mangers boxed and Christmas tress denuded of lights and ornaments, all to be carefully stored in a closet, in the basement or attic….packed away until the Advent to come but a mere nine months hence.

So it is, dear reader, that we embark on 2024. Susi and I so much hope that your coming year will be one of joy, great health and blessings. We send you all our best wishes for a very HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

A brighter blue skied knee-high snowed Christmas Day afternoon there never was, as the clock struck 1400 and the distant village church bell announced the hour.  The deeply iced air seemed to breathe as each sonorous peal oscillated wave-like with distance, first distant, then nearby, then again distant. For those of age making their ways from one celebration to the next, the bitter cold stung the exposed skin, facial hair frosted over and hands not adequately mitten’d had the feel of immutable marble. Yet, no one seemed to mind at all, as small teams of children fought snowball wars, both against each other as well as the occasional adult having the misfortune of crossing the field of battle at just the wrong critical moment.

Within each house, large and small, some parents, uncles, aunts and a host of grandparents had long abandoned the midday meal and were thoroughly ensconced in the warm comfort of overly stuffed parlor chairs, couches or rockers. The young not participating out of doors were seen to sprawl across dark thick imported carpets or pillowed window benches lining the Erker (oriel bay window) in the living room. Being very young, no one seemed to mind that my corner of solace could be found stretched out at the foot of the large dark thickly wooden carpeted stairway leading up to the first floor, head propped up by the lowest step and deeply immersed in an unremembered historical novel.

It was wonderfully warm, secure and, save a snore or two from one of the uncles and a faint word from behind closed sliding doors leading to the kitchen, peacefully still. After a time, I could read little more as my eyes closed in half-sleep.

I was suddenly aroused from this most pleasant state by louder voices from above, all serious adult tones of the type one hears at times of great concern and impending disruption. I quickly became vertical as my Father urgently bounded down the stairs, coming to an immediate halt before me. I looked up at his pale graven face and immediately knew the cause of the disturbed solace. For Oberst (Colonel) Czerski was dying.

Oberst Czerski had been a subordinate to and yet a dear friend of my Grandfather, a Field Marshall in the Austrian Army. They were true comrades in arms, having fought together in countless actions. Czerski had been highly decorated by my Grandfather for his successful leadership and courage. It was thus a great blow to both men to learn that during the course of the war, Czerski’s villa had been destroyed and his wife and children killed. With the war’s end, the Colonel had literally neither a home nor family. Being a man of great honor, my Grandfather invited Oberst Czerski to live with us until he could arrange for his own lodgings and disposition. Our own family villa was quite large and the Oberst was given a private apartment on the uppermost floor. That was almost 20 years ago and Czerski was still with us, adopted if you will as an honorary member of our family.

Some of my earliest memories were of our Christmases with Oberst Czerski joining our family at table and as we sat about the large, beautifully decorated Christbaum (Christmas Tree). For me as a small child, Czerski was just another jovial, heavily mustached, round-bellied uncle with a penchant for laughing heartily at his own jokes. Yet, he could be the perfect cavalier gentleman, always impeccably dressed as appropriate for the occasion and (although having lived with us for practically two decades) the epitome of polite formality, especially with my Grandmother.

Now, we were told that poor Oberst Czerski had not long to live, and I was instructed to fetch Pfarrer (Father) Georg, who would hear the Oberst’s confession and administer the last rites. Donning my thickest jacket, I quickly scarved and capped myself as I left the warm comfort and launched into the approaching gloom of the winter late afternoon. The sun had long disappeared behind the Alpine range surrounding our valley, with the high peaks blocking even the briefest warmth-bringing appearance.

With the pealing of fifteen hours, the streets and surrounding rolling fields, however, became slowly abandoned, as late afternoon Christmas meals were being prepared. Dark pillars of Kachelofen (enclosed tile fireplace) and Kachelherde (cooking stove) smoke could be seen bellowing from the chimneys of every house, wafting to great altitudes before disappearing into the heavenly ether. So it was at our house as well, for despite the expectation that the Oberst would not survive the day, Pfarrer Georg would have to be fed. The village church was located some distance from our home and, as the roads had become impassable due to the heavy snows so characteristic of this part of Austria, it would take some time to get to him and then bring him back to our home.

Running was nigh impossible as I struggled my way through the deepening field snow covering the rolling hills. I felt somewhat akin to an arctic adventurer, creating a path through kilometers of unexplored deep frozen tundra. The already blisteringly cold air found its way past layers of my coat, thick woolen sweater and winter underwear seemingly turning my perspiration into a world of mini-icicles stabbing at me without mercy.

Finally, I arrived at the church, at first panicked by the fear that Pfarrer Georg would be elsewhere. Happily that was not the case as I found him reading in the Sacristy. Explaining the plight of poor Oberst Czerski, Pfarrer Georg quickly donned the warmest long coat he possessed, took his satchel in hand, and together we made the journey back to my home, slowly plodded the same path I had earlier created.

It was late and dark by the time Herr Pfarrer and I shook the snow off our coats upon entering the house. We were greeted by my Father, Grandfather and a host of relatives. Stopping but a moment to drink a cup of hot spiced wine and admiring our Christmas Tree, Pfarrer Georg was then guided up the stairway to the privacy of Oberst Czerski’s rooms. The door closed, Father returned from the upper floors and we all sat at the long, very old wooden able in the dining hall. Conversation was conducted in faint whispers so as to not be heard and disturb the solemn events underway so many floors above. I did not want to lose my ‘uncle’ Czerski; he was kind, generous, funny and I loved him dearly. The idea that he was not immortal had to this point not ever occurred to me. So upset was I that I did not even touch the hot cocoa placed before me by my Grandmother.

It seemed like an eternity until Pfarrer Georg descended the stairs and took a seat at our table. He was clearly exhausted, physically and emotionally, as he told all of us that he had done all he could and that Oberst Czerski lay quietly, at peace, accepting his impending end of life. Father and a couple of the uncles would keep periodic watch during the night to ensure that the Oberst was comfortable and in no distress. Mother asked our cook to please give Pfarrer Georg a small meal (Jause) and something warm to drink; the Pfarrer warmly welcomed this hospitality.

It was about then that our village was hit by a rather savage winter storm. It had blown very quickly over the surrounding peaks and through the sinuous passes, turning each into wind tunnels belching forth hurricane force winds, dropping temperatures to dangerous levels. The heavily blowing snow obscured all making venturing out of doors a perilous undertaking. Under these conditions, Pfarrer Georg would certainly not be able to make his way back to the church and he was invited to stay in one of our guest rooms. I liked Pfarrer Georg very much. He was a deeply religious man, a scholar of sorts, who, during his sermons knew how to impart the lessons in such a manner so as to maintain the attention of all his flock. He knew all of his parishioners by their first names and visited with them at their homes as often as possible. I was comforted in the knowledge that Oberst Czerski was spiritually in very good hands.

Morning. The storm had subsided and, although the skies remained morose and gray, the snowfall was light and the calamitous winds had all but disappeared. It was Stefanitag…St. Steven’s Day….and Pfarrer Georg was to celebrate Mass at 1100. It was thus at 0800 that, having awakened some hours before, Herr Pfarrer joined my family and I were gathered for a simple breakfast. There were loaves of dark rich freshly baked Bauernbrot (farmer’s bread), thick slabs of yellow butter, orange and berry marmalade and a large porcelain steaming teapot.

Father made note that the last time he has peered into Obsert Czerski’s room had been at about two in the morning. The Oberst’s breaths were rare and extremely shallow, with hardly any chest movement perceptible when he breathed at all. With each tortured breath, faint rasping could be heard indicating fluid filled lungs. Neither my Father nor the uncles had kept close watch thereafter, assuming that the Oberst should not be disturbed during what were certainly to be his final few hours.

It was planned that prior to his departure, Pfarrer Georg, along with my Father and the village Doctor would confirm Oberst Czerski’s death. I had just donned my coat to retrieve the doctor when it happened. Down the stairs, dressed in his pajamas, robe and slippers came a very much alive and ravenously hungry…Oberst Czerski. His demeanor was one of pleasant surprise, in wonderment as to why everyone at the breakfast table was seemingly frozen in place and most impolitely staring at him. Uncle Czerski took his usual place at the table and commenced spreading a thick slab of butter on a piece of bread.

My memories of the moments which followed are mixed and fleeting, but I seem to recall that Pfarrer Georg slowly sat back down at the table, crossing himself several times. Mother and one or two of the aunts collapsed into the nearest chairs. Father and the uncles exploded in laughter and at ear-splitting volume sputtered almost incomprehensible cries of bewilderment and joy. All about the table quickly joined them in what became a most memorable Christmas breakfast. I am certain that Pfarrer Georg took great delight in this course of events and I dare say may have even pondered it as a Christmas miracle, grist for a Predigt (sermon) for presentation at Easter Sunday Mass.

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Dear Reader, the story above combines actual experiences which took place many years ago at the home of my wife’s family (in the Austrian region of the Steiermark) with a healthy dash of creative license. It is at this time of the rolling year when we celebrate the birth of our Lord that we are again reminded to not forget just how precious gift of life is from its conception to its end.

Now, as I complete this during the first hour of this bitter cold Christmas Eve morning here in the Tirol, may I wish you all a most blessed and joyous Christmas season!