By G.A. Peck
“You’re not German, are you,” the man to my right asked. This former priest, I was convinced, was sort of hoping—given my fair skin and red hair—that I was one of his own kind, Irish.
I had to laugh, for I’d always assumed that with the first name “Gretchen”—not to mention my maiden name, “Burchardt,” which of course he couldn’t possibly have known—was sort of a dead giveaway. It’s legend among my family that had I been born male, I would have been saddled with the name “Otto,” after my paternal grandfather. Certainly, it would have been a hard name to carry as a child—an Otto among a sea of Michaels and Johns and Andrews.
For many years of my youth, I secretly thanked my lucky stars that I was born a girl. Today, however, with years of maturity under my belt, I might well have appreciated the namesake, for I miss my grandfather.
I adored my “Pop-Pop,” and wish he hadn’t died so early in my life. He—with his omnipresent glass of iced tea in hand, his booming voice and hearty though infrequent laughter, and the scented shroud of black-cherry pipe tobacco—doted on me like none of his own children. He spoiled me rotten with small gifts of lollipops and shiny quarters drawn from the depths of his pockets. Once, he bought me a new pair of shoes when I complained that the ones I was wearing were too small and hurt my feet. He was that kind of grandfather, kind and observant. It was my Pop-Pop who regaled me with stories of ....Germany....—how the mountains soared endlessly, how the air seemed so much cleaner there, how jovial its people are. It was a romantic description of the country, I realize now. But then, Germany seemed like a magical place to me, and I dreamed of visiting it and possibly living there one day.
When I learned in school about Germany’s horrific past under Hitler’s rule, I was ashamed of being German. I wished I could change my name, and I felt the stares of others when we studied WWII in history class. Some teased me about my heritage and accused my ancestors of grave actions. Some teased me for how I looked—not classically pretty; rather, classically German, with a long, narrow face and slightly upturned nose. I told my grandfather about their teasing, and despite his usually stoic demeanor, he wrapped me in his arms and said, “They may not think you’re beautiful, but what do they know? In Germany, you’d be considered one of the most beautiful girls. You’d be treated like a princess.” And his kind words—true or not—sustained me when the kids were cruel.
I was thinking about this when the former priest was asking me about my heritage. We were sitting at a long table among many long rows of tables, beneath a circus-like tent, listening to an oompah band and hoisting plastic cups brimming with Warsteiner beer.
This was the second time I’d attended the Cannstatter Volksfest Oktoberfest (
http://www.cvvphilly.com/fest.html). Two years before, my husband and I had spent a day there at the recommendation of one of his colleagues. This year, we went with a larger contingent—that co-worker’s family (a blend of Irish and German, mirroring my own) and some friends who ventured all the way from central Jersey to spend the day with us.
It was a perfect almost-fall-like day—sunny and crisp for a Labor Day weekend. We drank and dance and ate and laughed under the big tent, surrounded by other families who made it an annual event—a festival attended by thousands but with the cozy ambience of a neighborhood block party. I felt comfortable there, for lack of a better adjective.
A big fan of people watching, I was in my element. Upon paying my $6 entry fee, I was greeted by Philadelphia District Attorney Lynne Abraham, who handed me a pamphlet that declared this year to be the 137th festival of its kind. We strolled and passed by an assortment of vendors selling German mementos like beer steins and lederhosen and wreathes made of silk flowers and ribbons. Later, after a few beers, my husband bought me one of those wreathes for $10—in pink and white to match the t-shirt I’d chosen for the day.
There seemed to be a much bigger crowd this year, perhaps due to the impeccable weather. Many of the attendees were older folks. Occasionally I’d pass by someone speaking German, and I secretly cursed myself for not having studied the language more seriously. It was nice to see some younger people, too—the next generation committed to keeping the tradition alive. My husband’s co-worker told us of how he’d been coming to the Volksfest all his life, practically, and that one of his favorite family photographs was one of his mother at the festival, many years before, holding him as a baby in her arms.
We stood in fast-moving lines for tickets to buy beer and food—hearty platters of bratwurst and smoked pork chops, German potato salad, sauerkraut and funnel cakes. “We are not a thin people, us Germans,” I joked with my friend as we discussed the food and the girth of some of those around us.
Later, my husband and I took to the dance floor for the requisite “chicken dance,” and some polka lite. The band leader led chants in German, and the crowd erupted in cheers and applause.
When we were good and buzzed from the free-flowing pitchers, we went to one of the stands, equipped with a roulette wheel of sorts. For a quarter each, he chose a few numbers and after a few spins walked away with his prize, a white paper bag filled with German lunchmeats. How classically German to crowd around and jostle for a chance at winning meat.
Toward the end of the day, the crowd gathered at a building crafted to look like a windmill, and enjoyed the annual Altweibermühle, “The True Fountain of Youth.” Dressed as bakers, elderly German men would miraculously turn an old woman (really, just a girl dressed in an ugly Halloween mask and wig) into a beautiful maiden by churning them up in the mill and spitting them out the shoot. One by one, the “old ladies” were tossed in, only to exit down the metal slide in their new St. Pauli Girl-esque form.
We capped off the day with shots of Apple Korn, a sweet liqueur that went down smooth as cider. The men among us bravely sampled shots of Schwartzhog, a dark syrupy concoction that I sniffed and then decided to pass on. The next day, my husband would wish that he’d taken a pass on the beverage, too.
There were amusement rides for the children, and everyone took time to marvel at the crafted tower made entirely out of harvested fall vegetables.
The hours passed easily and quickly, and I grew a bit melancholy when it was all said and done, when I was sober and driving my not-so-sober husband home. I reflected back on the day—the spectacle of it all, what great friends we have, and how despite the common theme of alcohol, there were no drunken idiots, no bar-like brawls. Just smiles and laughter and memories being made.
I thought how much my grandfather would have enjoyed it so, and I hoped somehow that he was watching over me, happy to see me so proud of where we came from, of the good-natured, fun-loving people we are.
