Opa being Opa

Opa and Julian. August 2012. 

In August of 2012 I returned to Germany for the first time since 2008.  This time I didn’t just bring my wife, I brought Julian, my one-year-old son.  Unfortunately, my Oma was no longer with us.  I regret not attending her funeral but my wife was pregnant and I was not going to leave the country before the birth of my son. I didn’t want to take that chance.

One of my favorite pictures. Johnathan in Kitzingen, 1993.

In preparation of having a toddler in the house for the first time since my brother Johnathan ran amok in the early 1990’s, Opa had to secure a crib, car seat and stroller.  The crib he got from a flea market or something.  It was missing some parts and sat directly on the floor.  We had to line the bottom with a lot of blankets due to lack of mattress.  We made do.  Not to fall prey to gender stereotyping but the car seat and stroller were for a girl.  Pink and purple are fine, noble colors, but not generally associated with boys.  Whatever though, it was only for about ten days and Opa was like 75 years old.  You don’t save money by spending a lot of money, you get stuff for free when you can.  We were fine, it’s just a thing to look back at and chuckle about.

Julian asleep in his "girly" stroller. August, 2012.

Everything German was always better.  The Mississippi River was fine, but it wasn’t the Main River! Opa would point out Opels, Fiats, and Peugeots and say, “Such a car does not exist in the states."  This went on for years, I remember seeing those ugly box looking cars and thinking “Thank God!”  This was before Scions plagued the lower 48.

Besides pointing out the Main River and Falterturm, when he was driving and I was in the passenger seat he’d routinely slap me on the knee and yell loudly, “Mücke!”  meaning mosquito.  It didn't matter if I was 12 or 31, my knee would be slapped.It wasn’t much, just the little things I guess. 

Julian at Martina's with Tante Waltroud and Onkel Leo.

Opa doesn’t know much English.  He can count, in fact, since I was little every time he heard me say a number he’d correct me.  No matter the number or the context.  “No Jeremy!  46, not 45.”  Or “Nein!  twenty-four nicht twenty-three.”  He would always just add one digit to my number.  He knew how to say potato.  Or at least he though he did.  I don’t remember when, but at some point was talking about potatoes (Kartoffel) and he must have thought he heard me pronounce it as poe-tay-zuh.  We didn’t correct him.  It was close enough.  Over the years I never wanted to correct him because he was proud of his knowledge of the English word for the fantastic tuberous vegetable. Or maybe I simply stopped noticing.  We had been invited to my mom’s cousin Martina’s house for a barbecue.  It was Opa, my wife, Julian, Martina, her brother Steffen, Aunt (Tante) Paulina, Uncle (Onkel) Leo, and Tante Waltroud.  The food was good.  Martina asked Opa how the beef was.  He nonchalantly gave his patented, “Das kann ich ess,” or “I can eat that.”  And he’d add “My mum made better,” mum meaning his wife, my Oma.  It wasn’t an insult.  It was just Opa being Opa.  That’s why everybody loves him.  Somebody mentioned the Kartoffel salad and he said to us, “Po-tay-zuh salad” with an all-knowing grin.  Steffen, who knows some English asked him, “What?”  Opa said proudly and confidently, “Poe-tay-zuh,” Steffen and Martina laughed, “Po-ta-to. Po-ta-to.” Opa looked at me and grinned lifting his hand as if to backhand me, “Donnerwetter!” meaning something like “Damnit!” Everybody laughed at his expense, Opa not excluded.

Pretty picture from Bamberg. August 24, 2012.

Old courthouse bridge in Bamberg. Wish I'd realized there
was a great angle. (just google image search Bamberg).
August 24, 2012.

Bamberg is a beautiful town of about 75,000.  It’s so beautiful and preserved it’s listed as a world heritage site.  There are about 1,100 of these designations out there.  44 in Germany alone.  The four of us drove over there, and because Opa is old, he didn’t want to park downtown (though he wouldn’t say that was the reason).  We parked maybe a quarter mile outside the downtown district and would walk.  Before leaving the car behind though, we needed to change Julian’s diaper.  Fun thing to do in the back of a Toyota.  We finished and started walking. Opa noticed me carrying the dirty poopy diaper, “Why?” he asked.  I told him I was going to throw it in the nearest waste basket.  “Let me take care of that” he said. Opa grabbed the diaper and immediately deposited it in the nearest basket.  Not a waste basket though.  It was the front basket of a parked bicycle.  My wife and I looked at each other horrified.  “That’s Opa!” we thought.  I pity the poor person who found that foul surprise waiting.

This is what Opa did for 50 years. 1977

That's my Opa though.  He is a tough guy.  He did hard manual labor for over 50 years.  He didn’t really know what vacation was.  But he was a jokester. A teddy bear.  I remember one summer when I was ten or twelve. Some kids from the neighborhood came over and had a pet mouse.  My sister and I looked at it and thought it was cute.  But when my Opa came by and a kid held the mouse up by the tail, “NO!” he shrieked.  It was like an elephant’s mythical terror of mice.  Opa wanted no part of that rodent.  And it wasn’t just kids he’d play along with.  At grocery stores when we’d wander off and were looking for Oma, why waste time looking down each aisle?  “Mum!” he’d holler.  She’d be annoyed so much.  It worked much better than when I’d yell, “Oma!” and a dozen grey haired ladies would say “Yes!??!” This “mum” business would be placated other times when he’d say, “Mum” over and over until she’d finally answer, “What!” and he’d quietly say, “Give me shugey” and she’d say, “Fine” and kiss him on the cheek.  I wish Opa was here with me today.  I wish I could give him a kiss on the cheek or forehead.  And then I’d say “Mücke!” and slap him on the knee.

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My sister April, Oma, Me and Opa. April 1983.