Thanksgiving 1975

An Army BRAT Thanksgiving Abroad

Reisemöglichkeiten (Travel Opportunities)

It’s just about Thanksgiving, so here is a flashback to a Thanksgiving I spent with my family as an Army BRAT in the mid 1970’s when we lived in Cold War West Germany.

1970's AFRC Berchtesgaden map

Although ninth grade was going better than eighth grade socially, I was always glad for the weekends, and even more glad for any travel opportunities over vacations throughout the school year. Mom had planned a trip for us at Thanksgiving to Berchtesgaden in Bavaria, Germany.

All we each had to do, was pack for it, be awake at an ungodly hour for the road trip, hold any pee during the trip until Dad felt the need to pull over as per his travel plan, and keep the complaining in the back seat to a minimum.

By the time we got to the designated “Rest Area,” I had held my bodily needs beyond the point of comfort. I could barely climb out of the car, as I was doubled over in abdominal pain. After I finally inserted the pfennigs in the slot to open the bathroom stall, I sat down and was unable to loosen my muscles in order to let urine out. It did not help that April, my older sister, was chiding me with unhelpful commentary like “Come on!! You’re holding us up! How hard is it to pee? Just relax your muscles! Think about water.”

After a successful voiding some time later, off we went for the last leg of the trip down south. I had no idea what to expect or to anticipate. When I was with my family, my anxiety level was at bay. It didn’t mean I wasn’t worrying, it’s just that I wasn’t panicking. There is a huge difference! I could still enjoy myself and worry; panic mode shut down any and all pleasure.

We stayed at The General Walker Hotel contained in the Armed Forces Recreation Center. Back when the Nazi’s owned it, it was called The Platterhof. It was where high-ranking Nazi’s and German Officers went to meet minds with Hitler. This history was not discussed at any point during our vacation. I only learned of the area’s sordid past many years later upon viewing Dad’s slides as we all sipped German Riesling and pondered our days overseas.

While in the Obersaltzburg Mountains, we spent our days sightseeing. Our responsibilities were to get up, get dressed, brush teeth in the one sink shared amongst we three sisters, keep the arguing to a minimum, and make it down to breakfast at a given time. Lateness was not an option, ever!

Mom had chapels and cathedrals on her list of “must-do’s”, and Dad had castles. First on the Schloss list, Neuschwanstein.

Postcard of Neuschwanstein Castle

We had seen other castles on Rhine River cruises and they were cool and all, but I was unprepared for the staggering beauty and the ornate opulence that Good King Ludwig’s domicile provided. The exterior, the interior, where did one fix their attention? It reminded me of the mythical King Midas’ castle—everything encrusted in gold and glitz.

I decided in that moment that no matter what life handed me, I was going to have money enough to make MY dreams come true. I did not exactly know at the time what those dreams were. It just seemed like I needed gobs of money, regardless.

Throughout the interior tour of the castle, Mom kept warning us not to touch anything. There was no danger that we were going to do so. We had been schooled since the youngest age not to touch anything that wasn’t ours. Why was it she thought we were going to suddenly break ranks and sully the trip by touching things?

If the tour guide explained how the King went “mad,” I wasn’t listening. Perhaps, King Ludwig was just a guy who liked pretty things and decided to surround himself with just that. Dad commented on how “It would be tremendously expensive to heat in the Winter.” Who could think of such banal things while in the presence of genius expressed in architecture and décor? Not me.

As a child, I had loved fairy tales, and this castle was the embodiment of every legend ever told. I went from room to room along with our tour group, and soaked up a star-dust that lives with me still. It was the energy of potential. Perhaps it was better to express one’s self and risk being called” insane” than to remain in a self-imposed state of “The Follower” or as I call it, The Lemming Effect.

  Photo I took of Lindenhoff Gardens, right before I fell in the pool

Each day in Berchtesgaden was an eye- and art-opening experience. The visuals of the staggeringly stunning Lindenhoff, King Ludwig’s other schloss, had me snapping away with Kodak Instamatic 44 in hand with no thought of preserving film. I don’t think the sky had ever looked bluer on the day we toured his country estate. I had on my stupid purple down jacket, Ally McGraw/“Love Story” hat and long scarf, pants with extenders at the bottom to allow for my growth streak, hiking boots, and the desire to preserve the memories forever.

The garden paths had been plowed to seven-foot walls of ice and snow. I was backing up to get a full view of the majesty of the back of the palace. I was backing up, backing up, and then off the edge I went, splat into the frozen swimming pool. My older sister ran over and collapsed with laughter. Mom and Dad came running over but not because they were worried about me. It was to stop April’s rude laughter. When they got there, the entire family erupted into laughter, with me still laying there in “snow angel” position.

There was no actual danger of falling through the ice, as the temperature in Bavaria ensured a safe entry and exit. The climb out was treacherous, and shed light on my weak muscles—hindered by my laughter and that of April, who was trying to pull me out. This was most likely not what The Good King had in mind when he created his masterpiece.

 No one checked me for broken bones or concussion. It was just assumed that I was “fine” and that hopefully I learned to keep a closer watch on my surroundings. My elbows were killing me, as I had initially used them to keep my head from smacking the ice. I could still bend them even with the throbbing. This “maintain an even strain” behavior by my family is so military BRAT.

You have a headache? Suck it up. No one ever died from that. Leg a little gimpy after falling? Shake it off. And the list goes on. I can remember calling home when I was going to Syracuse U. for my sophomore year of college with a 104-degree fever. Mom figured I had the flu and closed our conversation that day with, “You’ll be fine. No one ever died from that.” I quickly countered with, “Mom! The 1918 flu epidemic! People have died with the flu.” Mom’s reply, “Well, that was a long time ago.”

With my 1975 jammed elbows and bum leg, it was on to Wieskirche, a chapel so rife with gold and detailed décor that it was overwhelming to look at and endless in its awe. I was only relating to it on a level of beauty. Mom was feeling something else and relayed the following story, “The locals say that the wooden statue of Christ in Chains actually wept tears. The people built this church around it to honor that miracle.”

This seemed highly unlikely to me. Why would a statue weep? How easy would it have been for someone to manufacture this? What if someone had simply been washing the statue, stepped away for a moment to attend to something else, and in their absence, someone else walked up, saw the moisture on the statue, and assumed it was “crying.” I did not share my “proof” aloud, as Dad would have leveled me with stinging rebuke to protect Mom’s feelings associated with her strong religious beliefs.

Dad was Protestant and Mom was Catholic. When they were married, Dad had to sign something that said we would be raised Catholic. The priest who married them was not allowed to wear official “robes” as Dad was not “of the faith.” Weird. What was with all the religious division? This all made no sense to me. Despite my deep skepticism, I was afraid not to believe all this stuff for fear of going to Hell. I kept my Doubting Thomas-like thoughts to myself.

 Everywhere we looked, it was  a fest of encrusted gold, elaborate frescos, and tall windows letting the warm sunlight stream in and bounce off to momentary blindness. We sisters started snapping away with our Instamatics until Mom came running over—horrified that we were treating this sanctuary as a tourist spot and not the House of God it was.

 Poor Mom—such a devote Catholic, forced to endure the irreverence of her three teenagers. My two sisters, later in life, embraced this Catholic dogma. I hope I have not been a disappointment, as I have not done the embracing.

 Back at The General Walker later that day, Thanksgiving dinner was held and celebrated at the B-Garden O’ Club. Laughter and the clinking of glasses as officers, their wives, and children all shared in this most American tradition, so far from “home.” We entered the large dining room decorated with local greenery, cornucopias overflowing with produce, and tables festooned with china and crystal.

Mom and Dad had taken us to fancy restaurants before, so I felt comfortable. Despite the familiarity, Mom was compelled to remind us quietly, “If you are not sure which fork to use, just unobtrusively observe others and follow suit.” What if the “others” were using the wrong forks? I did not ask this. I had remembered Dad’s tutelage of cutlery being used from the outside in.

As we walked to our table, decked-out in our Sunday best and Dad in his uniform, we strode past other families similarly adorned. Even when we had Thanksgiving at home, we always had to “dress” for the occasion. This seemed stupid to me. It’s just food, people.

 One of the families we passed on the way to our reserved table was that of Bruce Fye—the quarterback of our Frankfurt American High School football team. Bruce was tall, classically good looking with his perfect sandy blond ’70’s young-man hair, square jaw, friendly eyes with long lashes… and yet out of his home element, just as we were out of ours. As we walked by their table, April said, “Great catch at last week’s game.”

She could speak to him because she was a cheerleader at Frankfurt High. He looked like he had no idea who she was, and smiled with a grin that looked more like someone stifling a burp. He said a quick “thank you,” brought on by his mother who had elbowed him in the ribs. This cringe-worthy exchange made us sooo uncomfortable. What did I do as a good sister? Mock April mercilessly for YEARS after, of course. It wasn’t every day that the perfect April provided me with the opportunity to do so.

“Oh, that was awkward!” I made sure to say aloud once out of earshot of the handsome Q-back. “He has no idea who you are, Ape!” I said these things with all the glee possible. Mom passed me a look of, “This is not the time or place,” and I stopped. I felt kind of bad inside that April looked crushed. I knew only too well what it felt like to be forgotten. Still, I did take many an opportunity throughout the years to retell this story of their uncomfortable exchange. I guess I must not have felt too badly.

Once back at our family table, enjoying the traditional Thanksgiving foods, a gagging gasp filled the air. We all got silent when a guest began choking. I don’t remember who helped him (this was before the Heimlich maneuver), but someone did. Some man slammed him on the back until the offending small piece of meat went flying across his table. That was it for me and the meal. Who could eat after that?

Vintage AFRC advertisement

Time for post dinner RECON. We three sisters hurried down to the basement of the O’ Club after dinner so that Mom and Dad could stay in the dining room and enjoy an aperitif of brandy in peace. We toddled over to the grand piano where April sat down with self-assurance. Apparently, her Bruce Fye gaffe did not paralyze her as it would have me.

She played music she had memorized, and together we belted out Elton John’s Tiny Dancer without a care in the world. Yes, she was my nemesis, but she was also my sister. We had a bond, even in our sibling caste system with April at the top.

She was such a confident piano player. She could make a mistake sound like something purposeful. Sitting there next to her on the piano bench, I wished I had not given up on piano. I had ended my lessons after The Recital Debacle back in The States.

Okay my kind readers, you’ll have to “tune in” again to read my Recital Debacle.

Oh, for the record, I view “Thanksgiving” as simply a time to remember what I am thankful for in this life. Please “heart” this piece and share with others. Thank you for supporting my writing and I hope you enjoyed this Overseas Thanksgiving piece.

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