The little "Wonnegau(n)er" E-Book

Helmut Büttler

• Herausgeber: novum publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 516

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

This story begins in Wonnegau in Rheinhessen – which is also where the title of this book comes from. It is the life story of a person who has to overcome many obstacles in the course of time, but who, through faith and ambition, through humility and perseverance, through discipline and confidence, but also through the sometimes quite active help of his guardian angel, manages to overcome many obstacles and ultimately finds fulfillment in both his private and professional life.

Leseprobe

Foreword

This book is about a boy born in 1946 from the "Wonnegau" in Rheinhessen on his long journey to the "Pfalz", where he finally finds great happiness in love and good friends.

He had to overcome many obstacles to get there, but without his guardian angel, his faith and ambition, his reverence, humility, perseverance, discipline and confidence, his diligence and his absolute loyalty and steadfastness, he would probably never have been able to overcome them unscathed.

The anecdotes and events presented here - neither invented nor imagined - actually happened and are intended to encourage the reader to reflect, understand and learn. They show how a person who was not necessarily able to enjoy the great "economic miracle" made his way straight ahead by never allowing envy and jealousy towards others to arise and by creating his own existence with thrift, strong will and perseverance.

The reader's attention is drawn to content that might not be classified as entirely suitable for minors and is asked to consider a certain rating. Since nothing, but absolutely nothing is either glossed over or trivialized, absolutely identical, the author points out that reading the book may cause smiles, laughter, tears, winking, head shaking as well as head nodding, understanding and incomprehension, even tapping one's forehead with an index finger.

Nevertheless, have fun reading!

The little "Wonnegau(n)er"

"From a rascal, through his great love in the Palatinate,to all-round talent, book author and writer".(Joy, suffering, happiness and God's providence)

Car biography of a 1946

A few years ago, I decided to write down one or two anecdotes for future generations that I felt I absolutely had to pass on, as they reflect many a funny, worrying and often dangerous situation.

It is quite clear that the now tall and somewhat older boy, Helmut, i.e. yours truly, from the Wonnegau, a small district in Rheinhessen, Rhineland-Palatinate, can no longer remember the very first days and years of his life, but as far back as his long-term memory goes, which I think is quite considerable up to the age of three, I would like to report on that time here.

With my birth on August 21, 1946 as the son of a master carpenter and a laboratory technician who trained in a leather factory in Worms during the war and later became a housewife and "girl for everything", I was not born with the very best, but relatively acceptable prerequisites.

My memories, which have accompanied me throughout my life, began with a "cradle", a crib built by my father, in which I and my sister, who was two years older, were allowed to lie.

In kindergarten with apple

The birth of my brother

At first, my sister, who was two years older than me, and I were almost urged by our parents to sprinkle sugar over the white painted windowsill of their bedroom, which had some damage to the paintwork, so that the stork would come and bring us another little brother or sister. Then my sister was to be taken to Aunt Mariechen in our home town for a few days and I was to be taken to Aunt Katharina in Zell in the Palatinate, as our sibling was in a great hurry to be born and the birth was to take place in the house.

My sister had no objection at all to going to this aunt, as she remembered very well the good things they always had to eat there, while I resisted with all my might to travel to the Palatinate, to Zell.

I can still see it in my mind's eye today, how I ran down the white limestone path of the hillside where my aunt's house stood, towards a thickly overgrown hedge, to get back home. But it was no use, because I was soon caught up and brought back. No amount of tears and begging could prevent me from having to stay with my aunt. Well, after a while I even liked it there and despite the eerie, shrill whistling and howling of the wind at bedtime, in the wires of an overhead power line that ran directly in front of the house and the bedroom window, I no longer thought about home at all. Perhaps it was the extremely nice Uncle Emil who kept making me laugh with his funny whistles, the rolling song of a canary, without any help, and with his other jokes? The various wooden blocks, sometimes colorful, sometimes round or square, sometimes with and sometimes without holes, which he brought me from the nearby furniture factory where he worked, always delighted me anew.

Or was it the subtle smell that I constantly had in my nose and whose origin I absolutely had to investigate?

It was the bar of soap that my aunt used to wash me. - Yikes! But it didn't taste anything like it smelled and I spat out what I was secretly trying to taste with relish. And yet, I remembered that this soap tasted and smelled totally different to ours at home. Our soap was also not as beautifully colored as my aunt's, it was the curd soap found everywhere in households at the time.

It was one of the first experiences I had to make in my life, namely that not everything tastes as good as it smells or looks.

So the few days with Uncle Emil and Aunt Katharina, also known as Aunt Käthchen, passed and I had to return home. I left behind the beautiful view over the Zeller valley, my dear, lilting uncle and my visually impaired aunt with her glasses and the very strong lenses that made her eyes seem very small and, of course, her fragrant soap. "But you won't be able to eat our sweet grapes if you go home now!" were my uncle's words, pointing to the fruit already forming on the lush green vines of the grapevine, which covered the entire courtyard on wires stretched for this purpose. "But you must promise to come back when the grapes are ripe," he added with his incomparable smile.

Yes, it was very nice here in the courtyard and in the cooling shade under the canopy of grape leaves in July 1950, I felt very comfortable.

Back at home, I was allowed to see my little brother straight away. Oh, he was so sweet and cuddly, I'm sure I'll have a lot of fun with him, I thought, and at the same time I was very worried about my mom, who was lying in bed and seemed to be ill: "Why are you lying in bed, mom?" I asked her, "Are you very ill?" "The stork bit me on the leg," were her words, showing me her very thickly wrapped leg: "But it will soon pass and mummy will be well again very quickly. You don't have to worry about that".

Although I was somewhat reassured by these words, from then on I had to assume that storks are not as harmless as I had always been told. If I had been aware of this a little earlier, I certainly wouldn't have sprinkled sugar on the windowsill.

I later found out that my mother was bedridden at the time due to phlebitis in her right leg.

I often crawled up the steep staircase with its gray steps and bright red handrail into my parents' bedroom to check on my mom and brother.

In addition to the brown solid wooden double bed, the two bedside tables next to it, which together took up the entire width of the bedroom, the huge closet, the door of which, on the far left, often opened by itself and creaked and squeaked terribly, the crib and a green stove in the corner, I was particularly struck by a cross with a body and a picture, which kept attracting my attention. When I asked what it was, my mom said: "It's a cross and God is hanging on it." "And why is that hanging on it?" I wanted to know. "The bad men put it on there," she replied.

The question and answer game went on for a while and, despite the many answers, I couldn't understand what it was actually about. One thing I do remember, however, is that I was always horrified when I looked at the cross.

The effect the picture had on me was completely different. It showed a mountain landscape with a raging river and a bridge over which a boy and a girl were walking, accompanied by a large human being with huge wings and a very loving aura. It was not clear whether it was a man or a woman. The bridge was badly damaged. Individual planks were missing from the floor and other load-bearing parts were even broken. And, as if the children had to be told not to cross it, they seemed to feel completely safe in the care of the escort.

It was a guardian angel who guided the children safely over the bridge and was always with them to make sure nothing bad happened. For a long time, I didn't want to think about this explanation and that he was also present with everyone and looked after them. Firstly, I had never felt the presence of an angel and secondly, if there had been one, it must have been a very special one. It seemed to me for the rest of my life that he was deliberately leading me into disaster and then taking me out of it again with relish.

Yes, just as the angel crosses the bridge with the children despite the obvious danger, instead of keeping them from it and looking for another way, it was very similar for me in life. First getting into an awkward situation and then thinking when I got out, well, lucky again - or did I owe this luck solely to my guardian angel?

Dad the artist

Yes, my dad was an artist in my eyes. He could draw and paint beautifully. I particularly liked the portraits he created of us children. He always liked to paint one picture at our request, a man with very long hair and a heart on his chest, which he then called the "Heart of Jesus". He was also able to draw animal heads, such as a horse's head, perfectly, whereby we children followed the process with excitement with just a few strokes.

Not only did I always keep an eye on the path of the pen on the paper, I also had great fun with the way Dad behaved, sometimes I even had to laugh about it.

As if he was drawing pictures in the air, he circled the paper several times until a line could finally be seen. His mouth, which he tightened completely, also looked pretty funny. Incidentally, it wasn't just his mouth, I was also constantly making fun of his big, thick nose, which looked like a ripe strawberry, and his large, protruding ears, the left of which stood out a little more than the right. And when I asked him about this, including whether he had been pulled by his teacher more than once because he wasn't being good, he would laugh and say: "Just wait and see, you must have inherited all that from me!" and that his teacher certainly hadn't mistreated him because he was a very good boy. With hindsight, I have to admit that he wasn't too far wrong with his hereditary assumption. "Why don't you give Daddy a kiss?" Oh dear, when Mom asked, I felt rather reluctant to do so. After some hesitation, however, I often gave him a peck for her sake, despite the very prickly affair, because of his rough stubble.

Yes, it was actually always a very nice get-together in a very small space. For years, our kitchen was also our living room. There was a canapé in the far left-hand corner, mainly for Dad's afternoon nap. In front of it was a large table with five chairs and above it hung a very practical draft lamp on the ceiling. To the right in the far corner was a tap with a sink and a cupboard underneath, which was used not only for washing dishes but also for washing up. A hot water boiler ensured that hot water was always quickly available. To the front right was a large enameled coal stove with four hotplates, an oven and a water container with a lid, also known as a boat. A silver stovepipe, which occasionally stank quite disgustingly after being brushed with silver bronze, protruded from the stove almost to the ceiling and led into the chimney on the right. To the left of the stove, where a fridge would later be placed, there was a small cupboard with a two-plate electric stove. There was also a clock in the back corner on the left-hand outside wall and a cross on the wall not far from the front door. To the front left, next to the entrance door, was a kitchen cupboard and next to it, in the far corner, was a small medicine cabinet. Not far from it, at a height of about 1.80 meters, was a console for a radio. Yes, and a true miracle back then, there was also a radio. The floor was covered with pine planks and had to be waxed from time to time and polished with a large soft wire sponge, which created a certain festive atmosphere in the whole apartment due to the very strong smell of wax, as this was mainly done shortly before major celebrations and holidays.

There was actually everything you needed to live. Only Grandma, Dad's mother, who lived in the house at the age of almost 80 and claimed two of the few rooms for herself, could occasionally disturb this idyll with her bossy nature. She always had something to complain about: she would shuffle back and forth in her felt slippers with the constantly repeated words: "Oh God - oh God". Mama was only there for her to be a maid, she had enough to do with us children. She also took care of the garden, the work in the fields, the house pig and all the other housework. Even when her dad called out to her from his carpentry workshop at the back of our property that he needed help, she was always there.

Grandma actually had her own realm with her two rooms. A small room as a kitchen and living room and a larger room as a bedroom.

She had lost her husband at a very early age, but with a small part-time farm she was able to teach her two sons a solid trade, namely carpentry and cabinetmaking, and have them take the master craftsman's examination. Dad opened a carpentry business in their home town and his older brother in a nearby town, Pfeddersheim.

The joinery

It was not easy for my father to expand his father's very small carpentry workshop, which was still a real craft business, so that larger machines could be installed. It was necessary to demolish the old cowshed and build an extension.

My father had been able to take over some of the tools from my grandfather: A workbench, several planes, handsaws, chisels, screw clamps and much more.

I can still clearly remember concreting the workshop floor and the base for the motor of the planer. "What are you doing?" I asked Dad and Uncle Hans, who worked in a machine factory in Worms. "We're making oil," was the answer and I immediately noticed that they had connected a machine to the new motor, into which they were pouring something and from one hole a liquid was running out and from another hole a dark mass was oozing out like little sausages. "Can you eat that?" I asked them both and they said that I could give it a try. No sooner said than done, I tried these sausages and didn't know what to say at first. "It tastes a bit strange," I said, wrinkling my nose a little. I could tell from their laughter that this was not the product I wanted, namely something tasty, but a great pig food, which they then confirmed to me with a laugh. The liquid was the desired something, and I was allowed to try that too. And I have to say, I couldn't necessarily have decided which was better for humans and which was better for the pigs. Only the appearance would have made me lean towards the liquid. The sausages were riddled with small fibres and occasionally had green spots, which didn't look very appetizing. The juice, on the other hand, was golden yellow, almost like honey, only much thinner. I was to find out later that it was rapeseed oil.

Some time before the planer was delivered, my father had already built the frame for a large circular saw with a powerful three-phase motor from solid wood. It consisted of four upright posts, between which connections were made about 20 centimeters from the floor and at the very top, also from such square timber. An additional piece was inserted at the bottom. Boards were screwed onto this and the three outer pieces, onto which the motor had been placed and fastened. On top was a solid wooden plate with a slot for the saw blade that could be folded up. On the upper frame were the bearings for the shaft and at the back was a device for a carriage to move back and forth. At the rear end of the shaft was a chuck into which special milling cutters could be inserted for milling the holes for door and window fittings and other required slotted holes. The carriage, which also had two trapezoidal bars underneath, was hung or pushed into the two trapezoidal bars that protruded from the back of the machine. A workpiece could be clamped securely and relatively easily using a spindle with a plate-like wooden plate mounted at the lower end and a large wheel at the upper end. The distance between the motor and the shaft was approx. 80 centimetres and the power was transmitted by means of a flat, strong leather belt. Another wooden fence, which had to be precisely fixed parallel to the saw blade, was fastened with two large screws, at the end of which a round turning handle was attached.

As powerful as this machine was, it was also dangerous to handle. And little Helmut was strictly forbidden to come near it while the big machine was in operation.

Back then, I had occasionally been tempted to cut a piece of wood with it, but it would be a long while before the big day would come. But when I saw Dad pushing a piece of wood just centimeters past the flashing metal with his hands, I was always scared.

The planer had finally arrived and was put into operation. The drive belt was at least three to four times as long as that of the circular saw. It drove the three shafts - once the shaft with the knives and twice the drive shafts - which transported the pieces of wood through the machine during the thicknessing process. Two shafts also protruded into the thicknessing chamber from below, but these only had a guiding function.

But what fascinated me most about this machine was the very low operating sound, which was very low when switching on in the first gear stage and became somewhat higher as the speed of rotation of the shafts increased, especially in the second gear stage.

And what it smelled like when the different types of wood were planed. It didn't take long for me to recognize the different types of wood by smell alone.

Over time, a large milling machine was also purchased. Its three-meter-long drive belt, which was twisted together due to the horizontal drive shaft and the vertical working shaft, made a clapping noise when the machine ran in a very specific rhythm and was secured by a long wooden frame.

The rattling and clattering noise of a chain cutter was the most unpleasant thing for me and I was always glad when this machine was not in operation.

Several small machines were added later: a large disk sander, an orbital sander, a hand router, a hand-held circular saw and drills.

I was also very worried about Dad's hands and fingers when he was waxing the belts with a cylindrical wax rod about 20 centimetres long. He often got quite close to the drive wheels and it took a lot of skill and strength to keep the rod from being torn out of his hand.

And again I discovered a strange smell that arose from the high friction temperature of the wax - ei, and what did little Helmut do? He guessed right! He had to taste it again - ugh, how awful, that taste. Compared to that, the cold wood glue and even more so the hot glue pearled when cold was a delicacy.

Of course, wood is also needed for a carpentry workshop. This was stored at the side of the barn-like entrance to our property, partly leaning against the wall or stacked on the floor, depending on the type and thickness. There were also large glass crates with a wide variety of glass types and thicknesses against the wall.

"How does that taste in your mouth, Dad?" He absolutely had to be asked this question once when he was planing pieces of wood with the long plane: "Try it yourself," was his answer, and before such a curly thing fell to the floor, he caught it and put it in my mouth. "Well, how does it taste?" he asked with a smile. "Hehe" I replied carefully, careful not to open my lips so that the shavings wouldn't fall out of my mouth. At first I felt like a really big boy and while Dad watched me from the corner of his eye and called out "But don't swallow it!", I trotted off to show Mom what I had. But it didn't really happen. Before I could even show her, I had had enough of the bitter juice that was gradually coming out of the wood and with several "Pfui - Pf - Pf" I tried to get the little shavings out of my mouth and spit them out. Mom was once again my savior, because a glass of water rinsed the stuff out in no time.

In the evening, I could hear Mom reproaching Dad about it: "What could have happened?" she said excitedly: "If it had gotten down his throat!"

For the time being, I had had enough of such flavors. But I must confess that over time I have often tasted one type of wood or another in this way.

As I got older, I was allowed into the workshop more and more often and I was constantly on a discovery tour there and was able to give Dad a hand or two. "Can I help you with something?" And Dad was never at a loss to find something for me to do: Using a long bar to brush the shavings out of the planer, fishing fallen nails or screws out of the shavings on the floor, trying to straighten these sometimes very crooked pins with a hammer, and much more. A hammer blow next to the nail sometimes hit my fingers. But over time it worked out quite well, yes, I gradually got bored of this work and would much rather have worked on the machines.

When Dad wasn't at home, I would sneak into the workshop, put the big disk sander on my back, switch it on and sand and sharpen whatever I could get my hands on. I had been very lucky the first time. This machine had such a high starting speed that it almost fell off the small workbench on which it was lying.

Ujujui, the cast aluminum housing would definitely have broken. And, as the machine was very large, I wouldn't even have been able to lift it up and put it back. Lucky me!

The environment

Helmut and Kurt on the swing

Gradually, the time came when I got to know my wider environment more and more. I became aware of things that were previously completely unknown to me.

I realized for the first time what a beautiful village I was living in. Some things were still in the making here: The roads in the village and also those between the individual villages were not yet paved, just covered with very coarse gray gravel and rolled. Only a small strip on the sides was covered with finer gravel and therefore smoother, making it safer to walk or cycle. This also prevented constant stumbling or punctures. Longer distances between the individual villages were still covered by bike or on foot.

There was still no sewer system and rainwater was drained into a stream running through our village in gutters paved with cobblestones and running alongside the houses. For other wastewater from the houses or stables, there were pits on the respective properties, which initially had to be emptied with great effort using bailers. Large barrels on carts were actually used to transport the wastewater, which was emptied in the surrounding fields. However, some residents took the opportunity to scoop out their manure when it rained and thus dispose of it with less effort via the gutter (rafts).

For us inexperienced children, however, it was welcome fun to wade barefoot through this wonderfully warm brown broth. Even the very unpleasant, pungent and acrid smell that accompanied it couldn't stop us. Thanks to the person they called "de Rundhut" with his "Puhlschöpper".

Telephones were still very rare at that time. But they were to play a major role in my life.

There was/is also a beautiful large baroque church dedicated to St. Boniface with a church garden, adjoining parish garden and rectory. There was also a sisters' house with a courtyard next door, where the women dressed in black lived and which also housed the kindergarten, where I was allowed to go from then on. Allowed? - Well, allowed is probably not quite the right word. It should rather mean had to. The women dressed in black, also known as nuns, who seemed somehow scary, even frightening to me, were very strict and that was something I had never experienced before. Why did I have to call them sister? I had a sister and that was something completely different. But Aunt Maria! - Well, she wasn't actually my aunt. She was still very young and as a worldly force and kindergarten teacher, she was our - well, aunt. She was much nicer than the sisters. She laughed with us children and when there were no sisters around, she made a lot of jokes with us.

"Now, children, sit still again!" - "Hands on the table!" That tone, that expression, of course, the sister was there again: "And I won't be made to do anything stupid!"

Once, I remember, it was Easter time and the kindergarten announced that the Easter bunny would be visiting us. Once again, all the children had to take their places and put their hands on the table nicely. We sat there for quite a while and waited and waited. Suddenly a cry! "There's the Easter bunny!" "Where is it?" many people wanted to know. - "There, at the window, he was just there!" "I saw his ears!" cried a girl. - "Huh, there was nothing there," I thought to myself, jumped out of my chair and, as my seat was close to the window, I was immediately at the window. I heard a warning shout behind me: "Stay out of there - back to your seat now!" But it was too late. From that moment on, the Easter bunny was dead to me and several other children. I could see a rabbit's head out of the window and a sister's clothes underneath. "That's the sister, that's the sister!" I exclaimed, partly startled and yet cheerful. But I wasn't that surprised, as my sister, who was two years older, had often said to me: "Eww - you still believe in the Easter bunny."

Whether it was the Easter bunny or not was hotly debated afterwards and the girls in particular doubted my statement. Some still believed it and even looked at me angrily because I was telling the truth. Others, especially those with older siblings, were completely on my side.

Oh dear, what kind of world is this, I asked myself. Everything suddenly seemed so confused to me. What else is in store for me? And as I got older, I had to ask myself this question more and more often.

There were uncles who weren't my uncles. There were aunts who weren't my aunts. There were sisters who weren't my sisters - and there were no Easter bunnies either - dear God, what is there anyway, I asked myself. Well, I still had one small consolation, there was still the Christ Child. Or would that not exist in the end? I had some doubts about this, as my sister had already made some hints about it.

I soon forgot about the Easter bunny and the kindergarten time was really nice towards the end. I finally realized that there were lots of other children in the village and that I wasn't the only one with the few I had met so far.

The time had also come for me to realize that there were other kinds of people in this world.

On shopping trips by train to the nearby town of Worms, I saw something that I didn't understand for a long time, despite my parents' explanations. There were a lot of totally destroyed houses and only here and there was one that wasn't damaged. For the time being, I was satisfied with my parents' answer that it had been the planes with their bombs during the war. I wasn't really interested in why this was the case, so I didn't ask any more questions. Probably also because I knew I wouldn't understand anyway.

Back at the station for the return journey, we sat down in the huge second-class waiting room, eating the pretzels we had bought in the city, as it was still some time before the train departed. Never before had I seen so many people sitting here, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. Faces, hands, all brown, some even almost black. I was very scared, which my mother immediately noticed when she said: "Don't be afraid, they won't hurt you." Then, one of them even came up to me. He must have noticed that I was scared and smiled sweetly at me. I lowered my eyes sheepishly and, peering up from below, I noticed how he moved away again with a prancing step. "That's an American soldier," my mother said, looking after him for a while.

If he had said "boo" instead of smiling at me the moment he stood in front of me, I think I would have fallen off my chair in shock.

I had seen Negroes, as they were still allowed to be called back then, in a picture before. There was a village with strange huts and a wall built of wooden posts around it. All the people in the picture, including the children, had dark skin. They must have been very poor because they had almost nothing to wear. The women had big white bones stuck in their hair. And - hey, wait a minute - at this point I should also remember the big, naked breasts? Nope, nothing. Either I had just blacked out or I didn't think anything at all when I saw them and simply overlooked them.

What impressed me most in the picture, however, was the large pot in the middle of a square in which a white man in a hat was sitting. The black men had put wood under the pot and lit it. They were dancing around the pot and seemed to be looking forward to their meal. The man in the pot, however, did not seem to be enjoying it at all. You could see from his anxious face and the drops of sweat on his forehead that the water was slowly starting to get hot.

Not exactly the best way to teach children that there are other types of people in this world. Until that encounter at Worms station, this image remained in my head as a prejudice that all black people must be man-eaters.

Well, perhaps the picture was only intended for adults and I got my hands on it purely by chance? But it could also have formed prejudices in adults?

Worms station has often been the scene of strange encounters for me. Once, I was sitting there again with my mother, waiting for the train, when masked people, riding on brooms, jumped around screaming loudly and headed for the tables. However, although the witch masks looked very scary, I wasn't scared at all because I knew it was carnival time and that's when people put on masks. I myself had already dressed up as a cowboy at home and was armed with a real "powder-puff" revolver. My mother assured me in good time that the witches were totally harmless and that they were Worms street sweepers in disguise.

Yes, carnival was one of the biggest celebrations for me, alongside Christmas, Easter and Kirchweih. Dressed up in the simplest of costumes, we children went out on Shrove Tuesday to get a few pennies from the locals. I can still remember very well how Mum put a checked shirt on me, put a colorful scarf around my neck and slipped the part with the rubbing surfaces of a matchbox over it from both ends. A match was lit and a piece was left to burn so that I could draw a moustache under my nose with the burnt black. Then she took a scrap of red crepe paper, moistened it with spit and used it to make my cheeks red.

"I am a poor king, don't give me so little. Don't leave me standing there for so long, because I still have further to go. Money out, money out, otherwise I'll knock a hole in your house." That was the saying we used to recite at the front door. If you got something as a present, it was: "The good woman/master has given us something, this time next year she/he should still be alive." I was really afraid of not getting anything. Not at all because I hadn't received anything, but because I didn't want to have to say the end of the following sentence, which ended: "... she/he shall not live". But luckily this never happened.

However, one thing always made me angry on our tour. When the people we visited asked: "What's your name? Who are your parents?" And depending on who the parents were, they would open their wallets accordingly. Back on the street, we always compared what each of us had received.

No matter what I got my hands on at the time that had to do with carnival, I was always fascinated by it. The colorful streamers, the confetti, a little hat that my parents brought home from a carnival meeting, etc., I was always simply blown away. And when Dad brought home colorful scraps of paper that he had saved from helping to prepare the floats, the joy was immense. Some of them were also put to very good use for the upcoming decoration of the pole displays. All that was missing was a big pretzel on the top of the pole and they were ready to set off, mainly to relatives to make them happy with a little song. And then it was: "So, my boy, and because you've sung so well, you'll get something too."

Yes, in our village, the Rhine-Hessian Low German was and is spoken. Everyone understood everyone else, only those who thought they were better tried their hand at High German. There were times when I was admonished by an aunt to speak more beautifully. "Awwer, I didn't say anything and kept on babbling as usual!" After all, why should I talk the way nobody understood me on the street anyway? Apart from in kindergarten, High German was also spoken and sung in church. Only sometimes you couldn't understand one language at all, Latin. It was probably only for the adults, because we children weren't supposed to understand it, but it was simply mimicked with "blablabla". If this hadn't been the case, the school years that were soon to begin would have been much more difficult for many a pupil. Because the "Dippsche" became a little pot, the "Hawwe" a larger pot, the little sister of which was the "Häwwelsche". You could also learn the difference between a potato and a "Grumbeer" - because there wasn't one.

Our home

Our house with its carpentry workshop was located pretty much in the middle of our village in a narrow lane called "Kleine Belzgasse". Dad had inherited it from his mother, as he had agreed to look after her in her old age.

The house was built right next to the road and at the back of the property was the workshop, a large barn that had been converted and added to the workshop, a small pigsty and an outhouse. Just outside the center of the yard to the right was a large square hole in the ground where the pig manure and some of the kitchen waste was put. Yes, even the "Nachtdippche" was emptied there, the rather solid contents being covered with some straw.

On the first floor of the house was the kitchen, a large room and a small room. There was one large and two small bedrooms on the second floor. There was another room above the large room on the first floor, which was not finished and had a missing wall towards the driveway. The straw and hay for the cattle and later several coffins, which were delivered almost ready-made, used to be stored there and above the driveway.

There was a huge wooden double-leaf gate at the entrance. Viewed from the inside, the right-hand leaf was fastened to the ground with a latch and to the wall with a long iron bar. The left wing was held shut from the right wing by a rebate that went over the rebate of the other wing. A smaller entrance door was built into the left wing. The iron bar served as a welcome gymnastic apparatus for us children. We could do the most amazing glow moves on it.

It's hard to imagine nowadays, but the key to the courtyard gate always hung behind the shutter on the window of the small room facing the street when we were away, and the key to the front door was on the windowsill of a small window right next to the door.

At the far end of the courtyard entrance, at a height of about 4 meters, there was a large, thick beam lying across the top. A strong chain was wrapped around it, hanging downwards and attached to the side of the wall. The butcher hung the pigs on this chain when slaughtering them. Several sickles and steel construction staples were attached to the upright beam on the side wall of the half-timbered driveway. There were also bundles of long paper cords with a round piece of wood at each end. These were used to bind the sheaves during the grain harvest.

There was also a window from our kitchen into the driveway. People who wanted to see Dad in the workshop always came to this window first and knocked. I can still hear my mother say today: "He's dehinne". Which means something like: Just go behind, my husband is in the workshop.

Two steps led from the driveway into the house. This is where the poor men and women would occasionally sit and beg. Mom gave them something to eat and I can still remember one in particular, whom they called "De Bisquit". He always sang a little song in thanks, sometimes even yodeling.

In the hallway, just to the left of the front door, a steep staircase led up to the bedrooms. To the left behind the stairs was the kitchen, from which another window looked out into the courtyard. From here you had the best view over the dung heap to the workshop. Towards the house, however, there was a wall about half a meter high by the dung pit, on which Mum placed flowers every year. She always had several tubs in the courtyard - mainly with geraniums - so that the ugly pit was almost completely hidden.

A door led from the kitchen into a small room where laundry was done and supplies were stored. From this room, a concrete staircase led down to a small cellar. Coals, briquettes and potatoes were stored here and in the corner there was a sandpit in which carrots and other root vegetables were wrapped up for the winter. A shelf was attached to the wall, on which stood jars of fruit or jam and, after a slaughter, canned sausage.

This cellar always had something eerie about it for me as a small child. As there was no electric light down there, you had to go down with a candle. And before you even got all the way down the stairs, the candle had already gone out. Perhaps the small cellar window, which was set to ventilation, was the cause.

In the courtyard on the right, very close to the house, was the outhouse. A door, which was closed from the outside with a latch and from the inside with a hook, was made of boards, through the slits of which you could easily see outside. A little heart further up in the middle of the door was probably used for ventilation and to let some light into the interior. On the side, on a wooden box with a seat, lid and a large hole in the middle, old newspapers were always stacked. What for? You don't have to guess for long.

Fortunately, we small children didn't have to use this toilet. Instead, there was a potty with a lid that was always to hand in the small room behind the kitchen in case we needed to relieve ourselves. We then defecated in the kitchen.

She was always in a hurry, as someone could have come to visit at any time, which of course happened from time to time. Then the potty was tucked under her bottom and off she went into the little room next door. It could take quite a while before you could leave this hiding place again. Over time, it even got to the point where, whether I was sitting on the potty or not, I would disappear into this little room as quickly as possible when I had visitors.

And then there was the old woman, "Es Gretasche", who visited us almost every day and was a real nuisance, and not just to me. She usually came just before lunch, presumably to be invited to dinner again and was totally annoying with her constant: "I'm going now", "Aller donn, isch werr jetz mol geh". And I'd sit in my little room and think: "I wish she'd go now!" because the game could go on for quite a while. And when I couldn't stand it in there any longer and then came out after all, she would say in a raised voice: "Oh, how come you're here now?", and I often didn't have the words, so Mum would have to come up with something again.

My brother and I had grown so fond of this woman that we were always ready to give her a shock for life. Well, the time came and new coffins were delivered once again. And before they were taken up to the warehouse, they stood in the driveway for a while.

We lifted the lid from the side, got in, closed the lid and waited. It wasn't exactly a coincidence that we had chosen the exact time when she was out and about. The gate opened, she came in, I in the coffin went "boo boo" and lifted the lid. A scream could be heard and then a loud laugh: "No, he scared me now," she said, with a final "Hihihi".

We had had our fun, but we didn't get the impression that it was a shock for her. Anyway, the old lady continued to visit us very regularly and the coffins soon disappeared from the driveway again.

Even when the coffins had been moved back into storage, little Marga always gave our estate a wide berth when she visited her grandma in the suburbs. At some point on the way there, our farm gate would open again and, horror of horrors for her, new coffins had just been delivered.

No, this could not have been the reason for her to emigrate to the USA in later years.

Here, in the driveway, was another of my very special favorite places. Dad had stacked old glass crates behind the wooden planks and boards leaning against the wall. Wood wool, which originally protected the glass in the freshly delivered crates from falling over and breaking, had been stuffed into the top crate and stored there for possible later use. A ladder, which was actually used to climb up into the coffin storage area, was leaning against the wall next to the long timber, obviously irresponsible from an adult's point of view. Ideal for me to climb into the box. From then on, that was my realm. What a tree house is or was for others, the glass box filled with wood wool was for me. If I heard any noises that indicated that someone was approaching, I would remain very still up there, observing the surroundings through the open gaps. Sometimes even boys and girls from the neighborhood who were brave enough were allowed up there, in my beloved cozy "high-rise". My secret kingdom was never discovered, at least that I was aware of. I wouldn't necessarily say that I was the bravest when it came to my climbing skills. However, many interesting places on our estate were climbed without thinking, but always very carefully out of sheer curiosity. I always took my time deciding when and where, but at some point the opportunity arose and I was physically able to do it.

So my next - not entirely safe - tour was to get up to the upper attic via the coffin store without a ladder. The large adjoining yard gate with its horizontal wooden frame, uncovered from the inside, was perfect for this. First with my left foot on the lower, horizontal frame of the small gate, then with my right foot on the door handle, then with my left foot on the upper frame, then on a strut of the large gate, a grip on a beam to the left, now just pull up and I was at the top. Only now did I start to worry about how I would get back down there, but there was still time. At the top, on the floor of the coffin store, there was an old stretcher leaning against the wall, which used to be used to transport custom-made doors and windows to customers. It was also occasionally used to transport coffins. Up here, for its final purpose, it was primarily intended to help the chimney sweep first up to the attic and then further up to the roof. The stretcher consisted of two longitudinal and three transverse sections. The cross pieces served as ladder rungs and were actually too far apart for a small guy like me.

Nevertheless, my plan succeeded. I also didn't have to worry too much about a possible fall. There was so much old straw under this ladder that I couldn't have fallen very hard.

When I got to the top, I saw that there was still quite a way up to the roof. There was a crate on the floor that a taller person could have climbed onto and reached the roof through the skylight. But all the shimmying up didn't help, I just couldn't manage it yet. I would probably have to wait another year or two before I could do it.

But it was still worth the effort. I found a lot of things in the attic that reappeared under the Christmas tree every year: my sister's doll's kitchen, my store with all sorts of accessories and a few other things. Aha, now I also realized how these things were brought here. On the floor was a large wooden board consisting of several planks. When I lifted it and looked down, I was amazed to see the staircase leading from the first floor to the upper floor. Carefully and with some effort, I closed the flap, which was very heavy for me, and was thus a great experience richer. I knew I would be climbing up here more often.

But now the first big descent was still to come. They had already missed me in the house and called for me. But I knew that if I came forward now, I would have had to listen to some pretty unpleasant questions. "Where have you been again?" would probably have been one of the questions. And being the honest boy that I always was, my secret would have quickly ceased to be a secret.

Climbing down actually went really well. Except for the last section, where I had a problem. Some how I had put the wrong foot down first and so I was hanging over the small courtyard gate and couldn't get back up to make another attempt. So my only option was to jump down. It wasn't as bad as I had first thought. One last glance upwards, a relieved gasp and I was the proudest boy in the whole world at that moment.

Oh yes, the dear girls. At just 4 years old, you have a completely different attitude towards girls than you do in later years. There seemed to be more of an instinct to look at them, touch them or even sniff them. Yes, and there were the first noticeable differences between them. While my sense of smell was already very pronounced at that time, I noticed that one of the girls had a smell that was similar to someone who worked in agriculture and livestock farming on her parents' farm. The other girl had a totally different smell, which seemed completely different, more pleasant, tastier and more interesting to my nose. And indeed, it soon became clear what the origin of this scent might be. The girl took me to her home, which was not even a hundred meters from our house, and showed me her aquarium, which stood on a cupboard in the hallway, with lots of little red, blue and green shimmering fish. She gave me a small tin of food for the lovely little animals and I was very, very excited that I was allowed to feed them.

Hmmm! And they smelled, the little food flakes, really, really delicious. Suddenly the scales fell from my eyes, I had discovered the source of the girl's odor.

Even today, when that scent wafts back into my nose, I think of that sweet little appetizing girl with the black hair and the food flakes; and, that scent is still a rather welcome one to me.

Visit from Aunt Katharina and Edgar

We were always delighted when our aunt from the Palatinate visited us. She actually came primarily to visit her mother, my grandma. We children waited eagerly to see what she might have brought us. We were never disappointed because she always brought sweets and chocolate, which our parents tended to withhold from us for financial reasons.

Auntie was always funny, she babbled like a waterfall, but she also asked us questions without embarrassing us. What struck me most about her was that she was very similar to my father in many ways. Somehow she twisted the left corner of her mouth in a strange way when she spoke and her language was very different to ours. For example, we said: "Mer henn", meaning: "We have", she: "Mer hunn", we: "Mer sinn", meaning: "We are", she: "Mer soin". Whenever she used these words, I was reminded of a sentence that my uncle Emil, her husband, had once said to me during a visit to them, but I only understood the context much later: "Hunnsche gesie, wie se gebohrmeißelt hunn?" In other words: Did you see how they chiseled? I was referring to two birds, I assume sparrows, that were mating in a tree. At the time, I still thought the birds were playing with each other.

When her aunt came to visit us, she always asked us to play games with her. Her favorite game besides "Mensch ärgere dich nicht" was "Spitz pass auf". In this game, strings about 60 to 70 centimetres long were tied to the "Mensch ärger dich nicht" playing pieces, the little dolls were placed or laid together in the middle of the table, the strings were then placed next to each player and taken in their hands. One player had a cup in his hand and when he shouted: "Spitz watch out !" and tried to catch the dolls with the cup, everyone had to pull the string at lightning speed and pull them off the table. Whoever's doll was caught had to leave a deposit. Something that was available in large quantities in the house was used for this. In our case, it was dried beans. Peas or buttons were also used. The first person to hand in all their pledges, which were handed out beforehand, was the loser of the game.

Once our aunt showed us a great trick with buttons. She took a button with holes, put a thin sewing thread about 70 to 80 centimeters long through one hole and then back to another hole. She knotted the two ends together and pushed the button into the middle. Then the big moment. She slipped the right side of the thread loop over her right thumb and the left loop over her left thumb. Then she loosened the whole thing a little so that the button hung down, and with a circular flinging motion of both hands, she made the button turn like a big wheel, twisting the two threads to the right and left of it together. Then she pulled on both sides, let go again, pulled again, let go again and repeated this process constantly - hei, it was a joy how the knob turned sometimes in one direction, then in the other. Depending on how hard she pulled on the ends, the buzzing sound and the appearance of the button changed. We tried out lots of different buttons and had great fun.

Auntie's son, my cousin Edgar, who was five years older than me, particularly liked dealing with me. He was always coming up with ways to keep me in a good mood.

Once, it was a beautiful early summer's day. The sun was already so high that it shone over the high walls and roofs around our property. Edgar once again visited our grandma, whom he called mother because that's what his mother called her. We played hide and seek and chase. In our yard, he came up with the idea of playing cowboys and Indians with me. He as a cowboy and I as an Indian.

He should be very sorry for having come up with this idea. I'm sure that it hurt him a lot afterwards, even though he didn't show it.

He fetched a chair from the kitchen, placed it in the middle of the yard, then took a rope that was hanging from a beam on the wall and somewhere, I mean from behind the pigsty, where the firewood was stored, he suddenly fetched an axe. He sat down on the chair and, with his help, let me tie him up. Beforehand, he showed me what I was supposed to do after being tied up, namely dance around the chair with the axe in one hand and repeatedly hit my mouth with the other, making a typical Indian howl.

No sooner said than done, Edgar sat tied up on the chair and Helmutchen danced around him howling with the axe in his hand.

Yes, it must have looked pretty Indian. But it wasn't real enough for Edgar. He asked me to scare him by going after him to get his scalp. I did - and boom, Edgar had the axe to the head. I didn't mean to hurt him, it just happened that way. Edgar quickly freed himself from his restraints and ran into the house to wet the bruise that had probably formed with water.

I was very worried about him, but no less relieved when he came back and assured me that it hadn't hurt at all. However, I think I did see some redness and a little swelling.

Edgar never held a grudge against me for this lightning attack. On the contrary, he even seemed to have had a lot of fun with it.

With mom in the garden

I really enjoyed going into the garden with my mom, as I was allowed to sit in our little hand pram on the way there when I was younger.

Waiting in the garden for the "Huschhusch" was always a special experience. When Mom said: "Quick, go upstairs, she's coming!", I would quickly run up to the fence and wait. You could hear her snorting and stamping as soon as she set off from the station about three hundred meters away. Once she had picked up speed, you could hear a loud whistle at the level crossing.

And there came the black monster. It came closer and closer, steaming and smoking, and I was a little afraid that the heavy thing would fall down the two-meter-high embankment. Mom's request: "Hop, wave!" made me overjoyed when the people on the train waved back or even, as happened once, when the man dressed all in black let out a short whistle from his steam engine and waved at me. Mom then said: "Do you hear that? Now she's going up the hump, no Gundem, and then she goes, Pefferdittsche help us up, Pefferdittsche help us up, and when she comes down the mountain again, she goes, I've done it, I've done it." - And, what can I say, it was actually true, that's exactly what it sounded like.

I often went into the garden with my mom, while my little brother had to stay at home with grandma. Sitting at our little fountain and splashing around in the water was always great fun. The only thing I couldn't really gauge back then was the depth and I was terrified of falling in and drowning.

In reality, however, the water was at most half a meter deep and fluctuated in height with the groundwater level.

At some point, however, I had to realize just how heavy such a locomotive really is. First I put snails that I had collected on the tracks and then small stones. The snails that didn't manage to escape were as flat as - yes, even flatter than - a pancake. And the stones, all that was left was dust and flour.