White is not an ethnicity.
My whiteness is a void of cultural identity. Even when I meet other Caucasian individuals, they are often first or second generation Polish or Serbian immigrants. I love this diversity and I am fascinated by the stories these people carry, but when contrasted against my own fallow immigration narrative, these characters are so much more alive and visceral, so much more interesting than my farm boy upbringing.
Showing posts with label Germany. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Germany. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Making love - Giving Gifts That Don't Suck
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| I love sweater tees. |
I have simultaneous exuberance and loathing in my heart when it comes to Christmas gifts. Giving, receiving, buying, wrapping, exchanging, returning – it does not matter. There are few things in life that cause anxiety like Christmas gifts.
The Gift of Gift Giving
It may be hereditary, this holiday humbuggery that befalls me. Last weekend my father and I wandered aimlessly through stores as we sought out obligatory gifts for the ones we care for. We finally settled upon a few items that fit the people on our list – candy and trinkets, mostly. As we drove home, we agreed that the whole gift giving concept was flawed.
We are so fixed on the act of giving, we forget that the gifts we impart should actually have meaning. And that is where I fail. I can think of great things for people throughout the year, but when it comes time for Christmas shopping, I am vapid. I wander stores in a daze of lights, people exuding peculiar odors, and the impending doom of an empty-handed Christmas.
My grandmother, on the other hand, is so caught up in the gift giving conspiracy that she calculates, down to the penny, how much she gives each of her grandchildren each Christmas. We all get at least one gift, then, for the older among us, cash. The gifts are, at times, the most asinine trinkets and trivial bobbles ever dreamed of. In the past, I've told her,
“Grandma, just give me money. I don't need any gifts this year.”
But she insists that if everyone doesn't have a physical gift to open on Christmas, we'll feel left out, and probably cry ourselves to sleep while visions of familial guilt dance in our heads. So we get our gifts on Christmas. Regardless of their limited utility, I appreciate the gesture. She wants us to feel loved. While we may not always love the gift, I do love the love behind the gift.
What Do YOU Want For Christmas?
Don't ask me what I want. I know you have the urge, but restrain yourself. If I were to compile a Christmas list, it'd consist of the following:
A hand-held, digital audio recorder
About a dozen music albums
A few films, mostly underground or silver screen
A new pair of brown dress shoes
Multiple bottles of top shelf Bourbon
The Pabst Brewing Company
DO NOT GO OUT AND BUY ME ANY OF THESE ITEMS.
With all of these Christmas wishes, there are specific models, styles, and specifications to my desires. I have an esoteric love of non-mainstream indie music, I love older films, and am pickier about my shoes than most women are. The technology that I want, I want the specific models that I have researched and determined to be the best item for the job. Worst of all, most of the things on my ramshackled Christmas list are expensive.
When I attempt to explain any of these requests, it generally elicits an annoyed or bewildered look and the person buys the closest thing to my desired item. They find the most inexpensive equivalent, slap a bow on it and hope for the best. Upon opening it, I smile, feign excitement, and then try to figure out how I can buy the one I want without making anyone feel bad.
Upon proofreading this, I realize that I may come across as an ungrateful prick. That is not my intention. Nor am I trying to sound like a Scrooge. I am merely trying to avoid the quagmire of awkward gifting that inevitably occurs this time of year.
Seasonal Origami
Would you expect a cross-eyed five year old to successfully wrap gifts without using three rolls of tape and a healthy dose of saliva to keep everything adhered?
Then why is it that every year, regardless of my vehement protestation, I am forced to create these works of ephemeral abstract art that will inevitably be ripped to shreds by the recipient.
I am not in any way comparing myself with a visually impaired child who is 1/5th my age. I am, however, comparing my ability and desire to wrap gifts with that of a preschooler.
I prefer newspapers and electric tape, garbage bags and zip ties. Or the old 'Close your eyes and hold out your hands!' routine.
Making Love
There are exceptions to my disdain for gift giving. When I receive a homemade gift, my Grinchian heart grows three sizes. Whether it be culinary treats, fashionable yarnwear, or refabricated trinketry, I appreciate the thought that goes into a gift that is from the hands and heart of the giver.
My other grandmother gives out Christmas cookies every year. She must bake 500 cookies, from sugar cookies to turtles to traditional German anise cakes. I love them all, and they never last more than a week. One of my favorite cookies from oma's kitchen are the sugar cookies. There is something about those powdery morsels, slathered with pastel frosting and shaped like reindeer, Santa Clauses', and Christmas bells, that make my mouth water at the thought of them.
But after I was diagnosed with diabetes a few years ago, my grandmother decided that she was going to give me a healthier option for Christmas. So now, nestled in with all the other carb-filled delights in my Christmas package, I am chagrined to find my sugar cookies naked as Jesus in the manger – Not a bit of frosting on the poor little angels and stars.
Although I've tried to explain it to her, grandma has yet to grasp the concept of carbohydrates versus sugars. The cookie is chock full of carbohydrates, so is just as deleterious to my health without frosting than it is with the creamy delight. Do not spare me the savory experience of my youth, in an attempt to keep me healthy! They're cookies! Frosting or not, they will still raise my bloodsugar levels, so let them raise in peace.
Again, I am grateful every time my grandmother sends those barren cookies my way. As I crunch into the lacking treat, I smile. Grandma, in her own misguided way, is showing me she cares.
The Never-Ending Scarf
The all time best homemade gift I've received is a scarf from my wife. It has to be the only one of its design, and that is why I value it above every other neck protector I own.
Annie learned to crochet, specifically for this project, and set to work on a scarf for her beau. She chose a multicolored yarn that transitioned from red to orange to green, reflecting the autumnal ambiance that she knew I loved. Annie labored over the needle and lambswool for days, fervently looping and tugging, ensuring that every miniscule know was even and tight. My giraffe neck deserved only the best, and that was what she set out to deliver.
Somewhere along the way, Annie forgot to look up and check her progress. Before she realized it, she had created a scarf that was 15 fee long, but only 3 inches wide. More a snakes blanket than a human's scarf, Annie was nonplussed. But she was not defeated. In a move of pure ingenuity, Annie folded the scarf in half and proceeded to attach the two segments along the edge. The end result was a beautiful, thick scarf that has provided warmth and comfort to my neck for several years.
'Tis the Season
I know I shouldn't fight the inevitable. People are going to give me gifts. I want to show people my appreciation and reciprocate with my own trinkets of seasonal cheer. I will bear the anxiety of this tradition in stride, and, with any luck, I'll get better at it.
So don't feel bad if I give you a crummy gift. I really did try. And don't worry about giving me a crummy gift. I'll love you all the same for it.
And then I'll give it to Goodwill.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Junior McGinniss
I've always thought of myself as German. The name Walljasper comes from a region in Western Germany known as Westphalia. The story that has been told to me is that the Walljaspers came to America in the mid 1800's by way of the port of New Orleans, traveled up the Mississippi and finally landed on what is current day Southeast Iowa. A family of five - mother, father, and three brothers, from which the three clusters of Walljasper that currently reside in the various regions of Eastern Iowa hail.
But this weekend I heard a story of a less prevalent, if not just as spirited ethnicity that flows through my blood. The Irish.
My grandfather, Leroy Joseph Walljasper is the source for our families' Irish lineage. His mother, Maiden name McGinniss, was 100% emerald Isle. While visiting my own homeland (Donnellson, IA), Grandpa, sipping his whiskey, told me a story that reveals an interesting aspect of our family tree. This is a story about Junior McGinniss.
Junior, as my grandfather remembers it, was a man of considerable size. He was a farmer, as most of our family has been, so had a leathery toughness that one gets from long hours and extreme conditions. Junior worked hard, but like his work ethic, Junior knew how to have fun as well.
One of his favorite means of entertainment would be to play guitar at a family owned bar in New London, Iowa – The Farmers Tap. He and a pal named Buddy Jones would play almost every weekend at The Tap, which meant, as a boy in the 1940's, Leroy would be allowed to accompany his parents into town for the evening. The Alamo, a movie theater sat across the street from the tavern, so all the kids would dart across the two lane thoroughfare, pay their 25 cents, and be content for a few hours as they escaped the realities of their prepubescent lives. After the films, they'd return to the The Farmers Tap.
The band would still be rocking when they returned, but the owner let them sit along the wall and watch until the night was over. As grandpa recounts, this could be more entertaining than the features they watched at The Alamo.
They'd watch the people dancing, flirting, and drinking. They'd see their parents, affectionately carousing. And sometimes, they'd see a few folks get a little too lit, get into a disagreement, and then they'd watch as the whole thing dissolved into fisticuffs.
When fights broke out, Junior and Buddy stepped in. They served not only as the entertainment, but also as the security muscle. Grandpa remembers six concrete steps that led up to the front door of The Farmers Tap, and when Junior McGinniss and Buddy got a hold of you, you missed everyone of them as you sailed out the front door and landed squarely on your keister.
By midnight, most of the domestic types had indulged their fill. They paid their tabs, collected their coats and children, and made their way home. For Junior and Buddy however, the night was still young. They'd proceeded an additional twenty five miles through back country roads to Burlington, then across the bridge, into Gulfport, Illinois. Gulfport, to this day, is synonymous with one thing in Southeast Iowa. Strip clubs.
That is where my Grandfathers story ends, but I'm sure that there are many more anecdotes about Junior, Buddy, and all the rest of my Irish forebears.
As I listened to his story unfold, I couldn't help but be drawn into his tale. My grandfather, farmer by trade, has a way of telling a story that catches your attention, makes you lean in close to catch every detail, and lands the punchline at just the right moment, every time. It's something about the cadence of his voice, the word play that is a part of the rural vernacular of Southeast Iowa, or the pure joy that comes from Grandpa as he tells these stories, but I could listen to them for hours. Maybe they're not near as interesting to people who don't know Leroy Walljasper, but I find them as enthralling as any I've ever heard.
My friend Brian Wilcoxon, upon hearing this story, was so inspired that he wrote a song about old Junior McGinniss. In my opinion, it perfectly captures the essence of the story.
Junior McGinniss
But this weekend I heard a story of a less prevalent, if not just as spirited ethnicity that flows through my blood. The Irish.
My grandfather, Leroy Joseph Walljasper is the source for our families' Irish lineage. His mother, Maiden name McGinniss, was 100% emerald Isle. While visiting my own homeland (Donnellson, IA), Grandpa, sipping his whiskey, told me a story that reveals an interesting aspect of our family tree. This is a story about Junior McGinniss.
Junior, as my grandfather remembers it, was a man of considerable size. He was a farmer, as most of our family has been, so had a leathery toughness that one gets from long hours and extreme conditions. Junior worked hard, but like his work ethic, Junior knew how to have fun as well.
One of his favorite means of entertainment would be to play guitar at a family owned bar in New London, Iowa – The Farmers Tap. He and a pal named Buddy Jones would play almost every weekend at The Tap, which meant, as a boy in the 1940's, Leroy would be allowed to accompany his parents into town for the evening. The Alamo, a movie theater sat across the street from the tavern, so all the kids would dart across the two lane thoroughfare, pay their 25 cents, and be content for a few hours as they escaped the realities of their prepubescent lives. After the films, they'd return to the The Farmers Tap.
The band would still be rocking when they returned, but the owner let them sit along the wall and watch until the night was over. As grandpa recounts, this could be more entertaining than the features they watched at The Alamo.
They'd watch the people dancing, flirting, and drinking. They'd see their parents, affectionately carousing. And sometimes, they'd see a few folks get a little too lit, get into a disagreement, and then they'd watch as the whole thing dissolved into fisticuffs.
When fights broke out, Junior and Buddy stepped in. They served not only as the entertainment, but also as the security muscle. Grandpa remembers six concrete steps that led up to the front door of The Farmers Tap, and when Junior McGinniss and Buddy got a hold of you, you missed everyone of them as you sailed out the front door and landed squarely on your keister.
By midnight, most of the domestic types had indulged their fill. They paid their tabs, collected their coats and children, and made their way home. For Junior and Buddy however, the night was still young. They'd proceeded an additional twenty five miles through back country roads to Burlington, then across the bridge, into Gulfport, Illinois. Gulfport, to this day, is synonymous with one thing in Southeast Iowa. Strip clubs.
That is where my Grandfathers story ends, but I'm sure that there are many more anecdotes about Junior, Buddy, and all the rest of my Irish forebears.
As I listened to his story unfold, I couldn't help but be drawn into his tale. My grandfather, farmer by trade, has a way of telling a story that catches your attention, makes you lean in close to catch every detail, and lands the punchline at just the right moment, every time. It's something about the cadence of his voice, the word play that is a part of the rural vernacular of Southeast Iowa, or the pure joy that comes from Grandpa as he tells these stories, but I could listen to them for hours. Maybe they're not near as interesting to people who don't know Leroy Walljasper, but I find them as enthralling as any I've ever heard.
My friend Brian Wilcoxon, upon hearing this story, was so inspired that he wrote a song about old Junior McGinniss. In my opinion, it perfectly captures the essence of the story.
Junior McGinniss
Now sit ye' right down
And I’ll tell ye' a tale
Of young Junior McGinniss
That I knew so well
Young men came to hear
From miles around
The boy’s sweet guitar
and its curious sound
He’d play for the lads
And he’d play for the lasses
At every song’s end
He’d drink down two glasses
And toast to the dancers
Who’d cheer him by name
And say “Junior McGinniss
So glad that you came!”
He’d sing about future
He’d sing about past
And he’d play on til dawn and the
Sunday’s first mass
And the priest during prayer
Would give quite a yawn
From drinking the dear blood
Of Christ all night long
Young Junior he really
Could be quite a cuss
A pain in the arse
He could be when he must
All the rounders who came in
To spoil his fun
He’d throw down seven steps
without touching a-one
When the dancin’ wore down
He’d pull out a jug
Of the good ole white gin
That he made in his tub
And we’d sing him a song
And young Junior’d get down
And go dancin’ and dancin
All over the town
Young Junior McGinniss
Is “young Junior” no more
He’s old and he’s grown
And moved on past the shore
But i know that no days
Will no happier be
Than with Junior McGinniss’
Time here with me
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Dearest Annabelle
Christmas music is in full force. On the radio, in department stores, and in my head. I have a confession to make.
I love Christmas music.
I know I may come across sometimes as a curmudgeon who hates all things beautiful - Top 40 Radio, Reality TV, Justin Bieber. And while I will rail against the commercialism of this season, I do love Christmas music.
So here is a Christmas song. No it's not your traditional fa la la la la, but it has some nods to a few of my favorite carols.
The impetus behind Dearest Annabelle came to me when I heard someone talking about the unofficial truce's that happened during World War I between the British and German soldiers on and around Christmas. The details vary by incident, but the gist is that the soldiers stopped fighting, exchanged gifts, sang carols, and in at least one case, played a pickup football game. This ability to step outside of themselves and find some human decency amidst such a horrific conflict is something from which we can all take some pointers.
Dearest Annabelle
Oh my dearest Annabelle
with frozen fingers fingers and a heart that's true
I write to you.
How I wish for sunny days
when warmth above would cast its rays on you
all dressed in blue
Its Christmas eve tonight on the battlefield
My rifle I will rest, my pen I'll wield
Though so many men have died
in brutal bloodshed from the other side
I live for you
Strip away this uniform
and I will stand here unadorned, the man
that you once knew
This Christmas night is shining, bright and blue
Star of wonder and might bring me home to you
Through the crispness of this
bitter night we hear O Tannenbaum and Yule
ring clear and true
Candle clad and arm in arm
they march across the death fields bearing truce
a peace filled fruit
Stille nacht, Heilige nacht
Alles schlaft, Einsam wacht
As I pen these words
with frostbit hand I hear the Christmas bells ring through
the dawn is new
Close my eyes I'm taken back
to Sunday morning snowflakes landing on
turn into dew
Peace on earth, good will towards man
Father son and ghost have mercy on this land
Stille nacht
Heilige nacht
Tell your friends! Tweet it, Facebook it, spread it around like the flu virus!
I love Christmas music.
I know I may come across sometimes as a curmudgeon who hates all things beautiful - Top 40 Radio, Reality TV, Justin Bieber. And while I will rail against the commercialism of this season, I do love Christmas music.
So here is a Christmas song. No it's not your traditional fa la la la la, but it has some nods to a few of my favorite carols.
 |
| Football on Christmas, 1914 |
Dearest Annabelle
Oh my dearest Annabelle
with frozen fingers fingers and a heart that's true
I write to you.
How I wish for sunny days
when warmth above would cast its rays on you
all dressed in blue
Its Christmas eve tonight on the battlefield
My rifle I will rest, my pen I'll wield
Though so many men have died
in brutal bloodshed from the other side
I live for you
Strip away this uniform
and I will stand here unadorned, the man
that you once knew
This Christmas night is shining, bright and blue
Star of wonder and might bring me home to you
Through the crispness of this
bitter night we hear O Tannenbaum and Yule
ring clear and true
Candle clad and arm in arm
they march across the death fields bearing truce
a peace filled fruit
Stille nacht, Heilige nacht
Alles schlaft, Einsam wacht
As I pen these words
with frostbit hand I hear the Christmas bells ring through
the dawn is new
Close my eyes I'm taken back
to Sunday morning snowflakes landing on
turn into dew
Peace on earth, good will towards man
Father son and ghost have mercy on this land
Stille nacht
Heilige nacht
Tell your friends! Tweet it, Facebook it, spread it around like the flu virus!
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