Two Times the Parade

When in Germany, do as the Germans do: walk! "It's just over there." The local man gestured northwest. "...just walk." We could do that.

Fueled for the day on a marvelous breakfast of dense bread, cheese, lunch meats, fruit, juice, coffee and a sweet roll - a far cry from our usual bowl of cereal - we headed out. At home "just over there" means a block or a few, not miles, and here we would have to walk back. Balanced on the edge of the road and in the ditch, we tromped. Cars passed. No one stopped. After an hour we spotted a crowd of people and tents.

Just in time for the start of the parade we looked for a place to sit. Park benches? Heavens no. Stand. In the sun. Smile. Perspire. Water? What's water? The huge beer stein (one size fits all) required both hands. "You hold the beer, I'll hold the pretzel," I instructed. It was dinner plate-sized. We weren't hungry, but alcohol and I don't get along. I have to be extremely thirsty to take a small sip, and there wasn't anything smaller to nibble on.

At this Bavarian horse parade two kinds of horses stood out. A pair of huge draft horses, with their heads down, pulled a wagon. A local couple dressed in traditional costume graced the wagon seat. The lady looked pretty in her fitted white bodice and full skirt. The horses knew they were created to work pulling heavy loads. Built for it, they accepted their lot.

A black stallion with English saddle and rider took our breath away. He walked with his head high radiating pride and superior intelligence. Long-distance Aquarius vision shown on his face. He could see the "larger" picture of life. Not meant to work pulling wagons, we half expected him to take off running and fly. No, a few sips didn't influence us. The rest of the horses were so-so, but this one was magnificent. We stood in awe.

A variety of nondescript horses paraded by, more draft horses looking down pulling their wagon and people, and another magnificent black stallion. "He's just as beautiful as the last one," Minnie stopped in mid-nibble. The parade had gone around twice.

copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series

USA Memorial Day

At Bitburg, Germany we met a man who, as a child, had helped his dad in food service and served General Patton. The General complimented this twelve-year old making a lasting impression on him. He glowed with pride and told us where to find Patton's grave. A fellow from our home community had been on the Color Guard for his burial.

At the American Cemetery and Memorial in Hamm, Luxemborg we stood at Patton's grave not set apart from his men, but with them as he wanted. It was a warm day. From a marble bench we prayed for and thanked them and left puddles of sweat. Our contribution would dry up, but theirs was permanent.

Solemnly we walked above the Normandy Beaches. Posted signs caution against walking below as there are still unexploded mines. This day all was silent, even the visitors. Back at our Auberge our host twisted up his face and said he'd seen more than he could talk about.

At Colleville Sur Mer the 170 acre American cemetery holds the remains of those who contributed their all to the cause of freedom. The American director said the perfectly aligned crosses are set in a trench of concrete.

At Dachau, Germany we spoke with the President of the Survivors. "He said he was there to be sure the ovens were never again lit for that purpose." To our surprise he was not a bitter man inspite of his parents and first wife dying while all were imprisoned. He married again and they had a son. The Press arrived to interview him. He laughed and said to watch him make a fool of himself.

Our bellies in our throats we walked through the crematorium trying not to imagine its horrors. Images surfaced anyway remembering the words of a fellow from our home that was here liberation day. "They were so emaciated we couldn't tell the men from the women. An American soldier threw a piece of candy that landed in the barbed-wire. Naked prisoners dove in risking deep cuts and scratches; anything for a bite of food."

My late husband was a generation older than I and a WWII veteran plagued with nightmares and bouts with malaria. When he passed on I hoped his meeting with the Creator would go like so:

Seen the horrors of war, dear one,

The man began to weep

No more, no more! the Good God cried

I'm granting you Grace and Peace

In death their souls have returned to God to be rewarded and made whole. Grace and Peace to all who have fought, and who do fight for freedom.

copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series