Late November 1941 - a cool Sunday morning. I can visualize a light fog hanging over the waters of Lake Lucerne and drifting up the wooded Rigi mountain ridge. A break in the clouds unveiled the mighty Mythen Mountains, yet soon the beautiful sight was shrouded behind the moving clouds. From afar, the church bells of the hillside abbey rang, solemn and soothing, calling folks to early Sunday mass. It was calm and peaceful in the small lakeside town of Brunnen-Ingenbohl in Central Switzerland.

But the tranquility concealed a lingering fear. The specter of war loomed, silent, unrelenting. Nazi-occupied countries surrounded Switzerland. Hitler's army had penetrated deep into Russia with bloodshed and devastation. The war could soon engulf all of Europe and the entire world. For now, Switzerland was an island of peace, but it feared an invasion at any time. Food was rationed. The country was ready for the worst. Hundreds of Swiss soldiers were stationed at the Ingenbohl army camp.

Sunday, November 23, 1941. The Ingenbohl post office was closed on Sundays, but Postal Clerk Föhn came to the office this morning. When he entered the office, he saw a flap of paper hanging on the telegraph machine. It was a transmission from Hochdorf. The telegram must have arrived at night or early in the morning. A telegram is an instant message to be taken care of immediately, transcribed to paper, and delivered.

Postal Clerk Föhn recorded the telegram in the ledger book, assigned it Number 583, and transcribed the text onto the official telegram paper. The message was brief, meticulously pared down to a few words. Graciously, Mister Föhn decided to squeeze in the word 'Please.' No extra charge, even though the text would now exceed the number of words allowed for the 25-centime basic fee. Nobody would blame the Federal Post Office for showing some soft-hearted feelings, especially for such a happy message. He knew that Swiss people often display their feelings in a reserved manner.

Mister Föhn folded the telegram and slipped it into the envelope. He summoned a motorbike messenger to deliver the telegram to the nearby army camp.

My father was stationed at the army camp near Ingenbohl-Brunnen. The Swiss army was mobilized, and all able young men were called for active army service, ready to defend the country against a Nazi invasion. At home, my mother and grandmother took care of the farm.

The telegram was addressed to Trumpeter Gefreiter Buchmann. 'Gefreiter' was an honored military grade awarded by the army Captain to the best soldiers in a team. It was an old military rank that goes back to the sixteenth century. The Gefreiter would be a stand-in for the Corporal if a need arose. He was free from guard duties and enjoyed other privileges, such as slightly higher pay and extra time off. And not to mention the gold bar insignia on the soldier's uniform sleeve. My father was proud of the title, and my mother knew it. She ensured that the telegram displayed the proper military rank.

Telegram envelope

My father must have been waiting for some news from home. He grabbed twenty-five Centimes from his pocket and paid for the telegram. I imagine he quickly ripped open the envelope.

I am sure my father was both thrilled and relieved by the message.

"Please immediately come home because of a birth. Greetings, Wife and Misses Muff, Midwife."

My father rushed to his Corporal and showed him the telegram. The corporal then contacted the Lieutenant. My father was granted a leave of absence. He prepared for the trip home.

The village of Ingenbohl lies near Brunnen, where Lake Lucerne bends to the right toward Gotthard Mountain, nestled between glorious mountains. From here, my father, Gefreiter Buchmann, would be home in about three hours.

What were my father's thoughts as he traveled home by train and bus? What went through his mind? How is Mother? Is the baby healthy? How bad was the pain of childbirth? Is the baby a girl or a boy? Mother wanted a girl. The first child, Franz, born almost three years earlier, a boy, will grow up to help on the farm. Ideally, the next baby should be a girl and later help Mother in the house.

I was a healthy boy named Josef, and Seppi, a traditional name in the Buchmann family of Hochdorf.

A few days later, when Father returned to his military camp at Ingenbohl, the army Captain organized a cash collection for the newborn Seppi. After the fund was generously topped up by the Captain, the twenty francs were deposited in a new savings account with the Luzerner Kantonalbank.

The omens appeared propitious: born into a loving family, living in a free and peaceful country, and having five dollars' worth of money in the bank. Postscriptum: After half a century, when the bank discovered that I had moved to the United States, it insisted that I close my account. I still have the savings booklet as a priceless memento, but it is now punch-holed. Swiss banks no longer want Americans to hold small accounts - there are too many regulations. Sad!

On the 22nd of November 1941, the day of my birth, thousands of miles away across the ocean, the United States enjoyed Thanksgiving Day weekend, the first-ever federally sanctioned Thanksgiving Holiday. Perhaps they were paging through that day's Saturday Evening Post magazine. The magazine's cover page shows a picture of a beautiful young girl at the family dinner table saying grace and eyeing a finger-licking good roasted turkey. The cover's headline read 'Put up or Shut up'. What did it mean? In America, all talk was about the raging war in Europe. Politicians tried to calm and reassure the worried population that the country was not at war, well, not really, pretending the war against Hitler could be won without the USA engaging in combat. The magazine's foreign correspondent wrote an insightful editorial. He contended that the United States was already deeply involved in the war, given that it was an essential weapon supply line, generously helping Great Britain in its fight against the marauding Hitler machine. He argued that it was high time to stop pretending.

And, on that Thanksgiving holiday weekend, Saturday, 22nd of November 1941, the families in America may have listened to the five o'clock big band Glenn Miller Sunset Serenade on CBS radio, played live from the Pennsylvania Hotel, New York, unaware that just fifteen days later, the Pearl Harbor attack would officially draw the United States of America into World War II.

[Back to Beginning]

Early Childhood

I was born in November 1941, at the height of the Second World War. My father was serving in the army, and my Mother and Grandmother looked after the farm. Our house in Rain

Our home was located in Oberbürglen, a small hamlet situated below the village of Rain, near Lucerne, in the alpine foothills of central Switzerland. The "Rain" village name might conjure up an image of a cloudburst and downpour. But not so. The village of Rain was first mentioned in the thirteenth century as 'am Reine', meaning a place on a slope.

From our home, my birthplace, we saw the spire of the village church and heard the bells ring. On clear days, we could see the beautiful Alps, the Pilatus and Rigi in the foreground, and the mighty snow-covered Titlis set between. According to old mythology, mountains were fighting for their rightful place. The nicked tooth of Titlis mountain bears witness to a fierce battle fought 'zillions' of years ago...

The history of Bürglen dates back hundreds of years. In 1241, when his daughter Elisabeth took the veil, the noble Knight Heinrich von Heidegg endowed the Cloister of Oetenbach, Zurich, with a piece of his land at Bürglen, 'an acreage large enough to grow food for one family'.

The Second World War raged in Europe. Switzerland, a small country on the continent, was an island of peace. Switzerland had been a neutral country for several centuries, and the government had to walk a tightrope, taking every precaution to stay out of the war. Switzerland was fully mobilized, and my father served in the Swiss army. The country was on constant alert, fearing a military invasion by the Nazi army any day.

Many French and Polish soldiers got cornered when fighting the Nazi army in France. They fled to Switzerland. They surrendered their arms. They were interned until the end of the war, all as prescribed by international war conventions.

While my father served in the military, my mother and grandmother managed the farm. By good fortune, they received help from a hard-working farmhand and from my mother's cousins Hans and Jakob, who were too young to join the army. Rösi, a kind young lady from an orphan home, joined our family. Father helped during his short home leaves. Later during the war, my mother and grandmother received help from French and Polish war internees. The farm was leased from a well-off butcher store owner at rather costly terms. The young family struggled to make ends meet. As if the hardship was not enough, our farm was hit by the devastating foot-and-mouth disease. Sadly, our herd of cattle had to be slaughtered, and the farm was placed under quarantine for several days.

I have memories of when I was about three years old, echoes so faint that they may be impressions, creations of my mind, or imagery of hearsay. I could hear the humming sound of bomber airplanes flying over our house, and I remember my father talking about a bomber that crashed into a nearby lake.

I have a clear memory of an evening at war's end. I was three and a half years old. Hundreds of military internees marched down the road by our house, singing patriotic military songs. They were returning to their homeland. It is a happy flashback. When I now hear military marching music from old crackly recordings, it brings my mind back to my earliest childhood.

Monika, a young girl of our age, from Austria, stayed with us for a few months under the Swiss Red Cross Children's Aid program. Monika's family could no longer care for her after the devastating war in their homeland. I was too young to understand the tragedy that befell these children. I wonder what happened to Monika after she returned home to Austria. I still think of Monika and hope she has a happy life.

[Back to Beginning]

Postwar Years

I was nearly four years old when the war ended. My father was released from military service. There was relief and much hope. But a carefree life it was not, not for a long time. Europe was devastated, and the economy recovered at a slow pace. Compared to the other devastated European countries, Switzerland had it relatively good.

Austerity prevailed. Food was rationed. We grew vegetables, cereals, and fruits on our farm. The cows provided milk and butter, and our chickens laid eggs. City folks envied the apparent abundance of good, healthy food on the farms when they had to go to their local store, with ration coupons, like beggars, and buy from a limited stock. A meal at the restaurant required ration stamps equivalent to two loaves of bread. Friends who visited our house were always warmly received and well fed. And we always gave food to hungry people. The city dwellers wanted a farmer as a friend.

But the government watched. Food production was tightly monitored. Any slaughter of cows or pigs had to be declared to ensure fair allocation of meat among the population. Government inspectors appeared unannounced and reviewed the books. My father never got in trouble; he was a stickler regarding regulations. And mother always made sure that the books were correct and up to date.

Food rationing ended in June 1948. There was new hope and a good feeling. Some city folks put back their pounds and no longer recognized their friends on the farm. Forgotten were the consequences of clogged arteries. A gentleman's potbelly was again a sign of success and prosperity.

A few city friends stayed in contact with the farmers after the war. Herr Fritz Leber paid us regular visits, even after we moved and lived in Ludiswil. Fritz owned a fabric store in Lucerne. The store thrived, but after the war, the business endured hardship. His shop was stocked with overpriced goods. When the war suddenly and unexpectedly ended, prices dropped precipitously. Fritz Leber suffered extensive losses, but he never talked about his business problems. We boys were always pleased when Herr Leber came to visit us. If we worked in the fields and saw Herr Leber arrive, we dropped our working tools and ran home. With his assured poise and demeanor, he reminded us of Winston Churchill, as we had seen in newspaper pictures. He greeted us with a self-assured and cheerful self. We invited him to sit down in our kitchen for a snack. While eating our thinly sliced air-cured smoked pork speck with crusty farmer's bread and drinking our homemade cider, he told us compelling stories of his apprenticeship in faraway London, where he learned the merchants' trade. Adventures in commerce! He suggested that I borrow and read a novel called 'Debit and Credit', the story of a young son of a German working family, Anton Wohlfart, who learned the trade of commerce from the ground up. Through learning, experience, honest dealings, hard work, and perseverance, Anton Wohlfart achieved his Life's Dream, but he dismissed the fake lifestyle of the rich and greedy and settled on an honest middle-class life.

[Back to Beginning]

Banana Split

The war had ended; I was nearly four years old. Imported exotic fruits were rare and expensive. We received a juicy orange when sick in bed with a fever, we found a basket of tangerines under the Christmas tree, and my mother bought lemons for cookie baking. A small box of sticky dates was among the favored birthday presents. We saw advertisements of Pineapples in magazines; they were sculptured artwork to our eyes. Golden bananas were things of dreams, a taste that we could only wonder about.

Saint Martin's Day in November has been a local feast day in Hochdorf since ancient times. During that week, the town hosted the traditional annual market fair. My father would never miss the fair. Hochdorf was my father's hometown, the city of his youth, where he grew up with his siblings and many friends. Hochdorf had been the home of our Buchmann ancestors for the past 400 years.

Hochdorf was my family's big town; we knew every street and every alley. On the left side of the street, walking toward the town church, were the clockmaker Muff, who fixed our clocks and watches; Photoshop Rieder, who developed and printed our Kodak shots; and the Patissier Wey, who crafted the best chocolate treats. On the other side of the street, in grand poise, stood the beautiful City Hall. Locked up in its vaults and archives are all the historical documents of Hochdorf. In a bound leather book, masterfully handwritten in gracious letters on vellum paper, I imagine, is inscribed the name of my earliest known forefather, Martin Buchmann, who, in September 1645, married Adelheid Dormann. The books contain records of births, weddings, and deaths of my Hochdorf ancestors after Martin and Adelheid. The logs also show my name and the names of my children and grandchildren, although the latest records are in digital format, not on vellum paper. I urge all my descendants to do everything possible to retain the valuable Swiss citizenship and remain burghers of Hochdorf.

On the day of the fair, the main street of Hochdorf, from the brewery leading up to the church, was lined with stands and displays. Local and traveling merchants sold a wide range of goods, food, clothing, and tools. There was a good feeling, with smiles and happy faces everywhere. And wonderful whiffs of burned chestnuts and freshly baked hazelnut cakes. My father had already visited the cattle and horse market, which was well underway in a nearby yard. I can easily imagine my father walking up and down the main street, stopping at various stands and admiring the variety of goods. Not for years, before the war, had he seen so many interesting new things.

One of the stands was chock-a-block full of fruits. On a pole hung a bunch of bananas. Father had not seen bananas for years. The war ended a year earlier, and few exotic fruits were available during wartime austerity. These wonderful yellow fruits must have arrived on the first banana boat from the tropical south. "Are these bananas ready to eat?" my father asked the merchant. "Yes, they are perfectly ripe to eat today," he replied. And without further ado, Father grabbed his cash pouch and said, "I will buy one."

On that November evening, my father returned home from the fair with a special birthday present for me. Vati had an ear-to-ear smile and couldn't hide the thrill of the moment. The anticipation of seeing my reaction to the surprise was too much to bear. We all gathered in the kitchen. Then, Vati announced, "Seppli, I got something special for your birthday. Seppli, I brought you a banana." "A banana?" I screamed and jumped for joy. I had seen pictures of bananas and wondered what they would taste like. We always had apples, pears, cherries, and plums at home. But not bananas. Vati bought the banana earlier that day and stored it safely in his warm side pocket.

Slowly and with an air of suspense, like a magician showman, Father pulled the banana from his pocket. Horror, oh no, the banana had turned all brown. I cried in despair, "I don't want that banana. I am not eating that banana," and ran out of the kitchen crying. It went all quiet in the kitchen. Vati felt bad and disappointed.

I returned to the kitchen, wiping the tears off my eyes and cheeks, sniffing between words, saying that I did not want that rotten banana. Since no one moved, Rösi, the young lady who stayed with us, took the initiative and carefully peeled open the banana. Surprise, the inside of the banana was a beautiful light yellow. I kept sobbing, "I will not -- sniff, sniff -- not eat any of it."

After a while, Rösi cut the banana into three parts: one for my older brother Franzi, one for my younger brother Isidor, and the thicker middle part for me. Sad Seppli

Franzi and Isidor ate their share. Yum, yum. I stomped my foot and stubbornly refused to eat my piece. So, after a while, Rösi took my share of the banana and divided it into three smaller parts. She handed Franzi one slice, Isidor another, and Rösi took one herself.

[Back to Beginning]

The Buchmann Family

My grandfather, Josef Buchmann (1873-1948), and my grandmother, Josefa Elise, resided in Hochdorf, located in the Valley of the Lakes, central Switzerland. Hochdorf is a small town, surrounded by farmland, and flanked by the Erlosen and Lindenberg mountains.

Hochdorf has been the ancestral home of my forefathers for at least four centuries. My family ancestry can be traced back to Martin Buchmann of Hochdorf, born in the early 1600s. Martin and Adelheid Dormann married in 1645, and a direct line of descendants has lived in Hochdorf ever since. My father was born in Hochdorf, so was I and my brothers, though in a neighboring village. We are all registered Burghers of Hochdorf.

Hochdorf Church

My father's great-great-great-grandfather, Josef Buchmann, born in 1723, was the Chief District Administrator ('Amtsweibel'). In 1758, Josef was among those honored to lay the first stone of the new Saint-Martin church. The beautiful church still dominates and adorns our small ancestral town of Hochdorf.

As young children, we visited our grandparents' home in Hochdorf several times a year. They resided on the third floor of the family farmhouse. Dear grandmother, with her calm and cheerful demeanor, was so happy to see us and served us home-baked cookies. And we gobbled them up as if there was no tomorrow. Grandfather Josef, quiet and never smiling, sat on the warm tiled stove, smoking his pipe, mumbling: "Don't these children have enough to eat at home?" Probably, he just tried to be funny.

My father, Franz Xaver, was the youngest of the children. He was born in 1911. He had two brothers and two sisters: Josef (1903), Elise 1905), Isidor (1906), and Marie (1908).

Uncle Josef, the oldest brother of my father, was my Godfather, so I called him Götti. It had been a centuries-old New Year tradition for a godfather to give his godson a newly minted five-frank silver coin, called 'Fünfliber'. When I was a toddler or preschooler, each first day of the year, Götti came to see us and give me a Fünfliber. The piece was so beautiful, so precious, and I immediately slipped it into my locked piggy bank. Safely in the piggy bank, it would keep its lustrous shine. Little did I know that Mother would later deposit the coins in my bank savings account, and I would never see my silver coin again. And what would the bank do with my beautiful new silver coin? It would lend it to other people. At that age, I could not understand why people would ever want to borrow money. Only a silver coin earned and saved could be spent, or so I thought.

According to local law and tradition, the oldest son would inherit the family house and farm. Uncle Josef, as the firstborn, was the 'crown prince', and he would later take over the farm. The younger male siblings were free to pursue their own goals and dreams, or they could stay at home and work as farmhands for their brother. Some young men emigrated. In earlier centuries, sadly, some young sons were recruited by corrupt middlemen into mercenary service, with promises of war bounties and adventure, fighting in foreign lands. Some returned home with all limbs, others did not. Stephan Buchmann of Hochdorf served as a mercenary in Dalmatia from 1685 to 1698. Some returned home with all limbs, others, not. A Stephan Buchmann of Hochdorf served 1685-1698 as a mercenary in Dalmatia.

Uncle Josef had several children. As children, we were close to Rosemarie, the oldest daughter. As we grew older, we lost contact with our cousins. Uncle Josef's farm was situated near the town center of Hochdorf. The entire area of the farm has since been developed and is covered with dozens of apartment and commercial buildings. Thank-God - the refurbished, beautiful old Buchmann family house is historically protected, and it proudly stands amidst the many new buildings.

My father's second brother, Isidor, worked as a farmhand for his older brother, Uncle Josef. The once-a-week afternoon at his favorite tavern in Lucerne was a well-deserved treat for Uncle Isidor. Traveling back from such an outing, Isidor mistakenly stepped off the train before it came to a halt, and he was seriously injured. Uncle Isidor was the kindest man. He was so happy when we visited him in Hochdorf. He never fully recovered from the train accident, and he died far too young. I still see him, busy splitting wood outside the woodshed, waving to us with that unmistakable 'Uncle Isidor smile'.

Marie, my dad's older sister, was married to Adolf, a farmer in Römerswil. Aunt Marie died at a young age; they had no children. Our family moved to his farm in my preschool years. The younger sister, Elise, married Bert Winiger of Abtwil. Aunt Elise wrote the most beautiful poetry and rhymes for many family occasions. Aunt Elise is the mother of my dear cousin Elisabeth.

I love to nose around my genealogy papers and find gripping stories. I discovered a most heartwarming one. My great-great-great-great-grandfather Joseph Buchmann of Hochdorf, born in 1723, had eight children, six boys and two girls. The two girls were Elisabeth (1765) and Regina (1768). On Saturday, January 28, 1797, Regina married Jakob Mattmann of Gibelflüh. Gibelflüh is a hamlet near Hochdorf. On Monday, two days later, Regina's sister Elisabeth married Joseph Mattman, also of Gibelflüh. The Mattmanns were deep-rooted Gibelflüh residents. I assume Jakob and Joseph were brothers. What a story: two brothers marrying two sisters two days apart!

Our known family tree starts with Martin Buchmann, born in the early 1600s. All my ancestors, back to Martin, lived in Hochdorf. Martin may not have been the first Buchmann ancestor living in my ancestral town. Ancient documents reveal that many Buchmanns lived near Hochdorf, long before Martin, mainly West of Hochdorf, on or near the Erlosen mountain. A soldier called Peter Buchmann died in the historic Battle of Sempach (1386); his name is written on the wall of the memorial battle chapel. In 1536, Heini Buchmann was one of five farmers in Hildisrieden, the village next to Römerswil. Church archives of Römerswil list 29 baptisms of children born to five Buchmann families between 1584 and 1628, 11 girls and 18 boys. So many. Where did they all go? Is Martin, or Martin's father, one of them? There is a good possibility that Martin or a forefather of Martin may have come from the Erlosen mountain and settled in Hochdorf.

Hans Buchmann of Kriesbühl, on the Erlosen mountain, mysteriously disappeared in 1572, only to be found weeks later in Milan, Italy. The story is historically documented by the well-known Lucerne chronicler Renward Cysat (1515-1614). The writing suggests an alien abduction. Hmm... The story is especially dear to me because Kriesbühl, the home of the abducted Hans Buchmann, is just four hundred yards from my childhood family farm in Ludiswil. The fascinating story is in a chapter below, or go to Alien Abduction of Hans Buchmann 1572 .

My direct Ancestors

Martin Buchmann, Hochdorf Born: Died: Married: 1645 Ludwig Bichmann, Hochdorf 1652 - 1737 9 children Quirin Buchmann, Hochdorf 1692 - 1747 7 children Joseph Buchmann, Hochdorf 1723 - 1807 8 children Johann Georg Buchmann, Hochdorf 1757 - 1840 13 children Johann Georg Anton Buchmann, Hochdorf 1800 - 1879 8 children Martin Buchmann, Hochdorf 1830 - 1875 10 children Josef Buchmann, Hochdorf 1872 - 1948 5 children Franz Xaver Buchmann, Hochdorf 1911 - 1985 4 children

Interested in my family tree? Go to Buchmann Family Tree.

For Buchmann Family Name History, see section further down, or click Buchmann History

Johann Georg Buchmann (1757-1840)

Grandparents and young family 1917

Joseph Buchmann (1872) and Family

Coat of Arms

The coat-of-arms of the Swiss Buchmanns depicts a Beech tree. In German, a beech is called 'Buche', from which the Buchmann name is derived.

[Back to Beginning]

Ludiswil

Adolf, the husband of my aunt Marie, my father's sister, owned a farm in Römerswil. Römerswil is two miles north of where we lived in Rain, the next village up the Erlosen Mountain. By bad fortune, their farmhouse burned to the ground. The house was rebuilt. A few years later, Aunt Marie became ill, and she died in her young years. Uncle Adolf could not manage the farm alone. So, in 1948, he offered the farm to my father. Father would lease it for a few years on the promise that he could later buy it at a favorable price. It sounded like a proposition sent from heaven. My parents accepted the offer, and soon we moved to Römerswil.

It was spring 1949, and it was moving day. My brothers and I traveled to our new home in Römerswil on a horse-drawn wagon, sitting on top of firewood and turned-over rabbit cages. My baby brother Adolf was just four months old. Our neighbor owned a car and offered to drive Muetti and the baby to Römerswil in deservedly more comfort and style. Our slow-moving wagon, with wobbly steel-rimmed wheels, was halfway up the Buchen hill when Muetti's car caught up with us. Muetti was aware of the royal treatment and seized the moment, playing the role of the queen. Muetti sat at the back of the black motorcar, holding baby Adolf in her arms. She smiled and gave us the queenly hand raise and wave. We waved back and cheered. Her car passed our wagon and sped away towards our new kingly domain.

Our house in Ludiswil

Römerswil is located near the top of the Erlosen Mountain in central Switzerland. Before you might conjure up a Swiss alpine scene, I should explain. The Erlosen is not a real mountain; it is a range of hills 810 meters high, formed eons ago by glaciation during the ice ages. Our new home was in the small hamlet of Ludiswil, half an hour's walk from the village of Römerswil. The panoramic view on a clear day is out of this world; an unobstructed view of the spectacular mountain panorama, from the iconic Pilatus to the Rigi, the Queen of Mountains, with the snow-covered Titlis sitting in between.

Our farm was relatively small, with twenty hectares of fields for growing cereals and vegetables, and grazing meadows dotted with fruit trees - apple, pear, plum, and cherry trees. The barn was of good size, with a cowshed for a dozen cows, a stable for the horse, and a hayloft for storing all the fodder. We also had a pigsty for our pigs and a hen house for two dozen chickens. And for our lumber needs, we owned two small plots of forested land.

Along the path leading to our new home stood a picturesque beehouse with two dozen beehives, each painted in a different color. The color scheme helped the busy bees quickly find their hive. Our Uncle Adolf took great care of the beehouse. Adolf was a knowledgeable and dedicated beekeeper. He spent countless hours working in the beehouse. The beehouse was near our house, and we got stung by the bees almost daily. At Muetti's urging and insistence, Adolf removed the beehouse after a few years.

The family's move to Römerswil was a courageous decision. Swiss farmers are firmly settled on their land; they hardly ever move. The family has owned its farm for centuries, and it has been passed from one generation to the next. Moving to a new community with established and guarded dwellers takes a lot of guts. Newcomers are often shunned. We were lucky; our family was warmly received and accepted by the Römerswil locals.

The friendly and neighborly atmosphere cooled during the political elections. You see, my father was a member of the Liberal Party. He was a devout and proud Liberal. Politics in Römerswil was serious. For generations, the Buchmanns have been in the liberal camp. In Switzerland, when I was young, by convention, political affiliations passed from father to sons. Women in those days were not allowed to vote. My father was proud of his political heritage and often told us an adage of a forefather: "Be a Liberal, so you know how to Behave." Very deep, I say. A framed copy of the antique handwritten note was proudly displayed in the family's living room.

Most men in the village were dedicated Conservatives. In fact, for centuries, Lucerne was a Conservative stronghold, a protectorate by semi-aristocratic Lucerne burghers. We were the only local family that received the daily Liberal newspaper 'Luzerner Tagblatt'; everyone else read the Conservative newspaper 'Vaterland'. With the liberal newspaper delivered daily in plain sight, our Liberal leaning could hardly be hidden. Why would we want to hide it? We were proud Liberals.

At times of elections, political discussions and arguments heated up. Father and the family almost became political outcasts. We felt we were living on a small island of political righteousness. Once, a mad village Conservative secretly intruded on our property and sprayed one of our pigs with black paint. You know, black was the color of the Liberals, and red was the color of the Conservatives. Other than the pig painting by the Reds, there was never any roguery. All bad feelings faded soon after the elections, and all neighbors lived together in friendly, colorblind harmony.

I started school soon after we moved to Römerswil. The schoolhouse was in the village of Römerswil, a thirty-minute walk if we took some shortcuts through the fields. Later, we bicycled to school. We always came home for lunch.

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Good Neighbors

We had four close neighbors and kept a friendly relationship with them. The nearest neighbor was down a path within shouting distance. We shared farming tools with them and helped each other out in an emergency. Another close neighbor ran a carpentry business. Two friendly families with children of our age lived further up in the hamlet of Williswil.

To the south of us, across a creek, was the home of our fifth neighbor. We hardly knew them. They were more remote, both physically and relationally. Although their home was just across the creek, we would have to walk a good distance unless we cut through the fields and crossed the dense 'Eiholderenbach' creek, a physical divide. I don't recall ever visiting them. The family had no children of our age, and we had virtually no contact with them. They may have been very kind people, I am sure they were, but we did not know them. If we passed them in the village on Sundays after the holy mass, we would respectfully nod and say hello, "Grüetzi," and they would "grüetzi" back. There was no animosity, but neither was there a heartfelt friendship.

The neighbor's son got married. My parents figured this was a unique opportunity for a 'rapprochement' between the two families. The Buchmann family would take the initiative. Could we establish a good rapport with the young couple, or at least thaw the chilly relationship? My mother hastily fashioned a wide banner with 'Willkommen Daheim' written in large letters, 'Welcome Home'. The banner would welcome the young couple to their new marital home. Muetti summoned Isidor and me and told us to bring the banner flag to the neighbor's house. "Go quickly before the newlywed couple arrives home from the wedding celebration," Muetti said.

Isidor and I rolled up the banner and made our way on the shortcut to the neighbor's home, marching across the field, crossing the creek and its slow-flowing stream, stepping on rocks and moss patches, breaking through thick bushes. For the first time, we could now see the neighbors' farmhouse. It was unfamiliar and foreign territory. We felt a bit apprehensive. A housekeeper should be home, and she would hang up the banner, a stunning surprise for the newlywed couple.

As we got near the neighbor's barn, a bus bounced down the gravel road, leaving a cloud of dust behind. The people on the bus were laughing and singing. They waved to us and threw some candies. It was the wedding party. The beautifully dressed wedding couple sat at the back of the bus, with big smiles. What a revelation. Our neighbors were real humans who could feel joy and happiness like us; they were not solitary, silent people who never smiled or talked.

But we were too late with the banner. We did not want to knock on the door with so many people inside. We panicked, turned around, and walked home. At home, we told Muetti that we could not deliver the Welcome-Home banner. We were late and too shy to knock on their door. And besides, we were barefoot and would look out of place in such a large and elegant gathering.

My parents were angry at our failed mission, the missed diplomatic overture. We were sent to bed without supper.

The parents kept the banner for another occasion. When I returned home from Canada after three years abroad, my Mom and Dad hung the banner above the family room door. 'Welcome Home'.

[Back to Beginning]

History of Ludiswil

Ludiswil, our hamlet, lies on the slope of the Erlosen mountain, near the top, rising on the shady side of the Seetal Valley. In ancient times, the Erlosen mountain was a vast forest where no man dwelt, where the valley people could hunt wild boar, cut wood, and pick berries and mushrooms - free for all. The virgin Erlosen evokes an image of a deep, cool forest with gleaming green moss, white-dotted red mushrooms, foraging boars, and roaming wolves - the enchanted forest - the place of the 'Hänsel and Gretel' fairy tale.

In the Middle Ages, from about 1300, our home hamlet, Ludiswil, was a 'Dinghof'. The Dinghof was a farm estate with a 'manor-house', a local focal point, the place of the lower judicial court and public assembly. A 'ding' was a legal matter, a legal thing that was the subject of discussion at the Dinghof's assembly meetings. The resident master of the Dinghof represented an absent overlord; he could judge over matters of minor infractions and violations of the established 'Zwing und Bann' set of rules. The rule of law was easy for everyone to understand and live by. People were 'forced' to do certain things ('zwingen') and 'banned' from certain acts. Pay your tithe! Do not steal the neighbor's horse; do not insult the master! A higher court judged Blood Crimes.

The Erlosen mountain also has a mystical background. According to ancient sagas, the Erlosen was the Blocksberg of local witch stories. On the Sabbath each week, at 'Witch Time', the black-robed witches flew in from all sides on broomsticks and gathered on a cleared Erlosen forest patch. Many witch trial stories of the late Middle Ages refer to the Erlosen and its association with witches. The Erlosen got its name from the old German words 'Eren Losen', derived from an old German word 'Aran', meaning 'to plow'. 'Losen' stands for 'less'. So, Erlosen is a mountain covered by forest, not cultivated; it was 'unplowed'.

[Back to Beginning]

School

On my first day at school in May 1949, my grandmother accompanied me to school in Römerswil.

The impressive schoolhouse portal hints at ancient classical architecture. In the arch's stone relief carving, an angel is holding an open book. We entered a House of Learning.

We walked upstairs to my classroom. I was surprised by the vastness of the room, the many desks, and the noisy crowd. The classroom accommodated three grades and was large enough for forty children. Grandmother greeted the teacher, Miss Räber, and gave her my name. With her cheerful smile, the teacher made me feel welcome.

All the boys and girls in my new class were huddled together, giggling and chatting. They seemed to know each other. They were already friends because they all attended Kindergarten in the village for the past two years. I did not know any of the kids who would become my schoolmates. I missed attending Kindergarten because we had moved to Römerswil just half a year earlier, and the village was too far from home.

Miss Räber led me to my desk. She told the noisy crowd, "Boys and girls, look, this is Seppi. Seppi will be starting school with us today. Say a nice 'Salü Seppi' and make Seppi feel welcome." All the children looked at me with big eyes and kind smiles, shouting "Salü Seppi," then quickly returned to their happy chatting and giggling. When I turned around, Grandmother had left the room. Miss Räber was the kindest teacher. She retired at the end of the school year. In second grade, my brother Isidor started school as a first-grader in the same classroom.

The preparation for a new grade was an exciting time. The school books were passed down from the older brothers. We covered the books with colorful protective wrapping paper; they looked new, as if we had just picked them up at the bookstore. We labeled the notebooks, cleaned the wooden pencil box, and sharpened the pencils and the coloring crayons. We rubbed and buffed the ink nibs. All had to fit into our school backpacks. We had grown, and the satchel's shoulder straps needed a one-notch adjustment. We were excited and ready to go back to school.

Our schoolhouse was built in 1927. It is an imposing but graceful building; it will surely stand for another century. The schoolhouse had three classrooms. One room was for primary grades 1 to 3, another room for primary grades 4 to 6, and a third room for the two senior secondary school grades.

Three grades sharing one classroom gave us an enriching experience. The teachers split their time between the grades. As the teacher taught one class, the other classes were busy with assignments. While working on assignments, we heard advanced lessons being taught to the higher-level class and old lessons being taught to the lower-grade class. Some subjects were joint classes, such as drawing and singing. The village priest taught Religion. It was an important subject. Passing the Religion exam was imperative for advancing to the next grade, sine qua non. The priests, however, were good-natured; they never let a student fail a test.

Mid-morning and mid-afternoon, we enjoyed a fifteen-minute recess. When the bell rang, we ran outside to the playground, the boys to the left and the girls to the right. The boys kicked the ball, climbed up a steel pole, and just played around while the teachers walked up and down the road next to the playgrounds, deep in conversation, their hands locked behind their backs, casting an occasional authoritative look at the boys and girls. Boys were not allowed to go near the girls' playground, and the girls did not dare to enter the boys' territory. Once, my friend Heiri kicked the ball into the girls' playground. The school's powerful head, the parish priest, sternly told us that such behavior was forbidden. Heiri got punished.

In the basement of the schoolhouse, next to the gym entrance, was the door to the fearsome 'Karzer', the school dungeon. I remember the cell as a dark cubicle, five feet wide, with a forged iron lock and a gridded vent for air. The floor was covered with rocks. The dungeon was mainly for show; it was a message to the schoolchildren: You behave or else! However, I recall one instance when my close friend Heiri was locked in the dungeon for several hours. I don't know what wrongful act Heiri committed for such a harsh punishment; it must have been a grave offense. I suspect that the wrongdoing was more serious than throwing the football into the girls' playground again after the warning from our Pfarrer. Light corporal punishments were permitted in those days. The teacher would hit the pupil's palm with a flexible rod. The rod was on display for all to see, always leaning against the teacher's desk.

I was an avid book reader. For a time, my favorite books were the series of novels called 'Winnetou' by Karl May. I couldn't get enough of these books; they told the most gripping Apache stories, the feats and actions of Old Shatterhand and Chief Winnetou. Once I started reading, I could not stop.

Our basic primary education was six years. At the end of the sixth year, we took a progress exam. This crucial exam caused the boys and girls a lot of anxiety, even months before the tests. If we passed, and virtually everyone did, we could move on to the senior secondary school level. A pupil who failed the test would be sidetracked to Grade Seven, at the end of which the formal schooling would be completed. Römerswil offered only two years of secondary school. For the optional third year of secondary school, we had to sign up at a school in a larger neighboring village or town.

We all got a complete education. We learned to read and write, mastered basic math, and were encouraged to be curious and to think for ourselves. Many of the liberal arts we could later learn on our own. All our teachers were highly qualified and dedicated. The teachers worked hard. They have my sincerest gratitude.

School photo. I am sitting front row, second, next to Isidor, door side

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The Ten Commandments

The Church exerted considerable influence over our young lives. Living in its orbit made us follow its rigid teachings and traditions. Regular catechism classes, church attendance, and monthly confessions were routine. But no complaints; it was our everyday life in mid-century conservative Switzerland. Being on the Church's sheltered track, we felt privileged, safe, and protected from the bad of the world. We felt pity for those who did not have our faith, its blessings, and spiritual well-being. The village priest was the head of the school board and was highly respected. The school curriculum listed Religion at the top, and no pupil would advance to the next grade without good marks in that subject. The priests were good-hearted, and no child ever failed the Religion test. We learned all the Bible stories, from Noah's Flood to Moses, to the beginning of time, Adam and Eve. And we could recite the Ten Commandments by heart, forward and backwards.

From a young age, the moral compass kept us on good ethical motives. I think we were good boys. We were honest, obedient, and well-mannered. But we were not perfect. Who is? We were living, doing wrong from time to time. Like all boys, we fought with our brothers, uttered cuss words, disobeyed, and sometimes told little lies. We were reminded that these were sins and that we must ask God for forgiveness. Sins here, sins there, sins were everywhere; the thought of sin was always there.

A world of sins, hitherto unknown, began to creep up at the age of early teens. They were sins of a higher order. The old petty sins cleared from our conscience like chalk marks sponged off the school blackboard. But not so these emerging new sins.

Our mind was now plagued with strong guilt feelings, nagging with no end. It was a different sin, a sin that is not willfully committed but one that intrudes unwanted. And the plague grew stronger through the teenage years. We learned that impure thoughts and whims were sins of such high order.

We were always ready and eager to hear an adult joke, laugh out loud, and think it through. How natural it was to page through the Sunday magazine and contemplate Sandro Botticelli's masterpiece, the painting of the Birth of Venus, the Goddess of Love sensuously stepping out of the shell. Moments of imagination and fantasies. Then, shock! We realized we bumbled badly; we let a carnal thought enter and committed a deadly sin, a transgression of the highest order. We broke the Sixth Commandment, the direst of all. The sudden awareness hit hard. If we died, we would be doomed, tossed to hell, and suffer eternal damnation. We would be excused for the briefest reverie if immediately quashed or an accidental peep if instantly blotted out.

We did not always know the threshold of a deadly sin, that invisible line on the slippery slope that led to the cliff, the abyss, down to hell. A mortal sin would mar our hearts and souls with soot and tar and would damn us. We anguished over it endlessly. Did we live with mortal sin? The question kept nagging. We couldn't ask our parents or the priest. How would we ask? How could we put such an awkward question into words?

How harmful is such fire-and-brimstone scare-mongering? How cruel is it to let a child's mind harbor feelings of guilt day after day? How evil is it to be held dangling over the fire of hell? How bad can it be to embrace imagination and pursue the threads of an inquiring mind? God has given Man a brain, a brain to think, a brain to discover and explore. There is more to the intellect than memorizing pages and pages of the Catechism and knowing all the stories in the Bible. We learned of Jesus walking on water, turning water into wine, raising Lazarus from the dead, and kicking the money changers out of the temple.

Thank God for the confession! Our next generations will look at it with puzzlement and implausibility. But in its weirdness, confession worked wonders; it cleansed our souls of nagging sins and swept away the maze of unrelenting anxiety.

From the early teenage years, by tradition, habit, and obligation, we confessed our sins every month. The confession would cleanse our souls of all our sins, and we could go to Holy Communion with a spotless heart. Some older folks went to confession less often or never. Confession hours were held on Saturday late afternoon.

The sinners lined up in the pews next to the confessional, the men and boys on the right side of the nave, the women and girls on the left side. We waited for our turn and prepared for the confession. It was deadly quiet. The church nave had incredible acoustic qualities; it was a virtual echo chamber. We could hear the squeaks when we shifted our aching knees on the wooden kneelers as we moved one by one closer to the confessional.

My thoughts drifted, but I had to concentrate. I prepared for the confession. I picked up the prayer book and paged to the 'Confessional Mirror', a list of all the sins. It was helpful and ensured that no sins would be overlooked. Roaming through the Confessional Mirror was a good exercise. It calibrated our moral senses and reassured us that we measured up quite well.

Someone said that Moses dropped and broke the third tablet when he walked down from Mount Sinai. If there were a third tablet, I could think of a few sins to etch into the stone, sins relevant to our times, and sins that would bring more humanity to our lives. Why do God's Commandments ignore wrongs like contempt, oppression, discrimination, bribery, shaming, slavery, racism, pollution, wastefulness, animal cruelty, and the squandering of the world's resources? And I could go on; there are so many; they would not fit on a third tablet, even if chiseled minuscule. Why do most commandments start with 'You shall not'? Why so few 'You shall Do'? We know that we must worship the Lord our God, and Him only shall we serve, and we remember to keep holy the Sabbath day. But why not make it our duty to help our fellow humans, be charitable, honor nature, and protect our planet Earth?

Why can the sins not be forgiven without a confession? Why not quietly approach God directly, show remorse, make a pledge, and receive His forgiveness? Why the constant snooping over our shoulders? We knew of the Church's timeless grace and mercy for Mankind, but could the forced confession be a clever ploy to keep the flock on a tight leash and have us walk the straight and narrow?

To render the confession valid, as we learned at Sunday school, we had to feel genuine remorse for our sins, a complex state of mind that required intense concentration and self-conviction, almost self-hypnosis. We also had to pledge never to commit these sins again. Being truly contrite for something we felt was not a sin is nearly impossible. Looking at the suffering of Jesus on the crucifix helped to create a deep sense of repentance. The loving and kindhearted Madonna gave comfort that our sins would be forgiven. The flock of happy, chubby cherubim painted on the church wall reassured us that all would be good and wonderful. After a short, intense concentration and focused meditation, my consciousness entered a fleeting moment of genuine remorse.

Then came my turn. I was next to go. The green light over the confessional door lit up. Stiff and nervous, and careful not to stumble over my feet, I entered the confessional and got down on my knees.

Through the small grated window in the faintest light, I could see the outline of the confessor's face. Thank God, he was not our village priest, our Pfarrer. We wanted to be anonymous and would rather confess to a visiting priest or a monk, rather than the strict Pfarrer, whom we would see the next day at school during the religion classes. I cleared my throat. Following the script, I made the sign of the cross, and in a whispered and monotone voice, I faithfully revealed all my sins: "It has been four weeks since my last confession, and I have sinned," I confessed all sins in the correct order, with the number of counts, talking fast, without a break, to thwart questions. It must have been boring for the confessor to hear the litany of my sins. At least once, I noticed a long-drawn yawn, but he appeared attentive. "And how long, my son, did you say, has it been since your last confession?" he asked. " Four weeks," I confirmed. At the end of the recital, I begged for divine mercy. The priest lowered his head and laid his open hand on his forehead. He was the judge and jury. He collected his thoughts and reflected on a meaningful and fair penitence. Ten Our Father and ten Hail Mary prayers, he decided.

Then,

Et ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.

Cleansed of the sins and relieved, I left the confessional without making eye contact. I left the door open for the next person, knelt in one of the empty pews, and said the ten Our Father and Hail Mary prayers.

I grabbed my bike and peddled my way home. We always felt happy and relieved after the confessions. With a cleansed and purified soul and heart, all that black tar removed, the good feeling cannot be expressed in words. We were spiritually uplifted, unshackled of all tensions and guilt, levitating between Heaven and Earth in a realm of bliss. We knew how susceptible we were to falling into a trap and committing a sin again. Anytime.

[Back to Beginning]

Altar Boys

My brothers and I were altar boys at the village church. We proudly served and valued our duty. I am not sure why we all chose to be altar boys. It was not piety or the five francs in coins we received on New Year's Day, and it was not the privilege to climb up the bell tower once a year on Easter Day. We knew that serving as altar boys was a noble thing to do. And we knew all altar boys would be guaranteed a place in heaven.

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Grandmother Gotte

My Grandmother Barbara, my Mom's Mom, was the kindest and most loving person. We called her "Gotte". Gotte had always lived with us. Together with Mom and Dad, she was one of the pillars of our young family.

Grandmother Gotte was born in 1881. Her maiden name was Babette Lang. Grandmother married Nicklaus Häfliger, and they had one child, my mother Barbara Elisabeth. Gotte and Sister Marcellina

My mother was 12 years old when her father died from a head injury in a farm accident. The photo shows my mother wearing a mourning dress on her First Communion Day, soon after her father's death. Sadly, I know almost nothing about my grandfather Nicklaus. Grandmother came from a large family of nine children; she had six sisters and two brothers. I remember only a few of her many siblings. Coming from such a large family, my mother had many relatives.

After Grandfather Nicklaus's death, Grandmother Gotte brought up my mother alone. Life must have been difficult. Gotte was trained as a home nurse and worked exhausting long hours to make ends meet. She was the best cook and an excellent seamstress. She had a keen sense of humor and brought joy wherever she worked. The world loved Gotte.

When my mother finished grade school, Grandmother was able to send her to a girls' school for a year at a convent in Brussels, Belgium, so that she could learn French. Gotte was progressive and open-minded in her thinking. Later, she even asked my mother if she wanted to spend a year in England to learn English, but my mother preferred to stay home. GrandmotherGotte then enrolled my mother in a housekeeping school in Baldegg.

Soon after my mother and father got engaged, a one-time opportunity knocked, a chance to lease a nearby farm. My father had to decide quickly, or let the opportunity pass by. Father was 27 years old and hoped one day to manage his own farm. He did not want to work for his father or his older brother for the rest of his life. He even considered emigrating to South America. After carefully considering all angles and many discussions, Father signed the lease contract. My mother and Grandmother moved to the farmhouse in Oberbürglen, near the village of Rain, and together managed the farm until the day of the wedding.

I have the fondest memories of Grandmother Gotte. Most summers, she took us on a trip to a place of pilgrimage. A few were to Sachseln, the place of Saint Nicklaus von Flüe, the revered patron Saint of Switzerland. Once, we stayed at a hotel and made the outing into a two-day trip. The trips were by bus and train. I vividly remember the steam locomotive pulling us along Lake Lucerne and through the awesome Lopper tunnel. I shall never forget these great trips.

On hot summer evenings, we were often caught in the path of powerful thunderstorms. We feared hailstorms most because they ravaged our cereal crops and fruit trees. Threatening clouds gathered, the wind whipped across the fields, and lightning bolts lit up the sky; then, eardrum-shattering thunder cracks. During a storm, Grandmother Gotte assembled us children in the entrance hall.

We huddled together, and Grandmother lit a candle. Slowly, solemnly, reading from an old sheet of paper, tattered and crinkled on the edges, she recited a centuries-old prayer. The prayer implored Almighty God to prevail and triumph over Satan and all malevolent spirits that roamed the world, and to free and protect us poor sinners from all evil forces. The prayer was so masterfully and powerfully delivered that the mere recitation of the poetic verses sent shudders down our spine and frightened us more than the passing thunderstorm.

Our grandmother worked hard all day. She tailored all our clothes and knitted our sweaters, scarves, woolen hats, and socks. Much of her spare time was spent knitting. She was masterfully skilled at it. All leftover cloth and yarn were stored in a drawer and used for repairs.

Every afternoon, she would rest from heavy work and sit down to a glass of Malaga wine with some crusty bread and Italian salami.

In my early years, a new style of knickerbocker pants became fashionable, inspired and popularized by pictures of American and English upper-class gentlemen playing golf in tweed caps and argyle socks. Knickerbockers are baggy men's pants, gathered and banded below the knees. Grandmother thought the boys would enjoy knickerbockers, and we eagerly encouraged her. She soon would sew a pair for each of us, using good-quality cloth. First, we got a big kick out of the knickerbockers and proudly wore them ... day after day. Father laughed and said we were fashion freaks. Soon, we grew tired of them. We were the only boys in Römerswil with 'knickers' almost every day, to church, to school, and we felt rather gauche sporting them. Our clothes were always cut a bit oversized, allowing us to grow into them. So were our knickerbockers, giving them a slightly off-stylish look. And they tended to slide down our skinny legs. We could hardly be mistaken for English Schoolboys.

I was fourteen. I came home from school on a November afternoon. I will never forget that day. As I walked toward our house, I was gripped by a tense anxiety, a premonition that something bad had happened. It felt like an otherworldly spirit wanted to forewarn me. As I got closer, the grip tightened. Something was not right. Then, our naturally calm house cat, in an uncontrolled panic, jumped down from the guardrail plank and smashed a large flower pot to pieces. It was frightening - it was creepy - I was scared. I opened the door to the house and entered. Nobody was home.

Later that afternoon, my mother arrived home in tears and told me that Grandmother Gotte had fallen ill and had to be rushed to the hospital.

Gotte

Grandmother Gotte died the next day. Gotte was only 73 years old. It was our saddest day. We were very close to Grandmother Gotte. We missed her a lot. Gotte was devout and God-fearing. She is in a special place in heaven. I remember Gotte so well. I will never forget her.

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Miggi

Our most beloved family friend was Miggi Küng. Miggi was a cousin of my mother. We admired Miggi a lot. Her occasional visits filled us with great joy. Miggi and Muetti

Miggi always smiled; she had such a happy demeanor. In our small world, Miggi gave us a glimpse of a sophisticated world. Miggi told us how she traveled by airplane over the Alps to the Mediterranean Sea. And to London, several times. She told us about flights in turbulent weather. Miggi could speak English. We would ask her to pronounce some English phrases. They sounded so different, so wonderfully tuneful. We learned a few English words and showed off with our friends at school. In her younger life, Miggi was the nanny for the children of the prominent Ringier family of Zofingen. Miggi visited us during the summer and stayed two or three days. What a wonderful time we had.

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Celebrations

Easter

The last snow patches were thawing; the days felt warmer and brighter. Trees began to bud, birds chirped, and the grazing fields grew lush green. Daffodils peeked out and soon would open in full glory.

We prepared for Easter. Muetti boiled a pot full of eggs, and we decorated them with ad-lib. We children collected field flowers and formed Easter nests. Easter Bunny would drop by and fill the nests with eggs, chocolates, and candies.

We were told not to eat sweets during Lent, the 40 days leading up to Easter. All the candies we received were dropped into a glass jar. On Easter Day, we emptied the jar and ate all the sweets in one big orgie.

I remember one Easter; we were preschool boys. Father rolled out the old horse buggy and harnessed Fritz, our horse. He wanted to take the family on a horse-and-buggy ride through the neighborhood. The ride began unscripted, but it soon improved and turned out to be a memorable, great afternoon.

Kilbi

Our village hosted an annual Kilbi feast day. It was an ancient tradition to commemorate the consecration of the village church.

A merry-go-round with colorful wooden horses had been installed in the village center. Next to the merry-go-round, a baker from Hochdorf was preparing the pastry raffle table. There was excitement and cheerfulness. The festivities started soon after lunch.

We bought tickets for a carousel ride. What a thrill it was to sit on a brightly painted wooden horse, rhythmically undulating up and down, emulating a gallop motion, the power of the spin pushing us outward. Our eyesight was blurred by the speed, our senses doped by the loud calliope circus music. We stretched out our arms, hoping to grab the brass ring. He who caught the ring would get a free ride, wearing the king's crown. I snatched the ring once and relished that royal moment, riding the horse and leading the peers of the realm.

A crowd, young and old, stood around the baker's raffle table. They bought number cards, excited and eager, hoping for good luck. The baker piled a dozen flat cakes on the platter, with the large winner's cake on top. Holding up and balancing the tray, the baker spun the number dial. The crowd held its breath. "Number Eighteen?" the baker shouted. The lucky winner raised his hand, showed his number card, and picked the best cake on the platter. More numbers were drawn until the last cake was picked. Then the baker prepared for the next round.

First of August

August First is the Swiss National Day. On that day in 1291, the leaders of the three forest cantons signed the Letter of Eternal Alliance. The deed is considered the genesis of today's Swiss Confederation. On a meadow overlooking Lake Lucerne, the three leaders solemnly raised their hands in a loyalty oath promising to mutually support each other in their struggle against the overbearing Habsburg overlords.

To celebrate this important event in Swiss history, the community gathered in the evening for lively and patriotic entertainment on the village plaza. A wooden stage had already been erected the day before.

The village brass band assembled on the stage. A few men tuned their tenor horns and trumpets. Father was among the musicians, and he waved to us boys. Some last-minute instructions by the conductor. It was quiet as the conductor swung his baton, gave the upbeat, and played the Swiss national anthem.

The band played a few more musical pieces, and we were ready to watch the well-rehearsed presentation by the Römerswil Men's Athletic Club, the main event of the evening. All was quiet, in total darkness. Through the bushes at the back, a group of men jumped onto the wooden stage. We heard footsteps, knocking, and the team leader's hushed commands. Quietly, the athletes, dressed in white spandex sports clothes, built a human pyramid, the men standing on each other's shoulders, four levels high. Then, the group leader dashed to the front of the stage, struck a match, and put fire to the lime compound in the metal box. Flash. For a brief moment, the stage lit up in its splendor. We were in awe at the display in the bright limelight. Oohs and aahs, cheers and claps. Then, darkness and loud thuds as the athletes jumped down from the pyramid amid the thunderous applause of the admiring crowd.

Behind the stage, a young man nervously paced back and forth, whispering to himself. He prepared his speech; it was next on the program. He was a young man in a dapper military officer's uniform, two thin golden stripes circling his cap, marking his military rank. He was the son of Römerswil, who was rising in the army, soon to be Captain, a son of a prominent family. The Lieutenant stepped up to the stage. The sudden military presence on the podium quickly hushed the noisy crowd to silence. We stood quietly, listened, and absorbed the patriotic speech.

The speech ended with sincere applause. The show was over. The older children lit the firecrackers and swung their sparklers. Toddlers ran around with their lampoons and waved little Swiss flags, the mothers watching. There was much fun, laughter, screaming, and cheering, an atmosphere of joy and happiness. The men had already retreated to the tavern.

Santa Claus

Preparations for Christmas started at the beginning of December. Mother hung up an Advent calendar. The kids took turns each day opening a window of the Advent calendar, leading to Christmas Day. Muetti was busy baking Christmas cookies to fill many large tin cans up to the rim. The cookies would last for weeks for our family and all the visitors. Basler Leckerli, Mailänderli, Zimtsterne, Walnut Puffs.

Christmas began with a visit from Saint Nicholas on his Patron's Day in early December. Saint Nicholas has many names; we knew him as Samichlaus. The visit from Samichlaus was a bittersweet occasion. Our Samichlaus was not the cheerful, cuddly man with a big belly and long white beard; he did not fly in from the North Pole on his sleigh pulled by reindeer. And he did not climb down the chimney. Our Samichlaus was stern and serious but fair and just. Santa Claus visited the homes dressed like a bishop in a silky cope and a golden miter, holding a richly decorated crosier; no "ho-ho-ho," and no children sitting on his lap.

Our good Samichlaus was escorted by two or three devil-like Schmutzlis who scared and frightened the children. We had not always been good boys; we feared a harsh scolding by Samichlaus and threats by the Schmutzlis.

We were tense the evening of Saint Nicholas' Day. We retreated to the living room and nervously waited for Samichlaus. Soon, we heard the sound of a truck. That must be Santa. Yes, he arrived by truck. We nudged closer together. Father was on the stairway outside the house, greeting Santa. We heard him talk in a low voice. Why?

Santa and his party ceremoniously entered the living room. The holy man with a long white beard faced us with a stern, but paternal look. Santa looked dignified and kind, but the two Schmutzlis terrified us. Their scary faces were covered in soot, and each Schmutzli carried a burlap bag. They rattled the bells tied around their belly, growled, and danced the devil's dance. Here, we saw the good and the bad, side by side. We sat close to each other, our hearts pounding. We had good reason to be scared. Bad boys would be stuffed in the Schmutzlis' bags and carried away, where to, we did not know.

Santa Claus told us that we were good boys, mostly, but reminded us of times when we failed badly. He cited some instances that made us shamefaced. He was aware of some of our faults and failings over the past year. How did he find out? Yet, he would overlook the misdeeds this time. Then, he grabbed a burlap bag and poured the contents on the table: walnuts, tangerines, peanuts, chestnuts, dried figs, and ginger cakes. The cakes were shaped like Santa and decorated with frosted sugar. We spent the rest of the evening in a mood of joy and relief, reflecting on the wise words spoken by Santa.

Christmas

Christmas evokes some of the most cherished memories. In Switzerland, as in all German-speaking countries, Christkindl is the traditional gift-bringer, not Santa. Christkindl is depicted as a kind, angelic child figure, dressed in white, with wings. Christmas was celebrated in the Stübeli, the room at the back of the house that we only used for the most special occasions. The high point of Christmas was the night before, Christmas Eve. We were preschoolers, I remember. Father kept watch downstairs and would let us know when Christkindl had arrived. Then, we stormed downstairs to the Stübeli. In awe, we admired the beautifully decorated Christmas tree bedecked with burning candles, gleaming Christmas balls, and glittering silver tinsel. The table was covered with wrapped presents for everyone, and cookies, chocolate, and oranges. We played with the toys, said thank you, and ate some sweets; we had the greatest family time. At eleven o'clock we walked to the village for Midnight Mass..

[Back to Beginning]

The Sound of Music

My father was a music aficionado. As a young army recruit, and also during the war, he served in the military band. Later, as an evening social pastime, he played the tenor horn in our village brass band. On occasions, the band played under his baton.

Father always encouraged us to learn a musical instrument. First, I tried my hand at the accordion, a Swiss tradition. I never mastered the technique of coordinated fingering - where the melody keys are played with the right hand, and the bass keys simultaneously with the left, all in perfect tact and harmony. It was hard. Later, I took lessons in clarinet playing, and I loved it. But despite unwavering patience and practice, I never became a natural at it.

My brother Isidor was more musically talented. He learned to play piano on his own. Once, he proudly mentioned his interest in the piano to his school teacher. He was reminded that piano playing was meant for boys of a more elevated social echelon; piano was not his calling. Instead, the teacher advised Isidor to learn to play a brass instrument so that, later in life, he could join the village brass band. I am glad Isidor paid no heed to the teacher's haughty advice.

[Back to Beginning]

Birthdays

Birthdays and Name Days were two special days on the children's calendar. My birthday was in November, and my Name Day was on Saint Joseph's Day in March. On these days, we received presents of sweets. Bars of chocolate, a package of raisins, and cookies were traditional gifts and were greatly appreciated. But the supreme gift was a box of dates. I remember the oblong wood-sheet boxes full of sticky dates tightly packed in a chevron pattern.

One year, my older brother Franzi hinted that he would be thrilled to receive a ballpoint pen for his Birthday. A pen rather than sweets? We were surprised. Ballpoint pens were a novelty, a new and life-changing writing tool. The ballpoint pen would become the standard writing tool of the future, eventually replacing the ink nib holder and the fountain pen. Our teacher frowned upon this novelty because it could wreck his students' handwriting. And besides, all school desks had built-in ink wells; there was no need for an untested novelty. Precise and beautiful cursive handwriting was a factor in the overall school grading. It was as important as grammar, spelling, and literary style. Hmm.

We were told that the ballpoint pens were imported from America. All new things came from America, not just ballpoint pens. We were mesmerized by America, not only by stories of Indians and cowboys. We admired America, a big country, so advanced and awe-inspiring. Everybody in America was well-off; everyone owned a motorcar, maybe two. We all wished we had an uncle in America. It is not surprising that Franzi wanted a ballpoint pen for his birthday - a ballpoint pen from America.

Isidor and I wanted to surprise Franzi with a ballpoint pen for his birthday. Chocolate and cookies could easily be bought in our village grocery stores. For a wider selection of gifts, we had to walk to Hochdorf, a small town in the valley.

We set off for Hochdorf to find out what selection was available in the latest line of ballpoint pens. We could reach Hochdorf on foot in forty minutes on an old footpath, walking down the hill through beautiful pastures. In all likelihood, the footpath was an ancient track laid out by our ancient forebears, the ancient Alemanni settlers, as they cleared the wooded slopes, slowly, yard by yard. For a thousand years, the path was pounded by oxen's hoofs, furrowed and edged by cartwheels, the ruts flushed out by rain. I can conjure up an image of a yoke of oxen trudging up the hill, pulling a cart of hay, the wiggling wheels leaving deep grooves behind. History is etched deep into the landscape. Sadly, as I write this, the footpath is grown over, and all access is closed to hikers.

The forty-minute walk passed quickly. We recalled stories about our birthdays of years past, the quirks, and the kinks.

One year, I was probably seven or eight years old, and my family forgot my birthday. I was sad. I kept quiet and did not fuss over it. Several days later, Muetti remembered. She kept apologizing, and she treated me like a prince. She went to her bedroom, fetched Father's cash pouch, poured all the coins into the palm of my hand, and asked me to go quickly and buy some treats. Did I buy sweets, or drop the coins into my piggy bank? I don't remember.

As young children, buying sweets for self-consumption was frowned upon. We called it 'chrömle'. Chrömle was undisciplined, addictive, and sinful, so we were taught. I was about fifteen years old at a summer camp when I proudly confided to a friend that I had never in my life spent one penny buying sweets for myself. My friend gazed at me with an expression of puzzlement, paused for a moment, then said: "Good for you." I can imagine what went through his mind: "What planet are you coming from? Get a life, Sepp!

Before my early teens, my birthday was marked on the wrong date by one day. My true birthday was discovered in official papers and promptly fixed. No big deal, but inevitably, my Zodiac sign shifted from Scorpio to Sagittarius. I wondered what bearing that move would have on my life. On the horoscope page of the Weekly Tabloid, I read: "Curious and energetic, Sagittariuses are the biggest travelers among the zodiac signs. Open-minded and with a philosophical view that motivates them to wander around the world in search of the meaning of life." Hmm. My Chinese Zodiac sign remained unchanged - Snake. Thanks a lot!

And, before we knew it, we arrived in Hochdorf. We stopped at the Papeterie paper shop and reviewed the articles in the shop window. The Papeterie had everything relating to paper, writing, and the office. The display window was packed with Rolodexes, rubber stamps, paper staplers, hole punches, ink plotters, filing cabinets, adding machines, typewriters, and ballpoint pens, lots of ballpoint pens. We knew we had come to the right place. Wow, that exquisite fountain pen with the shiny golden nib! It must cost a fortune. Our ballpoint pen will be less expensive. We only hoped the store had something in our price range.

We entered the hushed, quiet store. "Ding-dong," the hanging doorbell announced our entrance. We waited timidly, nervously. Soon, we heard footsteps. A lady with a welcoming smile appeared behind the counter. She was the daughter of the store owner. After I explained our needs, the sales lady showed us the available pens, neatly laid out on a felt-covered tray: Fisher, Pelikan, Shaeffer, and Paper Mate. We had little money; the choice was limited and difficult. We took our time. The purchase was important.

"Take your time, there is no rush," the lady said.

We were thinking.

"Some of the latest models come with a retractable ballpoint tip with no-smear ink."

We were impressed, but could not decide.

"And this Fisher pen has refills."

The lady appeared patient, still smiling. If she rolled her eyes at our questions and indecisiveness, we didn't see it.

"With universal refills, the pen will last for years."

We were still thinking.

"Just now, we received some cheaper stock from America. If you like to see it, I will show you."

Yes, we were interested. All new things always came from America.

We eventually settled on a model that had an attractive gold-colored cap. It looked rather expensive, but it was affordable. Franzi surely would be pleased.

Pleased with our purchase, we walked back home. We were eager to show Muetti the new pen. But we could not find it. We emptied our pockets. No pen. We sadly realized that the pen must have slipped out of my pocket while walking home. We could find it if we retraced our path down to Hochdorf. Isidor and I left immediately to reach Hochdorf before dark. Our eyes scanned the ground, looking out for a shiny golden object. No luck.

We soon reached Hochdorf. It was five o'clock. The main road was busy with trucks from the brick factory and the local brewery. We walked towards the Papeterie store at the main intersection and found the pen. There it was. Our pen. It lay in the middle of the street, crushed by passing trucks; the plastic shattered into a hundred pieces, with the brass cap squashed. Our minds went numb. It made no sense to pick up the pieces. We walked back home, not saying a word.

[Back to Beginning]

Battle of Sempach

On July 9th, during the cherry-picking season, the country celebrated the anniversary of the 1386 Battle of Sempach. The battle was fought between the freedom-loving Swiss and the despised Habsburg feudal overlords. For us, the anniversary of this fierce engagement fought six hundred years ago was a special day, not only because the battle was history-changing for the ancient Swiss Federation but because the battlefield was within walking distance of our home in Ludiswil.

We bicycled to the historic battlefield and watched the military parade as it made its way up the hill from the iconic town of Sempach. The men marching in the parade wore period battle uniforms and carried the historic banners and the classic Swiss halberds.

Near the battlefield is the beautiful memorial chapel. The names of the many men who lost their lives in the battle are displayed on its walls. Listed among the dead soldiers is a man called Peter Buchmann.

I am deeply disheartened to see the names of the heroic Swiss men killed in the battle, all listed plainly in small black letters. Next to them, on the chapel's main wall, are highlighted the names of the Habsburg knights and nobles, the battle enemy, painted in bold, multicolored, ornate letters, complete with the decorated family coat of arms and crest. If it were not for the fact that the Swiss have always been modest and self-effacing people, I would be truly indignant.

After the spectacular parade, we never missed one treasured tradition, and the high point of the day. It was the refreshing treat of ice cream. The ice cream booth was always in the shade of a tree next to the memorial chapel. Children and grown-ups patiently waited in line, coins in hand. The ice cream man scraped up a scoop of vanilla or chocolate ice cream from a large barrel, dropped it into a paper cup, and handed it to us with a flat wooden spoon. There was no match for this traditional treat on the hot July afternoon.

According to a historically documented account by the well-known Lucerne chronicler Renward Cysat (1515-1614), it was from the Sempach battlefield where Hans Buchmann mysteriously disappeared in 1572, only to be found weeks later in Milan, Italy. It is a story about a strange and unexplained alien abduction. Hans Buchmann lived a few hundred yards from my home in Ludiswil, and he may well have been a related ancestor. The fascinating story is in a chapter below, or go to Alien Abduction of Hans Buchmann 1572

[Back to Beginning]

On the Farm

On school days off, we helped on our farm, shaking and raking hay, picking fruits, and harvesting potatoes and carrots. We cleared the fields, scattered the cowpats, set mouse traps, and fertilized the fields with dung. We fed the cattle and pigs and cleaned the stable. It was like a farmhand training program. We did it all; we did not mind doing it. We also helped Mother in the vegetable patch and flower garden, and on Saturdays, we did house cleaning chores.

We picked the apples and sorted them by size and appearance. The best-looking apples were delivered to the cooperative. Some good apples with blemishes from hailstorms would not meet the high retail standards. These fruits were saved for our family and stored in the cellar. The cellar was dark and cool, keeping the apples fresh for many months. The remaining apples were chopped and pressed for apple cider. Half of the apple juice was prepared to ferment in wooden barrels for alcoholic cider; the rest was pasteurized for sweet apple juice.

Once a year, a horse-drawn mobile distillery pulled up at our farm. The distiller processed the fermented fruit mash into alcohol. After distilling, we formed the mush into briquettes. A year later, when dry, the briquettes were heating our kitchen stove and the house. Some of the ashes of the burned briquettes later fertilized the fields and gardens. The sun's energy, that nature so ingeniously stored in fruits, was thus released back to nature. It nourished us, quenched our thirst, lifted the men's spirit, warmed our bodies, and kept nature's rhythm running strong, never-ending.

The harvested wheat was stored in the barn's loft. In winter, my father rented a threshing machine for a day. The whole family helped. It was hard work. When lifting the sheaves of wheat, disturbed mice jumped from their nests. The cats sitting on posts were on high alert, ready to jump. The grains were poured into burlap bags and hauled to the flour mill in Hochdorf.

My father milked the cows twice a day. Every day at six o'clock in the evening, my brother Isidor and I took turns hauling two full cans of milk on a dog cart to the nearby cheese dairy. Prinz, our dog, was excited at the mere prospect of getting off his chains. He jumped, sniffed, and frisked us; it was nearly impossible to fasten the harness on him. Prinz pulled the milk cart up the hill to the cheese dairy. We rolled the milk cans into the building, slightly tilted. It was a delicate balancing act. Master cheesemaker Emmenegger and a helper poured the milk into a large tin bucket attached to a hanging scale, weighed it, and logged the quantity into the milk record booklet. For the return trip, we filled the cans with whey, good food for our pigs.

Once, a full can of milk slipped out of my hands. I will never forget that mishap. What a mess! The whole factory floor was awash with milk, a sea of white. What a disaster, a zero entry in the milk booklet. How would I tell my father, all his hard work, milking ten cows, for naught?

Our cow stable had enough space for our dozen cows. Each cow was given a name. The name was displayed on a wooden plate at the cow's assigned stall. I remember some names: Bella, Wildi, Bruni, and Gemsi.

In summer, the adolescent cows, called heifers, enjoyed 'summer camp' in the Alps. We led them to a nearby train station. They were transported and then guided to high-altitude alpine pastures. Grazing on herbs, breathing cool mountain air, and balancing on steep terrain, these summer days were healthy and invigorating for our young cows.

In mild seasons, the cows spent much of the day grazing in the fields, each wearing a cowbell. After the long winter in the dark stable, when we let the cows out to the pasture in spring, they were enraptured. The cows staggered out of the barn, blinded by the bright sunlight. They stared at the blue sky, feeling the breeze of fresh air. They saw the open grass field, bright green everywhere. Perhaps the cows had a flashback of summers past as youngsters in the Alps. They felt the sudden freedom, jumped wildly, and impulsively ran away, down the hill. It was panic; everybody in the family was called for help. If the neighbors heard the frenzy, they came running and helped. With great effort and tactics, we corralled the herd and guided it back to the fenced-in grass field.

Good farming is an art. It requires foresight, diligence, skill, and the love of hard work. There are a hundred tasks that need to be learned and mastered. My father was the best farmer. He applied all the skills passed down from previous generations, reinforced by experience and theory he learned at farming school. My father passed on the knowledge, good work ethic, and perseverance to my older brother, Franz.

[Back to Beginning]

Dunging

The most loathed duty on the farm was helping Father with the spraying of the liquid cow manure. It was a dirty and smelly job, but important to grow nutritious grass.

We moved the cartload of steel pipes to the field, joined them together, and connected the pipeline to the pump at the cesspool. At the end of the line, we attached a flexible hose with a spray nozzle for spreading the liquid manure. Father operated the nozzle. Somewhere along the pipeline, within shouting distance of Father, we inserted a shut-off valve. The valve allowed us to pause the flow of manure when Father had to disconnect the pipe and move it to the next dunging area.

My brother Isidor and I operated the valve, a job we tried to avoid whenever possible. We made ourselves invisible when expecting the dreaded call for dung duty. Father would always find one of us.

We removed some wooden planks from the dung pit outside the cow stable. Over two or three weeks since the last dunging job, the pool had filled with liquid manure, a stinking mix of cow muck and water combined with the waste from the pigsty. I am not aware if microbial safety measures were in effect, but my father would have followed the regulations by the letter. The muck that had settled at the bottom, so we stirred it with a long-handled brush until it was a creamy liquid.

Then, we had to prime the rotary pump. The pump was an engineering marvel made of cast iron, simple yet amazingly efficient, so ingenious. An electric motor powered it via the belt pulley. We scooped up liquid manure with a ladle and poured it into the pump's suction chamber. The pump had to be filled to the rim, and the cover shut tight quickly before the priming liquid would drain back into the pool. We ran to the electric switch and turned on the motor. Cautiously, we tiptoed back, watchful not to get caught in the fast-reeling pulley belt and loose-limbed not to stumble over the loose wooden planks, fall into the open pool, and be swallowed up in the muck. The sucking sound of the pump indicated that the priming was successful. Sometimes, we had to start all over.

Now that the priming was successful and the pump was running at full capacity, we rushed to the shut-off valve station. Crouched at the station like a baseball catcher, ready to catch the ball from the pitcher, we waited for a call from Father, signaling us to stop the flow. The calls came at short intervals whenever he finished spraying a section and when the pipes had to be moved. Promptly, we turned the valve's crank handle as fast and tightly as possible. Father also did not like that kind of work, so the atmosphere was sometimes tense. Pity the valve boy who missed the signal because of a moment of inattention. The valve was old, and the fittings were leaky. Often, we got a spritz of cow dung spattered right into our faces. We squeezed our eyes tight, spat, and wiped away the muck with our shirt sleeves. Then, we waited for Father's signal to reopen the valve.

[Back to Beginning]

Hay Day

It was mid-morning, humid and sweltering hot, with a blue sky. The radio weather forecast predicted thunderstorms for the evening and rain for the next two days. Father knuckle-tapped the barometer. Yes, the quivering weather gauge pointed to low atmospheric pressure. A change in the weather was certain.

A field of grass was mowed for hay-making two days earlier. The cut grass should now be cured and ready for raking, loading, and storing in the barn. But it needed one more good fluffing. The school had given the children some days off to help on the farm.

After lunch, Father walked down to the field, grabbed a handful of the dried grass, and crushed it in the palm of his hand. The hay had a bright green color and a sweet scent. It felt dry enough. The hay was a good mix of fine-stemmed, healthy grass blades, clover leaves, field flowers, and herbs, with good nutrient content. It was the best fodder for our cows. Father decided to begin raking up, loading, and storing the hay in the barn before the first raindrops.

We gathered at the barn, fetched forks and rakes, and walked down to the hayfield. We raked the hay into parallel rows, preparing it for loading.

Father arrived with the hay cart and guided the horse along a row of hay. One of us got the job of hay stacker, a post of pride. The hay stacker jumped on the hay cart, lifted the front and back railings, and got ready for the first pile of hay. The men shoved the raked hay into heaps, then pitchforked and hoisted them onto the cart. The hay stacker arranged and weighed down the load on each side. As a hay stacker, I got pricked by the sharp fork prongs more than once. The women cleaned up behind the men with wide field rakes. Fritz, the horse, patiently waited between the stops. He vigorously slapped his tail, shook his neck and mane in a vain effort to keep the flies away.

Heuen

When the wagon was fully loaded, Father secured the load of hay by placing a log beam on top, slung a rope over its end, and anchored it to the wooden torsion cylinder. With levers inserted into the cylinder, two men cranked down the log beam and hay to nearly the point of snapping. Think of the ancient Roman soldiers pulling down the throw-arm of a catapult. Father told us never to sit on top of the log beam. If the rope should snap, we would be hurled halfway up to the moon. We could now drive the hay cart to the barn. And rest a bit.

We stopped the hay cart outside the barn and prepared for the tricky ascent up the steep incline to the hayloft. Father commandeered the operation. At the top, the cart rushed through the gate into the barn's loft with loud rumblings, thundering thumps, and pounding of the horse's hooves on the wooden planks. Father stopped the cart next to a hay pit, and we jumped into it. Father removed the log beam and unloaded the hay. The boys quickly leveled it with forks. The smell was sweet. The dust was thick.

We finished unloading, but there was no time to rest. We dusted off our hair, swept off the shreds of hay behind the shirt collar, and wiped the sweat from our foreheads. The work was not yet done; we had at least three more carts to load. We jumped on the cart and rode back to the hayfield, ready for a new load.

Towards evening, the last load of hay safely in the barn, dark clouds began to build in the northwestern sky. We were ready for dinner. The sky darkened, and the wind was blowing. We could hear the first rolling sound of thunder. I saw Muetti rush down to the field. She collected enough hay and formed a cross in the middle of the field. It was a tradition. With the cross, the good Lord will protect our house and farm from the storms.

[Back to Beginning]

Hi-Tech

Rapid Gas Mower

I remember, when I was a young kid, how my father and a farmhand cut the grass with a scythe. It was a daily routine, an hour's work, fodder for the cows for a day. But, imagine cutting a large field by hand for hay-making. Scything is a skill that requires years of practice. The arms and torso movement is like a golf swing, with a touch of Tai Chi flow. The scythe must be aligned so the grass is cut close to the ground without cutting into the soil; Practice, practice, practice. The scythe blades were kept sharp; each man carried a whetstone in a cow-horn holster filled with water, hanging on his leather belt. I can still hear the sound of blade-sharpening from a field afar.

Then, hi-tech entered our lives. I was about five years old. Father had saved enough money to purchase a gas-powered mower. Father was always cautious when selecting a product, especially a piece of machinery that was so expensive. After much thought, he decided on the 'Rapid' brand, a high-quality, latest technology grass cutter. Father took us to the Frey Rapid dealer in Hochdorf. After some friendly haggling on price, he shook hands on the deal. A few weeks later, the dealer delivered the mower.

The dealer left, and Mother called us for dinner. We felt an indescribable elation; we became the owners of this beautiful new Rapid.

After dinner, Grandmother Gotte took us upstairs for bedtime prayers. We could not concentrate. We said our prayers, not thinking of God but of the Rapid mower, and went to bed. Suddenly, half asleep, we heard the sound of the Rapid engine starting up. Vati had to try his new machine. We jumped out of our bed and dashed to the window. It was dark; we could not see anything. We ran downstairs. "Boys, go back to bed," Muetti said sternly.

A Fridge

A family in our neighborhood owned a fridge. One summer, we were invited to their house. The kind lady offered us homemade vanilla ice cream. She had poured custard cream into ice trays and placed them in the freezer compartment for a few hours. And - ta-dah - ice cream! Ahhh, it tasted so good. We wished we had a fridge in our house. Few families owned a refrigerator; it was considered a nice-to-have but expensive luxury.

Then it happened. Surprise! Father bought a refrigerator. The glossy-white fridge was delivered 'under cover of darkness' and was installed in the larder, the small room directly behind the kitchen. Father and Mother did not want anyone to know we purchased a refrigerator. So that the news about our fridge would not accidentally leak out, we were told never to use the word 'refrigerator' but instead to call it 'the cooler'. Nobody would ever find out about our refrigerator; a cooler was a fan, and many people owned cooling fans.

Television

Television in Switzerland was in its infancy. The Swiss TV company tried to create interest in television in rural areas. They parked a big 'Swiss Television' juggernaut truck outside the schoolhouse and connected it to a 'television' set in the classroom. It was mimicking over-the-air television transmission. For about two hours, we watched animated movies. We were amazed by the new technology. The parents were invited to a show later that evening.

The Emmenegger family at the cheese factory was the only neighborhood family with a television. In 1953, my mother and father were invited to watch the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II. They watched the coronation on television, live as it happened in London, a thousand miles away. Amazing! My mother was overjoyed, and she talked about it for days.

My brother Isidor was always interested in electronics. He started a Radio-Television-Technician apprenticeship. One day, he had an opportunity to purchase an inexpensive old television set. Father was not pleased when Isidor arrived home and lugged the TV into the house. Father allowed Isidor to keep the television, but he had to install the antenna in the loft, not on the roof. We did not want the neighborhood to know that we owned a TV.

[Back to Beginning]

Michael the Shoemaker

The village of Römerswil was the center of our universe. The two rival grocery stores outdid each other in serving their loyal customers. At daybreak, whiffs of the bakery's freshly baked bread drifted in the air. An electrician's shop sold the latest gadgets and did repairs at short notice. The village would not have been complete without a cheese dairy, a farm equipment dealer, a part-time barbershop, and an old-time saddle maker. It had it all: a busy tavern, a church with its iconic bell tower, an impressive schoolhouse, a post and telegraph office, a local government office, a cattle registry, and, I almost forgot, the official military conscription office.

And there was Michael, Michael the Shoemaker. Michael was an older man who lived alone and owned a small leather workshop. He replaced the soles of boots and repaired torn belts, straps, and 'all things of leather'. Repairs were done right, using high-quality leather, stitched tight, and made to last. The work was perfect, though no one would call on Michael to mend fine Gucci loafers or luxury Louis Vuitton bags. I doubt if there were any of these in our village. Though if there were any, people wore them discreetly, and no one would have noticed or paid any attention. This was Römerswil in the 1950s.

When we brought shoes and boots to Michael for repairs or picked them up later, we often went to his shop with our schoolmates. The shop was upstairs in a weather-beaten barn on the road down from the village, below the church. We lifted the rusty door latch, entered the shed, and walked up the narrow flight of stairs to his workshop. The smell was of leather and shoe polish. We always stayed for a while and watched him work on the pedal-driven stitching machine, observed how skillfully he measured and cut pieces of leather, and how ably he handled all the shoemaker tools. He did not mind us watching. He enjoyed the company during his long working hours.

Michael the Shoemaker was an honest, true-blue craftsman, a master in his trade. He liked working with all things leather. Michael did not work for the money; he did it for the devotion to his craft. All the repair jobs were done right and with pride. Small jobs, such as punching a hole in a belt, were done for free. Who would do that today?

Michael the Shoemaker lived to old age. He worked hard all his life. In the end, he was alone. Michael had no family. When he died, the whole village grieved over the loss of the kind man. At his funeral, the church was full to the last seat. What honor and tribute, and genuine public love and esteem for Michael. Michael the Shoemaker!

Thankfully, we still have craftsmen today - men and women who believe in an honest day's work for an honest day's pay. But true professionals like Michael may be harder to find. If we don't watch out, we become victims of crappy work, where a quick buck means more than the workers' pride. We must find a true Michael. They still exist. When we do find them, honor them, and reward them well.

[Back to Beginning]

School at Emmenbrücke

I had good grades at school. After completing Grade Eight, my parents decided I should continue with, um, higher education, at least through Grade Nine. Grade 9 was optional. Our village school did not offer that extra grade, So I enrolled at a school in Emmenbrücke, a town on the outskirts of Lucerne. Lucerne was the Big City. The quiet, restrained farmboy was pulled from his small village comfort zone. Three other boys from nearby farming villages also attended the same school; they became my best friends. I felt somewhat adrift and uneasy when thrust into a new and unfamiliar setting, but I soon found my footing and confidently marched on.

I remember the first day at school in Emmenbrücke as if it were yesterday. I took the early-morning bus, a forty-minute ride. From the Sonnenplatz bus station in Gerliswil, I walked down the side road and soon found the Gersag schoolhouse. The building was impressive, modern, and immense compared to the small schoolhouse in Römerswil. The building was in mint condition, only a few years old. I roamed through the long halls, nervous, and tried to find my classroom. I knew my first session would be in the chemistry lab. But where was it? In the end, and just in time, I found the room in the annex building.

On that first day, the morning class was a joint physics and chemistry session, and the number of students was too large for the room. There were no free desks. I saw some chairs lined up against the wall. I sat down on one of them. More boys arrived late; they also sat down on these empty chairs.

The physics and chemistry room was impressive. The front was a laboratory, with many kitchen sinks. The shelves were full of measuring instruments of all kinds. I could hardly wait for the class to begin.

The Physics and Chemistry teacher arrived. Without the usual 'Good Morning' greeting, he grabbed a piece of chalk and started writing the lesson's topics on the blackboard. He asked the class to copy his notes. Then, the teacher noticed the boys sitting on chairs along the wall had no desktops to write on. He told us to unhinge the doors of the overhead storage cupboards and use them as laptops. We all jumped and rushed to grab one of the few cupboard doors. I was about to catch the last door, but a guy from Emmenbrücke beat me to it. I sat down on my chair without a board on my lap. I was sure I could write without it. The teacher stared at me. In a feigned fury, he yanked out a loose sink off the lab counter, turned it upside down, and plunked it on my lap, lashing out: "Here, use this kitchen sink, don't you have any imagination!" The class roared with laughter. I felt embarrassed and humiliated. He then picked up his chalk and continued writing on the blackboard with a self-satisfied grin, probably thinking he was funny. This senseless, off-the-wall insult by the mean teacher did not help my vulnerable self-confidence on the first day at the new school. On a positive side, this unforgettable lesson taught me this: Whatever the problem, there is always a solution. Use your imagination! For the valuable life lesson, I thank you, Mr. Teacher.

The school's curriculum included many new courses, including an hour of English twice a week. It was my first exposure to the English language. I liked the sound of Anglo-Saxon words; they were so alike German, yet they sounded so different, so tuneful, so beautifully strange and foreign. The fact that our English teacher was an attractive young lady did not escape the attention of our class of pubescent boys either. And, surprisingly, we also liked the Religion lessons. The priest teacher had a good sense of humor. He not only taught Church doctrines and told Bible stories, but he also knew how to discuss other matters, enlighten us on the spiritual and moral aspects, topics of great interest to adolescent boys, subjects that parents at home preferred to leave alone.

I had reached the age when I became interested in girls. The authorities of the School in Emmenbrücke, with outdated wisdom, decided that the students of Grade 9 were of an age that required separate Classes for girls and boys. There was no contact between the two classes; the girls' classroom was at the other end of the building.

One late afternoon, a group of us, boys and girls, were waiting at the Gerliswil bus stop. The girls giggled and jumped around the boys. We were smitten by the beautiful girls, beaming with contentment. We felt strong and tall, humorous and confident. We had such a good time; we were on top of the world. The bus was late, but we did not care. One of the girls, the most beautiful in the group, asked, "Hey guys, does any of you know what time it is?" I quickly looked at my wristwatch and was the first to answer: "It's a quarter past five." The girl said, "It is not you that I asked." My ego deflated like a stabbed balloon.

I was fifteen years old, going on sixteen, but looked younger, more like fourteen. I haven't yet made an impression on girls. I was not exactly the hottest guy. And, not to put too fine a point on it, my face did not cast any of that Classic Greek look; I mean, a touch of that coveted chiseled jawline, that clean profile. I wish to look older, have some stubble on my chin, and have a rugged, manly look. I had to boost my machismo and be a guy who made the girls turn their heads in my direction. It was high time to work on a charm offensive.

My brother Isidor was popular with the girls. What girl-pleasing traits did Isidor have that I lacked? Isidor was more of a romantic. He organized dance parties and soirées. The girls flocked around him like bumblebees buzzing around a honeysuckle tree. He had the most beautiful girlfriends when he attended a school in Rothenburg.

Take me out to the Ball Game

The school in Emmenbrücke was very active in sports and ball games. I admit I was not good at playing ball. Most of my new classmates were skilled players. As for me, unfortunately, I never learned to play football or any ball games in Römerswil. Yes, we kicked the ball around during the 15-minute school recess, and sometimes we played a football game at the end of a gymnastics class, but we were not taught the technique, team play, and strategies of a real ball game. We just kicked the ball into the goal net willy-nilly. That was easy. At my new school, ball games took up most of the gym hour. I was not trained, not prepared. I could beat or match anyone in basic athletics, such as running, jumping, and climbing, but not in playing ball. The football teams were constituted afresh for each game. The team leaders took turns picking the players from the pool. I was often one of the last to be picked. It hurt. When faced with the ball, I did my damnedest, and some days were better than others. Despite my low ranking in football, I got along well with all my schoolmates.

Looking back now, when we were young boys, we had little interest in sports games. Switzerland had many popular football teams, and they played on Sundays. We never watched a football game on a sports field or stadium; we lived on a farm, far away from the nearest sports venue. Major games were broadcast on the radio, but it was impossible to visualize the action in one's mind. Television showed some national sports games, but we didn't have a TV set at home. We did get fired up by Sports Cycling. In the early 1950s, we had cycling heroes who won the European cycling races, the Tour de Suisse, and the Tour de France. They were our celebrated superstars!

I wish I had learned football or any ball game when I was young. I should have given it more. I might have become a skilled player; who knows? If not, at least it would have stirred up an interest in sports, enthusiasm, and a passion for it. I would now understand the intricacies of football and baseball, have a favorite team, cheer loudly when my team scores a winning point, wear my team's sports cap, and debate the nail-biting game on Monday morning.

It was not for lack of trying. A total miss, I was not. I participated in some sports later in life. Louise and I took several weeks of private tennis lessons in England, rightly equipped and suitably attired - 'all-white Wimbledon'. Louise did well; I did not. In Quebec, I participated in an ice hockey game with mates from the bank. I slipped on the ice; a doctor had to stitch up the cut on my chin. I once played in a company soccer game in Vancouver, playing as 'Bucky'. I wasn't asked back.

Playing sports games is good for the body and mind. Sport builds teamwork, self-confidence, perseverance, attention, and discipline. It teaches how to handle wins, manage losses, and solve conflicts. Sports games have become central in our lives; witness the countless sports metaphors and idioms that have crept into the English language. I could still become a sports fan. It is a long shot. So, Sepp, listen. Don't throw in the towel. Go out for that slam dunk and win the game. The ball is in my court. C'mon Bucky, get off the bench!

[Back to Beginning]

It's the Real Thing

I was fifteen or sixteen when I tasted my first Coca-Cola. The school teacher organized a field trip to the Coca-Cola bottling plant in Lucerne. I had seen posters and magazine ads for Coca-Cola, but never tasted the drink. When thirsty from hard work in the hot sun, we prepared homemade sparkling 'Perli' lemonade. On special occasions, we were allowed to buy a bottle of Orangina. And we always had plenty of homemade sweet apple cider.

The organized tour was a promotional exploit by the bottling plant to introduce our generation to the Coke world. Coca-Cola, the Real Thing!

The Coca-Cola guide led us through the efficient and gleamingly clean plant. We watched robot-like machines fill the bottles with a mix of water and a secret dark-brown syrup, injecting fizz and capping them, a process untouched by human hands. The production was impressive.

At the end of the tour, each student was handed one of the trademark Coca-Cola bottles, the fizzy drink produced at the plant in front of us. The guide explained how to drink the Coca-Cola: Take a small sip, then swirl it around in your mouth. The ice-cold fluid will release the fizz gas and develop bubbles; it will expand in your mouth and fill the entire cavern. Only then, slowly, mindfully, swallow the Coca-Cola. Concentrate on the flavor. Enjoy. I admit the taste was truly sensational.

On a family trip later that summer, we stopped at a restaurant. I wanted to offer a bottle of Coca-Cola to everyone in the family. Father and Muetti had to experience and enjoy the taste of the new age. I was the guide and pundit. After the waitress poured the Coke and wished 'en guete', cheers, I told everybody to wait while I explained again how Coca-Cola should be drunk. We took the first sip. I tensely waited for everybody's spontaneous reaction, the 'wow' burst, the collective exultation. Muetti paused for a moment, waiting for the others' reactions, then told me that she liked it, yes, she liked it, but..., but she did not feel the explosion of taste in her mouth. Father was less diplomatic; he did not like Coca-Cola. Father preferred a glass of homemade cider or a beer from the Hochdorf Brewing Company.

[Back to Beginning]

Estavayer

The summer of 1957 was extra special. I was 15 years old, at school in Emmenbrücke, three months into the school year. Summer holidays were around the corner.

Our French lessons in Römerswil were rather elementary. My mother wanted us to learn good French. When she was in her teens, her mother, my Grandmother, signed her up for a year at a nuns convent school for girls in Brussels, Belgium, to learn French. I have the highest respect and admiration for my Grandmother's open-minded, forward-looking, and courageous thinking at a time when there was much political turmoil in Europe. And, the year abroad was expensive, and my Grandmother was poor.

So, my parents decided to send me to a six-week summer course in Estavayer on Lake Neuchâtel in French-speaking Switzerland. And how I was looking forward to that summer escapade. I had never been away from home. What a wonderful experience that would be.

As the day of my departure neared, Muetti worried about me traveling alone to Estavayer, a trip of about three hours with two train switches. She inquired if other boys from our area had enrolled at the same summer camp. There were a few. She arranged for me to travel with a boy from Lucerne. The trip went as planned. The boy from Lucerne, however, did not appear wildly pleased that he had to travel with me. He was polite, though not overly friendly. We did not have much in common. His father was a musical director of the city symphony orchestra. The boy played the cello, not every farmboy teenager's first choice of musical instrument. I can understand why there wasn't much of an instant bond.

We settled in at the school in Estavayer. We were a group of boys from all over Europe, mainly from Switzerland, Germany, Italy, and Spain. The classes started the following morning. It soon became apparent that my French knowledge was not up to par. The test papers came back streaked in red as if they had passed through a slaughterhouse. I felt depressed; I failed miserably and wasted so much of my parents' hard-earned money. Mom and Dad sent me to an expensive summer school to learn French, and I was a total underachiever, the worst in the class. After two weeks, the test papers came back noticeably cleaner.

Routine set in. I was assigned table duties in the dining room and enjoyed the task. To please my tablemates, I always made a special effort to be the first out with the food platters. Mid-afternoon, we were served hot tea and crusty bread. It sounds like a Spartan snack, but it was delicious.

At dinner, the teachers entered the dining room and took their seats at the head table, where they could look over the sea of students. At the end of the meal, the headmaster stood up, silenced the crowd, and asked the holder of the copper medallion to step forward and pay the fine, one Franc of money. The dreaded medallion was the curse of the camp. I was lucky; I only caught it once.

At camp, we were not allowed to speak our native language; only French was allowed. And that was a good thing; after all, we came to Estavayer to learn French. We had to be careful not to be caught off guard speaking in our mother tongue. Predators lurked around everywhere; circumspection and alertness were advised at all times. Anyone holding the copper medallion could pass it on to someone speaking their native language. The unlucky boy left holding the medallion at dinner time was called to the head table and had to pay the penalty and suffer the embarrassment. Once, a trusted friend engaged me in a casual conversation in Swiss German. As soon as I spoke a word in German, my friend burst out laughing and handed me the medallion. I could not get rid of the hated medallion before dinner time. I had enough moral fiber not to pass on the medal to an unsuspecting good friend. The following morning, I found my victim in a group of students from Spain or Italy. The medallion experience made me a circumspect and suspicious person. I mentally ask anyone approaching: "Est-ce-que tu as la medaille?" "Do you have the medal?"

The time at Estavayer came to an end. I was eager to show my impeccable French to my Emmenbrücke schoolmates. When I entered the classroom, my classmates stared at me with a smirk on their faces. What was up? Something was not right. I looked at each in turn. I only got a grin back. What's up? Then, the teacher stood up and walked over to my desk with a stern look. How did I have the audacity to take an extra week of holiday, without approval? And he continued, raising his voice. "Who do you think you are? Do you think you are special? Do you think you can grandly spend your summer at a swanky lakeside camp in Estavayer-le-Lac and casually come back to class at your leisure and convenience a week late?" As it turned out, the summer holiday ended a week earlier, and unknowingly, I overstayed by a few days.

At the next French lesson, the teacher told me to stand up and read a section from the book. He was pleased. The serious breach was soon forgotten.

[Back to Beginning]

At a Crossroad

As a child, I fantasized much about my future life. All children everywhere should have a feeling of a wide-open world, be given boundless career and life choices, and have their aspirations blossom.

At my preschool age, I wanted to become a carpenter, working with wood, probably inspired by my patron Saint Joseph, the carpenter. Later, like most young boys, I set my heart on becoming a locomotive engine driver. Lokiführer were my heroes, superstars, and role models. With hard work and good luck, I would be a proud Lokiführer running the train on the Gotthard line, through the world's longest train tunnel to Ticino, on the other side of the Alps. With time, that calling also faded.

Could my soul, my inner self, be that of a blacksmith? My feelings have always been fired up watching a blacksmith forge a piece of iron. I am captivated by the blacksmith's skill as he lifts a red-hot iron ingot from a blazing furnace, places it on the anvil, bends it, folds it, hammers it into shape, with fiery sparks flying, then quenches it in a cold water bucket, steam spewing. I could watch for hours. Iron forging has been a man's craft for millennia. The firebrand that I am not, it is strange that my inner self gets so stoked up by that ancient craft. Blacksmithing in Switzerland in the late twentieth century offered few opportunities, so my parents told me.

There were many choices. The future was wide open. I could become a baker, carpenter, bus driver, gardener, or cheese maker. Mechanics and electricians were highly regarded crafts. The government ran offices with specialists who helped boys and girls choose a profession that suited their abilities and character. The choices were truly endless and fascinating. Picking the right trade and career is one of the most far-reaching decisions in life. A job at a workbench, in a laboratory, on the move, or at a desk? Maybe a travel agent? Free airline tickets, staying in swanky hotels all over the world... Mother said no. The fact is, a person can be successful and happy in any trade or profession. Work hard. Keep going.

By the time I reached the ninth grade, I was determined to become a teacher - ideally in physics and science. In Switzerland, prospective teachers attend a teacher's college for five years. With high hopes, I grabbed my bike and peddled to the nearest Teacher's College for the admission test. I thought I did okay.

I flunked the entrance exam. I am sure I failed the German composition test. We were asked to write an essay on a favorite book we had recently read. I was not much into fine literature. I chose a paperback novel by a lesser-known author who told the story of an Indiana Jones-type explorer hunting for lost treasures in the caverns of the Amazon jungle and the Peruvian Andes. The fiction had adventure, intrigue, action, and suspense; it had it all, except much literary value. The examiners were not overly impressed with my book selection, the bland review of the story, or the story itself. And my essay did not have much Schiller and Goethe prose. The examiners were looking for more. They wanted insight into my character, to learn the kind of books I read, and discover the depth of my appreciation for good literature.

The test results were sent to my parents. I was disappointed. My parents were angry. My mother told me that I missed my chance. I would now become a farmhand. I would stay home and help on the farm, feeding and milking the cows. I would dung, plow the fields, and do farm chores all my life. I would work for my older brother Franz, for little pay, and be lucky if I got that much. Nice.

After further consideration, when tempers had cooled and heads had cleared, my father talked to Herr Hängi. Herr Hängi was an executive of the large national food company Coop. As a hobby, Herr Hängi was the musical director of the Römerswil brass band, where my dad played the tenor horn. Father was sure that Herr Hängi might be the right person to give sound counsel and guidance.

I started my three-year banking apprenticeship in May 1958 at the Handlesbank Luzern. On balance, I was happy and relieved to become a bank employee rather than a farmhand. In hindsight, Thank-God, providence steered me in the right direction. Given my impatience, I would have been unfit to be a teacher. It was late in the year, and finding good apprenticeship opportunities was difficult, but Herr Hängi was helpful. The Handelsbank Luzern was a small, privately owned bank in Lucerne. The bank had recently re-established itself after a much-publicized legal investigation and process. It was still hurting from a bad reputation, but the new owners tried their best to put the bank on a new and righteous path.

The apprenticeship was uneventful. During the first two years, I spent a considerable time at the filing cabinet, sorting and filing documents. I was also the lowly messenger boy. Twice a day, I picked up salami sandwiches for the staff, made the rounds of the banks, picked up and delivered financial documents and money. I knew every street and every corner in Lucerne. I knew Lucerne better than a London cabbie knows his town. I learned to use the typewriter and write basic business correspondence.

After two years, a second apprentice joined the bank, and I was elevated to Senior Apprentice, spending more time at the typewriter and less time at the filing cabinets. Josef, the new apprentice, later also worked in Paris for one year, emigrated to Vancouver, traveled the world, and became very successful.

Two half-days each week and on many evenings, I attended the mercantile school, an obligatory part of the apprenticeship program. We had great teachers and schoolmates.

Lucerne, where I completed my apprenticeship, is a beautiful town. It is located on Lake Lucerne and enjoys the most spectacular views of the Alps. There is no town in the world more beautiful than Lucerne. No wonder Lucerne attracts visitors from all over the world. I am so lucky to have worked in Lucerne for three years, and so proud to call Lucerne 'My Hometown'.

[Back to Beginning]

First-in-Class

After the three-year apprenticeship, we had to pass intense written and verbal tests. I studied hard and liked all commercial subjects, especially economics. I may have been low-level in sports - in other disciplines, I shone. I was ready to take the feared final exam. This time, I succeeded, in the top rank, second-best among hundreds of students. I even had my picture in the main Lucerne newspapers. My parents were pleased. My older brother, Franzi, has just lost a good farmhand.

Now, with a diploma in Commerce, the world will be brimming with opportunities. My life will be an odyssey. The world will be my oyster, that with grit and sword I shall pry open, and my pearl of fortune I shall find. I had dreamed of traveling the world since my earliest childhood. My life was charted, not on a Country Map, but on a desktop globe. In my mind, I plotted many journeys that covered the world. My stamp collection album was chock-full of stamps from every corner of the earth. Letters from pen pals in Holland and Japan were bundled with rubber bands. My bedroom drawers were jammed with pamphlets and flight schedules of the world's airlines.

I planned to spend a year in Paris to perfect my French, then move to Canada for two or three years to learn English, and then to South America to learn Spanish. Somewhere over the rainbow, the yellow brick road I will follow, hoping for good luck and a strong tailwind, staying on the path, wherever the road may lead, and from mistakes, I will learn. I will settle in a far-flung corner of the world, fall in love, bring up a beautiful family, be successful in my work, and bring pride to my parents and family back home. I am not fleeing from home; I want to embrace the open world. I will always love my homeland and warmly feel my Swiss inner self. Eventually, inevitably, in the distant future, I will be drawn back to my Swiss Homeland, drawn home like a salmon fish or a sea turtle. Life will be a long trek; life will be an adventure.

[Back to Beginning]

Tunisia

After three years of apprenticeship, hard work, and commitment, I deserved a short break. I needed a trip abroad, a trip to a different continent, a trip to North Africa.

I boarded the train in Lucerne and journeyed south to Naples. In Naples, I boarded a ship for Tunis on the North African coast. The ship sailed late evening and docked at Palermo in Sicily the following morning. I had a whole day to explore the beautiful Mediterranean city. The ship departed for Tunis later that evening.

I had visited Sicily two years earlier. My schoolmate Wicki of the mercantile school and I camped on Sicily's west coast for a week. On that trip, I couldn't wait to see the Mediterranean Sea, the horizon, watch the sun rise at dawn, and set at dusk - a sight that was beyond my imagination. I saw pictures of ocean scenes on postcards and in travel magazines; now, I could witness it myself. My forefathers were farmers and may never have traveled beyond the Alps. I may be the first in many generations to stand at the ocean's shore and gaze out at the horizon, seeing the magic line where the sea meets the sky, the rim of the Earth.

On that earlier trip to Sicily, we were on the night train south of Naples, our heads sleeping on backpacks. The train rolled quietly along the coast, approaching the Strait of Messina on Italy's toe. It was early morning; I woke up and looked out. Dawn broke over the pristine scene of the Tyrrhenian Sea. The sun was about to rise, the sky was clear, and the sea was blue. And there it was, the sight I dreamed about all my life, the horizon, the line to infinity. Although a hazy mist blurred the magical line, the view was totally amazing. So, which do I like more, the breathtaking view of the sea with the infinite horizon, or a magnificent alpine mountain scene? Which one do I want in my life? I want them both.

Now, I am in Sicily again, on my trip to Tunisia. I boarded my ship that evening for the crossing to Tunisia on the African coast. In the morning, as I stepped onto African ground, I felt and embraced the moment of excitement. The city of Tunis was beautiful. I walked the boulevard and visited the Arabian markets. I had enough time to visit nearby Carthage, a historic ancient Phoenician and Roman town. Later in the afternoon, I boarded the train and traveled south to Sousse. I had no travel plan; the travel was ad hoc. I decided each day where to go next.

After overnight stays in Sousse and Monastir, I continued my journey to Sfax, then further south using minivans and buses. I walked to the local marketplace and looked for cars displaying their destination, a 'ride-share'. When the cars were full of paying passengers, they left for the posted destination. I found a ride-share bound for Gabès, and we left within an hour. I arrived in Gabès later that evening and stayed at a youth hostel for three or four nights.

All the local folks were so friendly and hospitable. Wherever I went, people were eager to help, show me around, and talk about their country and its history. I have the fondest memories of Tunisia. The people were so kind and gracious.

After my splendid stay at Gabès, it was time to return to Tunis for the ship passage back to Naples. I traveled to Sousse by bus and shared cars. On the way, the friendly driver stopped for me at the ancient town of Kairouan, so I could quickly walk around and see the historic place. I arrived at Sousse later that evening.

Sousse is about 80 miles south of Tunis. I needed to be in Tunis that evening, so I would not miss the boat back to Italy early the following morning. On arrival, I immediately walked to the Sousse train station. To my shock, I learned that no more trains were running to Tunis that night. I walked to the marketplace, hoping to find a bus or a ride-share to Tunis. There were none. I was stuck. I was in a quandary. I didn't know what to do.

I walked back and forth, fretting over how I could get back to Tunis that evening. I sat down on a bench to gather my thoughts. I felt weak and unwell; I had not eaten anything since breakfast. I was not hungry. Then, I made up my mind; I would hitchhike to Tunis; it was the only option. I stood up and briskly walked northwards to the outskirts of the town, where I hoped to catch a car on the road to Tunis. It was late evening when I finally reached the edge of town. The sun faded at the horizon behind what looked like desert dunes.

I was on the verge of embarking on the most hazardous and foolish adventure. It was nighttime, in a foreign country. I was nineteen, but looked more like a seventeen-year-old. I stood on the side of the road and raised my arm, my thumb pointed up. It felt strange, it looked novice; I had never hitchhiked before. Many cars drove past. Was I doing that right? It started to get dark. I worried that drivers would not see me standing on the side of the road. I felt weak, tired, and I was not myself. I could not think clearly.

A car eventually stopped, and I was offered a ride to Tunis. The car blew a tire on the way, and I helped install the spare. The driver was very kind, and we had interesting conversations. He said he worked for the Czechoslovakian Foreign Consulate. Thank God, I made it safely to Tunis. In hindsight, I feel lucky. Hitchhiking at night in North Africa could have led to a terrible misadventure. Or worse.

The following morning, I boarded my ship to Palermo and Naples. The German university students I met at the youth hostel in Gabès also traveled on the boat. A young lady in that group came to me and said I might be in personal danger, that I was being stalked. Earlier, I experienced an annoyance that I instinctively fended off. The warning sharpened my alertness. The students kept an eye out for me and later helped ward off a potentially unpleasant encroachment. I shall forever be grateful to these good Germans. I stayed alert and watchful throughout the voyage. In Naples, I disembarked and rushed to the train station.

From Naples, I travelled home by train. I missed the last connection in Milan and spent the night in the train station's waiting room. I was still tired and felt feverish.

When I arrived home, my mother did not recognize me at first. I must have lost a lot of weight. I woke up in the morning with a dangerously high fever. My mother was alarmed; she called Doctor Müller for an emergency house call.

[Back to Beginning]

Time to Fly

It was time to leave home. My plans had jelled: First, a year in Paris, then off to North America. I signed up for a one-month course at a language institute in Paris, an outpost of my mercantile apprenticeship school. During that month, while polishing my French, I would find a job in Paris. My bags were packed; I was ready to go.

For years, I longed for that day, a day so remote and seemingly so unreachable. On a cool spring morning early in May, that day had come, the day to explore the world. I sensed what a fledgling bird feels when it leaves its nest. The bird is perched on the rim of its nest, gazes at the open field afar, and flutters its wings. With zest and boldness, it dares to jump and take its first flight, knowing the wings will lift it high. I was that bird, and it was my time to fly.

I had finished my breakfast with a cup of Muetti's freshly brewed coffee and looked at the clock; it was time to go. At the front door, bulging to burst, was my suitcase. Next to the suitcase sat my new iconic blue Swissair shoulder bag, which would make me look like a seasoned world traveler, a bit of braggadocio.

I walked to the barn to say goodbye to Vati. "Goodbye, Seppi, have a good trip, and stay safe," he said as he shook my hand. As I left the barn, our farm dog, Prinz, jumped towards me, barking and whining. Could Prinz feel that I was leaving my home? I patted the dog softly on the head. He looked at me with sad, drooping eyes.

Back at the house, I put on my jacket, checked my pocket for my passport and wallet, and said goodbye to Muetti. Muetti asked me if I had taken some holy water. I already had. But Muetti dunked her finger in the Holy Water vessel and made a cross on my forehead. I needed the protection; it had to last for a long time. "Don't forget to write as soon as you get there."

It was time to go, it was time to fly, leave the nest, and wing it with optimism and faith. I buttoned up my jacket, grabbed my bag and suitcase, said one more goodbye, and shut the door behind me. And off I was. I felt sad yet excited at the same time. On the footpath to the road, I looked back one more time and waved. Mueti probably watched through the window; maybe she waved to me. I could hear Prinz barking from the barn.

I had to catch the seven o'clock commuter bus to Lucerne. Balancing my blue Swissair bag on my shoulder and carrying the suitcase alternately with my left and right hand, I walked up the hill to the bus stop at the crossroads. It was a short walk, but as a wise man may have said, every journey of a thousand miles starts with a few single steps. As always, when I commuted to the bank in Lucerne, the old blue bus arrived on time.

I remembered how many times I missed the bus by a few seconds, and just saw the taillights disappear beyond the road curve. I was not going to miss the bus this time. This would likely be my last bus ride.

The bus stopped with a clunk, and the driver-conductor opened the door. The coach was packed full; there were no empty seats. Some passengers were standing in the aisle. I lugged my suitcase up the steps and paid for the ticket. "Round-trip?" the bus driver routinely asked. "No, only a one-way ticket," I said with a suppressed smile. I passed the occupied seats and moved down the aisle, shoving my suitcase with my foot and clumsily stroking some faces with my dangling Swissair shoulder bag. The bus started up, and I grabbed the handgrip and leaned down to catch one last glance of my family home, the meadows and crop fields, as the bus swung around the curve, and it all disappeared behind the bushes and trees.

The faces of the passengers looked bored and sleepy, frozen like still figures at Madame Tussaud's wax museum; everyone went to their daily jobs in Lucerne. Nobody paid attention to me; nobody knew this was one of the best days of my life - no sign of boredom on my face, just a look of enthusiasm. I was entering a new life, a new world. Then, on the drab canvas, I noticed a bright spot: the smiling face of Marie Felber. Marie was on her way to her job as a seamstress in Rothenburg. Years ago, Marie stayed at our house one summer, and we liked her. She was so happy to see me. I told her I was leaving for Paris, and she wished me a 'Bon Voyage'. A few passengers lifted their sleepy eyes to see what that moment of affair was all about.

In Lucerne, I bought a ticket for Paris and boarded the next train to Basel. And off I was.

Leaning forth the open path,
I look past the leading star.
With yearning thoughts of lands afar,
I leave my sheltered life behind,
for new worlds, I hope to find.

[Back to Beginning]

Paris

Spring 1961. I arrived in Paris late in the evening and stayed the first night at a hotel near the Gare du Nord train station. The following morning, I oriented myself in Paris and signed in at the language school. We were a small class of young Swiss men and women. Our professor, Monsieur Didier, taught French grammar and French classics. I rented a small room on the sixth floor of an apartment building within easy walking distance from the Arc de Triomphe.

I left behind the protected life in rural Ludiswil and was suddenly transplanted to a large metropolis. It was so exciting. During the first few weeks in Paris, I was obsessed with watching the parades of many visiting celebrities. I missed a French class to see the motorcade of President Kennedy and Jacqueline's State visit. Here they were, in person, sitting in an open black limousine, smiling and waving to the ecstatic crowd lined up on both sides of the boulevard. Then, the Shah of Iran made a State visit, and I was there to see him with his wife, Soraya, as they left their Quai d'Orsay residence for a grand reception. I had never seen a couple so lavishly attired with such assured deportment. On several occasions, I saw le Président de la République Charles de Gaulle with his trademark stalwart posture parading down the Champs-Elysées. The thrill soon wore off.

Two weeks after I arrived in Paris, through the intermediary of the language school, Monsieur Romain Dupont offered me a job at the Banque Dupont as a bank trainee, intern, known as Stagiaire. Monsieur Dupont was a principal and an owner of the Banque Dupont, a large private bank, established centuries ago. The bank had about thirty branches throughout France. I worked at the main office on Franklin D. Roosevelt Avenue, off the Champs-Elysées Boulevard.

In Paris, there are so many beautiful and historic buildings. When I first emerged from the subway station at the Place d'Etoile, I was astounded by the magnificence of the Arc de Triomphe.

To this day, I have never seen a monument more beautiful, anywhere in the world. In my Paris days, access to the top of the Arc, walking up its stairwell, was free for all. I have walked up these stairs more than a dozen times. From the top, I admired the incredible views of Paris.

Place d'Etoile, 'Place of the Stars', is named for its circle from which twelve wide avenues stream out, like a shining star. The most prominent of its avenues is Champs-Elisée. Another is Avenue de Wagram, which leads to my street, Rue Théodore de Banville.

My room was on the sixth floor of an apartment building at Rue Théodore de Banville 18, a beautiful bourgeois street near the Arc de Triomphe. Many old apartment buildings in Paris have small rooms in the attic, called 'Chambre de Bonne', meaning maid's room. In olden times, these rooms were accommodations for the owners' maids; now they are rented to students and poor folks. My room was such a Chambre de Bonne. I liked it and never thought of moving. The room had a small dormer window on the sloping roof, looking down into the building's inner courtyard. The room was small, without running water or heating. There were about twenty such rooms on the floor, arranged along a dimly lit zigzag corridor. The rooms shared one toilet and a cold water tap in the hallway. In winter, it was cold, and in summer, stuffy and hot. Access to the floor was via ten flights of stairs from the courtyard, an unmarked entry door next to the trash cans. I could run up the stairs in about thirty seconds. Flying down took less than fifteen seconds, skipping several steps and swinging myself around the rail posts at each floor landing. I was happy in Paris.

I quickly got used to living on my own. Life lived up to expectations; routine set in. On Saturdays, I often went to see a movie or walked the boulevards of Paris. I shopped at nearby stores and cooked on my small electric stove. I had my hair cut at a barber's shop for the first time. At home, Father always cut the boys' hair once a month. Muetti told Father when our hair needed to be cut. Father, after hard work all day, would have preferred to rest in the evening. He was not always in a good mood when cutting our hair. He did an excellent job, and Muetti always complimented him on a 'job well done'.

In the evenings, I studied French. I badly needed a French dictionary. I visited the nearby Lafayette department store several times to buy an affordable dictionary. I had my eyes on the Petit Larousse, a thick, well-illustrated book, but I couldn't decide; the price was a week's pay. Eventually, after I paged through the book again and counted the money in my pocket, my frugality relented, and I made the purchase. I kept my Petit Larousse book throughout my life. It always found a place in my luggage as I moved from country to country, first in suitcases, then in a shipping chest, a cargo container, and the moving van. We still have the Petit Larousse book today; it is proudly displayed on our bookshelf.

Cooking was a new experience. There was a boulangerie around the corner. I loved their crusty baguettes. For dinner, I sometimes ate bread with tea. Sadly, some evenings the bakery ran out of baguettes. Paris Baguettes are sooo good. As someone said, the perfect French Baguette, delicately crusty outside, soft and airy inside, is worth the airfare to Paris. On Saturdays, I treated myself to grilled chicken. I cooked a spaghetti dinner for Sunday lunch, like at home.

I sent a letter home once a month. In one letter, I proudly told my mother I gained a few pounds, hinting at my cooking skills. Muetti always replied within a few days, this time to say 'Stay healthy, Seppi'. Two weeks later, the mailman left a note saying a parcel had arrived and I should pick it up at the train station. It was a good-sized package filled with juicy apples.

Most days, I walked to the bank, a 30-minute walk. All employees entered the bank from the back of the building. We had to check in before 8:15. Exactly at 8:15, the bell rang, and the employee entrance door was locked. Anyone arriving late had to ring the bell and was escorted by a guard to the personnel department. It happened to me just once.

I loved my job at the bank. As a stagiaire, I moved through the bank's various departments, check clearing, foreign exchange, brokerage, and others.. One time, I was assigned to a small team tasked with updating and modernizing the vault's record-keeping system. The vault was massive, located in a large hall in the secure underground basement. For about four weeks, we were locked in the vault all day, looking up and posting the data. It was a big and interesting project.

Then I moved to the brokerage department. It was summer, and the stock market was so quiet that sometimes we waited half an hour between customer orders. We all became lazy and started to read books and magazines. Even the boss was reading. When an agitated stockbroker rushed into the sleepy, quiet room with an order slip, everybody tried to look busy and avoid eye contact; nobody wanted to handle the order. Idleness begets laziness. The boss, overlooking the room from his elevated front desk, randomly pointed his finger at one of us, his signal to process the order. It was a mere five minutes of work.

All employees were kind and personable. Lunch was served in the bank's canteen. The food was excellent. And we could have second servings. In summer, after lunch, we often walked around the block. On some hot days, we stopped at the brasserie across the street for a refreshing iced Pernod. Standing at the bar, watching the Pernod liqueur in the tall glass turn bright yellow as we added ice water, slowly drinking the anise-flavored drink, and then returning to work at the bank, all this invokes the most treasured memories.

In the morning, we greeted the boss and each employee with a handshake. After work, we said goodbye, again shaking hands. Once a week, I got special permission to leave early to attend French classes at the Alliance Française at Sorbonne University. So, at four o'clock in the afternoon, I had to interrupt everybody's work with a handshake and a 'Bonsoir'.

During my stay in Paris, frequent terrorist attacks rocked the city, instigated by rebels against the liberation of the French colony of Algeria. Once, on my way to the grocery store, an army truck streaked to a halt. Soldiers jumped from it, pointing at me with their guns drawn. They searched me and my bag. It all passed so quickly - a mental shock. It took a moment before I realized what had just happened. What? What was that?

One late summer evening, I was relaxing in bed when there was a knock on the door. Who could that be at that late hour? It could not be a robber; who would think of robbing a room in the attic? It was my brother, Isidor. It was the biggest and nicest surprise in my life! He traveled from Switzerland to Paris on his motorbike.

I was amazed how Isidor could find me at Rue Théodore de Banville 18, in the 17th arrondissement.

My place was located on a small street, which was not shown on many city maps. He told me how he got lost buzzing around the streets of Paris for more than an hour on his Moped motorbike; he could not find my street. Isidor knew that my address was close to the Arc de Triomphe, so he parked the motorbike at that busy circle and continued his search on foot. Isidor barely spoke French, but a German gentleman was good enough to tell him where to find Théodore de Banville Street.

When Isidor arrived at my address, he entered through the main door of the apartment building. It was an elegant place occupied by well-to-do Parisians. I never met any of them. Isidor must have been impressed that his brother lived in such a fancy building. Isidor knew that I lived on the sixth floor. The elevator only showed five floors, so Isidor knocked on an apartment door on the fifth floor and politely asked how he could get to the penthouse on the sixth floor. A Frenchman answered. With an unfriendly hand motion, he told him to go away. Back in the entrance hall, the concierge was more polite. She pointed to the door leading to the backyard. There, past the garbage cans, he would find a door to the staircase leading up to my floor, the attic.

Isidor brought a present from Muetti. One of Muetti's dessert specialties was Hamburger Speck. Hamburger Speck is a cake made from alternating layers of tea biscuits and a chocolate mix. The chocolate mix contains coconut fat. After the cake has cooled, it settles into a hard block that can be cut into thin slices. Hamburger Speck was always our favorite dessert. It was a July evening, and Isidor had traveled all day in the hot sun. He opened his traveling bag, lifted out the cake, and unwrapped it. Horror! The cake was in a state of complete meltdown. The gooey chocolate mix had squeezed out from between the layers of biscuits and had collected at the bottom of the box. We were shocked. There was no way to salvage the cake. We had no fridge to cool it down. We could not imagine eating the cake. We tasted the runny chocolate with our fingers. No. What to do? All the hard work Muetti went through creating that wonderful present, especially for me. We felt bad. After more reflecting and agonizing, we decided to discard the cake. We convinced ourselves it was the only solution, and it would not make us feel guilty. We would thank Muetti for the cake, and Muetti would not need to be told what happened to it.

My French work permit was valid for only one year. I wanted to extend my stay by three months till mid-summer. I needed to follow the strict government procedures and formally apply for an extension with the French authorities. The bank let me take half a day off to visit the central police station. After stopping at several counters, the orderly bureaucratic process was completed, and my work permit extension was approved. I was pleased to spend my second summer in the beautiful city of Paris.

I still consider Paris one of the most beautiful cities in the world, and I always think of Parisians as kind and friendly. I am so proud and lucky to have lived in Paris for over a year and to have a bit of the French in my inner self, in my soul, a little bit of that 'je-ne-sais-quoi'.

[Back to Beginning]

In the Army

After fifteen months in Paris, it was time to go home. I decided to complete the five-month mandatory Swiss military service. Still living abroad, I could have wiggled myself out of that obligation. However, with deep inner feelings for my Swiss homeland and to respect my family's wishes, I chose to honor my military responsibilities.

All young, able-bodied Swiss men, from a workman to an aspiring lawyer, are obligated to complete an initial five-month military training program. It is called the 'Rekrutenschule', a school for recruits. Then, the men are called back for a three-week military refresher course each year. Military service in Switzerland is a young man's unquestioned duty; it is highly respected and honored.

I enlisted, passed the physical tests, and now had to make a decision: Artillery or Infantry? A cannoneer or a foot soldier? Would I prefer to maneuver armored vehicles through mud and rocks, fire heavy machine guns, and learn cannonballistics, or should I learn rifle skills and march in lockstep? No contest - Artillery!

Our main military camp was in a mountain tunnel at Saint-Maurice, in the French-speaking canton of Valais. The military fortifications were a massive and wast network of tunnels, hospitals, sleeping quarters, cannon infrastructures, and munition storage facilities. We did not see it all, as much of it was secret. The tunnels were essential for Switzerland's national defense system.

On the first day, after the welcome address by the Regiment Commander, we marched to the armory to be outfitted with the army uniform, the coat, helmet, rifle, and the 'Tornister' backpack. The army store had already run out of my size pants, so they gave me temporary pants - oversized and much too loose. I asked for a belt so that the pants would not fall. The army does not supply belts, apparently for some good reason. They told me to come back in the morning, and they would outfit me with the correct size pants.

As our freshly outfitted column marched towards the quarters, I saw Walter Gassmann standing on the side of the road, good-humoredly watching the troop of recruits. I was surprised to see him; I did not know he was enlisted in the same military division. Walter was a family friend from my neighboring village, a school classmate, and a remote relative of my mother. He proudly wore his military uniform decorated with a double chevron patch, showing that he had already advanced from Corporal to Quartermaster Sergeant. Unlike me, he appeared to have military ambitions. Walter could not stop laughing when he saw me. Here I was, wearing a helmet that did not fit my head, the weird-looking knapsack hanging on my back, the rifle and the coat slung over my shoulder, the shirt hanging out, and my left hand clenching the top of my oversized pants so they would not drop to the ground. I must have been a picture straight out of a comic book.

The military training started the next morning, with rifle drills and long-distance marching, carrying a packed Tornister and heavy boots. Later, we were also trained in ABC defence (Atomic-Bbiological-Chemical).

Some days, for a few hours at a time, I was assigned to work in the accounting office, mainly processing payments. The sergeant in charge of that office spent a year as an intern with a bank in Paris, just as I did, and we had many great conversations about our experiences as bank interns. On a couple of Weekends, I was ordered to operate the switchboard. The switchboard was pre-war; you see them now in old movies. It was an interesting experience. On other weekends, if not on home leave, I was given kitchen duty.

We soon learned we would not operate cannons or drive armored vehicles through mud and rock, contrary to what we had hoped. We would be trained as 'Communication Specialists'. We laid the transmission cables and established the communication link for the artillerymen's practice drills. We realized that the role of the cable layer did not nearly rise to that of the gunman's standing. Our corporal told us that our job as telephonists was equally essential and we should wear the mantle given with pride. The exercises lasted all day. We had to get up early, long before sunrise; miles of cables had to be laid out before the gunnery men could begin firing their cannons. We carried the telephone cables on our backs and hung them with long rods on tree branches, bush twigs, and fence posts. To make initial contact, we spun the communication box's crank handles and waited for a response. The cannoneers could now fire the guns.

The artillery fired the cannons from a slope position at a target across the valley. Some men in our team stayed at the site of the cannons, and others were stationed at a safe vantage point where the spotters could observe the impact. Commanders were at both locations, communicating through us, the humble Artillery Telephonists. We were never taught Gunnery and Ballistics or instructed on how to read trajectory tables, although we were curious and eager to learn.

When the artillery shooting practice was over, we rolled back the cables, carried them to the truck, and returned to camp. It was a hard day's work. At least once, the squad leader asked the truck driver to stop at a tavern for some beer and camaraderie.

What a change from my year in Paris. But I knew I had to complete the military school, and in a way, I was proud to do it. I had great respect for the Swiss Army. I worked hard and conscientiously for the good of our team. I was a model soldier. I think I was.

On a cold autumn day, high up in the mountains, I was assigned sentry duty outside our tunnel entrance. I took my assignment seriously; it was an honor. As a guard, I had to salute all arriving and departing Corporals, the ranking military officers, our feared Colonel, and the camp's Brigadier. I could tell their ranks from the status emblems on their uniforms and head caps, ranging from single chevrons to thick triple gold stripes to the Brigadier's gold laurel wreath.

While guarding the tunnel entrance, I was allowed to stand at ease, but for the salutes, I had to stand at attention, my shoulders straight, my head lifted, and my rifle firmly pressed parallel to my body. I marched back and forth to keep my feet warm.

I dutifully stayed guard hour after hour. As it darkened, I wondered why I was not relieved from duty. Since all the units had returned hours earlier, the military exercises must have finished.

It was now past eight o'clock. I peeked into the tunnel through the iron gate. There was no movement; it was deadly quiet. The entrance gate was closed and locked as it always was at night. I shouted into the tunnel for attention. My voice was too faint to travel. I screamed louder, "Hello," but I just heard my echo.

By nine o'clock, all lights were off. I suspected that my Corporal must have forgotten about me. Did any of my colleagues notice my absence? By now, they would have finished the routine nightly roll call; someone surely noticed that a soldier was missing. They will come and open the gate and call me in. Nine-thirty. At lights-out, someone will have noticed that my bunk bed was not occupied and will call a sergeant. My bunk bed was at the bottom, not the top; everyone would have seen that it was not undone. Nobody noticed. I tend to go unnoticed. Someone once told me I would have been a good spy in the Secret Service, the story of my life. I started to worry.

We were all good friends, especially the guys in our small squad. We enjoyed great camaraderie. Why did none of my friends notice my absence, the empty bunk bed? A few nights before, we sat on top of a bunk bed and downed two bottles of rum late into the night, laughing and joking so loud that it kept others in our large sleeping quarters awake. They needed the sleep as reveille was at five o'clock. Someone called the sergeant major, who quickly stopped the noisy party.

I was still on duty, and it was bitterly cold. To warm up my hands, I slapped both arms around my shoulder, as taught in the army. I had no food, but eating was the last thing on my mind. I waited two more hours till midnight.

Nobody ever leaves the guard post - I reminded myself. But can common sense sometimes override the rules? At some point, can reasoned arguments nix the regulations? What to do? A military truck was parked outside. I decided to lie down on the back of the open truck and slip under the plastic tarps. My helmet kept my head warm. I dozed off and slept for short intervals.

The night was long. At first light, I staggered from the truck, my limbs half frozen. If I had stayed and fallen asleep again, the vehicle might have been driven down to the valley with me under the tarps.

Early in the morning, the tunnel lit up, and the gate opened. I walked inside and presented myself to my Corporal. I did not know what to expect. Reprimand or apology? The Corporal was embarrassed and apologized. The Lieutenant personally came to see me. He said I could stay in all day, rest, and catch up on my sleep. My army colleagues said they saw the empty bunk bed and thought I was on home leave; they had not seen me all day. Yes, I was on guard outside the tunnel the entire day.

We had good teammates in our group, and great camaraderie. Our commanders were good, upright men: the Corporal, Lieutenant, and Captain. We hardly saw the Major and the Colonel. They all tried to make the five months as pleasant as possible, to make it a good life experience.

Our military service was due to end in October 1962. There were valid fears that the discharge might be postponed because of the worldwide Cuban Missile Crisis. On the last day, as part of the eagerly awaited discharge ceremony, the combined regiment marched one more time before the Colonel.

I feel so good that I completed the Swiss military service.

[Back to Beginning]

Quebec

In early March 1963, at age 21, I was ready to leave for Quebec, Canada. I had fulfilled my Swiss military obligation and felt good about it. I chose Quebec because the Province is French-speaking, and I felt comfortable speaking French. Once in Canada, after a year or so, I would move to an English-speaking province and learn English.

I had my ticket for the transatlantic crossing to Canada. I went to the bank and exchanged Swiss francs for twenty-five Canadian dollars. Back then, that was a lot of money. I do remember that, the exact amount; I still have the bank receipt in my treasured souvenir box. I probably also secured a small banker's draft for a few weeks of living expenses and emergencies.

On the evening of the 7th of March, Dorli drove me to the train station in Lucerne. On the way to the port of Le Havre, I made a stopover in Paris to visit my cousin Elisabeth, who studied at a convent in Trappes, southwest of the city. The nuns did not like male visitors showing up unannounced, but they let me in. They were skeptical at first and kept a close eye on me. Elisabeth told me afterward that the sisters eventually liked me because 'I had an open and honest face'. I also visited the Banque L Dupont, my previous employer in Paris. Unlike a bank employee, I could now enter the bank through the main entrance on Avenue Franklin D. Roosevelt, off Boulevard Champs-Elysées. Monsieur Romain Dupont, chief executive and part-owner of the bank, was pleased to see me, and he handed me a letter of recommendation that should help me in finding a job in Montreal, Canada.

SSRyndam

The SS Ryndam steamship of the Holland-America Line sailed from the port of Le Havre for Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada, a six-day crossing. The Ryndam was not a luxury cruise ship; she was a no-frills Atlantic passenger ship, accommodating about 850 tourists and immigrants. I would have liked to experience the crossing on the luxurious brand-new SS France, but such a ticket was far too expensive. SS Ryndam made her maiden voyage in 1951; she was built as a freighter. The ship featured few public rooms, including a large lounge, card room, library, bar, and smoking room. Everything was practical, just right, nothing overdone, true to Dutch good sense.

The crossing was rough. I was sick in my bunk bed for the first three days, with no food or drink. If I had known, I could have called for room service, but I was unaware that such service was available. Anyway, I was not hungry. After three days at sea, the ship's purser came to see if I was okay. He was annoyed because he left three notes at my cabin door asking me to come to his office. I could not go to the purser's office; I was sick. I could barely make the occasional trip to the washroom down the hallway. In time, I adjusted to the rough sea and enjoyed the remaining three days.

On the fourth day, I finally went to the dining room. At the assigned table, I met the other table guests: an older American couple returning from a trip to Europe, a French immigrant, Francois from Bordeaux, a young American lady, and a professor from Philadelphia. Philadelphia - wow - what an impressive name for a town, I thought. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, I wondered if I would ever set foot in that grand city.

I met many other young immigrants on the ship. We all had much in common and had lively discussions on the forward deck. The sea was still rough. We were lifted to the sky when the ship's bow rose to the waves' crest, then plunged into the trough with a healthy spritz of salty spray spewing into the face.

On arrival in Halifax, on March 14, 1963, we went through Canadian Immigration. The immigration officers were friendly and caring. I felt welcome in Canada from the first minute. The officer stamped my passport as a 'Landed Immigrant'. Late afternoon, a special immigrant train took us overnight to Montreal.

Finally, the next day, from far away, beyond the flat expanse of snow-covered fields, we could see the skyline of Montreal with its towering skyscrapers and smoky chimneys of factories on the city's outskirts. We were in awe. This will be our new hometown. In this big city, surely there will be a lot of work for all of us, we figured, a thought that helped calm our lingering fear of not finding a job. Soon, we arrived at the Central Station.

It did not take long to discover that finding a job in Montreal was much more difficult. Routinely, in the early morning hour, by instinct, the group of immigrants of the SS Ryndam was drawn to the train station and met in the large central hall. There were benches to sit on, and the hall was warm. We may have had little in common, yet we all shared the same concerns. We were alone, without family, did not know anyone, and were trying to find jobs. It was a small social gathering that lifted our spirits. Each day, as some of us found a job, the group became smaller. And smaller.

To conserve the limited financial resources, Francois, the young immigrant from France who was seated at the same dining table on the ship, and I shared a room for a few weeks. He found a job fairly quickly as a pastry chef with a good salary. I found employment with the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce in five or six days, thanks to the letter of recommendation I received from Monsieur Romain Dupont of Banque Dupont in Paris. The pay was low, but I was happy. I made my last trip to Central Station to say my goodbyes.

After less than a month of working in Montreal, the bank transferred me to Farnham, a small town about thirty miles south of Montreal. I a rented a room on Main Street, a 15-minute walk to the bank. I was happy in Farnham and still have good memories of that beautiful small town.

I bought an old television and installed it in my room. I remember eating my cheese sandwich on my 22nd birthday when the program was interrupted by the news of the assassination of President Kennedy. I will never forget that day.

At the bank, I was a teller. I loved the job; it was a great experience. The employees were required to arrive and wait outside the bank at 8:30. One senior employee unlocked the door and went inside alone to check that all was safe. The person would give an 'all-clear' sign, and the rest of the employees were allowed in. The bank opened at 9:00 and closed at 3. We stayed until we had finished our work. In summer, when business was slow, we left at 3:30 in the afternoon. On Fridays, the bank was open for two hours in the evening. Many came in to cash their weekly paychecks. Farnham was a strategic railway town with a large number of railway workers. I was amazed by their high pay compared to my meager salary. But no complaints. Four times a year, we worked late hours calculating interest on all the thousands of savings accounts. It was before the age of computers. When working late hours, we received 80 cents of supper money. We often went to a nearby restaurant for a great spaghetti dinner.

I remember a special promotion for Christmas Club Savings. We would get an extra vacation day for every 25 Christmas Clubs opened. Christmas Club members had to deposit one dollar each month and would receive twelve dollars back in mid-December. I forgot the exact details of the deal; maybe there were better incentives. I tried to convince all customers at my counter of the advantages of the Christmas Club, the painless and easy way to save up for Christmas presents. Many signed up. The bank customers seemed to like me; many lined up at my counter. Maybe they liked my accent. Some customers thought I came from Paris. Some came back and signed up for a second Christmas Club account. I logged over 50 Christmas Club sales and was entitled to two days off. Yes, I could be a good salesman. I did not sign up for a Christmas Club myself. We never received the extra days off. The branch manager apologized and said that the head office in Montreal never approved the incentive plan.

I still have the fondest memories of my year in Quebec.

A footnote. Later, the steamship SS Ryndam became the Copa Casino in Biloxi, Mississippi. Then, in 2005, Hurricane Katrina destroyed her.

[Back to Beginning]

Walk in the Park

It was early December 1963, the beginning of my first winter in Quebec. I remember it was shortly after the assassination of President John Kennedy. I ached to take a short vacation and travel to New York City before the first snowstorm would bear down on Quebec.

The city of New York has always fascinated me: a metropolis with breathtaking skyscrapers, the subways, the Statue of Liberty, and New York's dynamism. I clearly remember, as a child, paging through a magazine and being fascinated by a New York bank advertisement. The ad featured a large office, rows upon rows of desks, and employees working on Remington typewriters and calculating machines. And how I wanted to be one of them, working in that office in New York.

The train trip from Montreal to New York City took about ten hours. I stepped out of the train station and was stunned by the sight of New York and its vivacity. Woah! I walked around Midtown Manhattan and tried to find a hotel room, but was taken aback by the high prices and the snooty attitude of the hotel receptionists. I could not afford two weeks' pay for a one-night stay at the hotel. Eventually, after a doorman suggested it, I found a reasonably priced hotel room in Brooklyn.

The following morning, I took the subway to Harlem. I read a lot about Harlem and wanted to visit the place. I stopped at a restaurant for breakfast, then began my walk through Central Park toward Manhattan.

The weather was frosty, and the park was deserted. Halfway through the park on a narrow path, I caught up behind a slow-walking man. I paced behind him, waiting for a good moment to overtake him. I scraped my boots on the gravel to make noise and cleared my throat to let him know someone was anxious to pass. He did not hear me, or he wanted to ignore me. I was not in a rush. I followed him, waiting for the path to widen when I could pass him.

The walking path led into an underpass, a short, narrow tunnel. Halfway inside the tunnel, the man suddenly turned around, pulled a knife, and pointed it at me. He motioned for me to hand over my camera. My Pax A4 camera was hanging around my neck. I paid a lot for it at the end of my apprenticeship. I treasured my Pax camera, and the film roll had many great pictures of my trip. I shook my head. "No." He kept pointing his knife at me, closer, nervously gesticulating. With a shaking voice, I told him I could give him money instead of the camera. Duh, you say - not the smartest thing. But I was panic-stricken and could not think straight. The man nodded. I was about to reach for the wallet inside my jacket. Then, my inborn instinct reacted. By impulse, instead of pulling out my wallet, I whammed my wrenched fist into the man's stomach. He fell back. I sprinted out of the underpass.

When bolting away, my rubber overshoes spun off and rolled down into the dry brook. I ran for half a minute when I met a man walking his dog. I told him about the attack. He ignored me.

Soon, things seemed to have settled down. I could not see or hear anyone. I had to find the rubbers that slipped off my shoes; I had no choice. With my eyes peeled and my ears perked up, I walked back to the underpass. All was quiet. It felt safe. I cautiously entered the tunnel and picked up my rubber overshoes. As I emerged from the tunnel, a gang of men ran down the slope towards me. I assumed they were associates of the attacker, and they wanted to take revenge. I ran to the nearest park exit and stopped a police car. The policeman asked me to sit in his car and radioed for help. With sirens blaring, four or five police cars raced through the park. With their guns drawn, the police rounded up nearly a dozen men.

I spent two hours at the police station. The investigating officer confronted me with the men and asked me to identify the attacker from the lineup. I have problems remembering faces, and I found it difficult, if not impossible, to single out the attacker. I was reasonably certain who it was, but could not be sure. The officer then asked me to punch each in the stomach with my fist, as I did when attacked. Perhaps, he figured, the feel of the punch would help me remember. I hesitated, wondering if I had heard it right. He repeated and told me to do it. I did, but with a gentle blow. I had to inform the officer that I could not identify the person with absolute certainty. They had to release the entire gang.

When I told my parents about the adventure in New York, Muetti wrote back saying that my father was sure I saved myself thanks to my military training in Switzerland. Thank God, she wrote, I decided to do my military service when I returned from Paris a year earlier.

Few know their innermost self and how they will react in unexpected situations. That reminds me of an incident in Paris many years later. I was in my early forties. One afternoon, Louise and I were strolling along the River Seine near Pont Neuf when suddenly I heard a distressed English lady scream for help. A gang of Romani youths had attacked her. They snatched her purse and ran away with it. Spontaneously, by impulse, I charged after the gypsy group, and I caught the young bag snatcher. I grabbed the handbag and handed it to the old lady. For me, it was an ecstatic moment. I was able to help someone. Surprised by my spur-of-the-moment action and the positive outcome, I felt joy, and hummed a happy tune all day...

[Back to Beginning]

Vancouver

As it was written in the stars, I was to leave Quebec after twelve months and find new lands. And so it came to pass. Throughout my stay in Quebec, I spoke French. It was time to move to an English-speaking province where I could learn English. In April 1964, I decided to move to Vancouver, British Columbia.

I asked to see the branch manager. I told him I decided to leave the bank. I felt somewhat guilty. When I interviewed for the job at the bank's headquarters in Montreal, the personnel officer told me he had some misgivings about hiring me because all the young Swiss people take up employment, are trained, and then leave after a year. Nevertheless, he offered me a job because of the excellent letter of recommendation that I received from Monsieur Dupont of the Banque Dupont in Paris. I was sad to leave. I liked Farnham and the Province of Quebec a lot. Everybody was so personable and friendly. But I had to get to the end of the rainbow and find that pot of gold.

It was time to leave Quebec. The train trip to Vancouver took three days and three nights. The first day after I arrived in Vancouver, I started job hunting. The job situation was grim. Ideally, I wanted to work for a shipping or international trading company. I walked from one shipping company office to another. There were no job openings. My limited knowledge of English did not help me in this dire situation. I also registered with the unemployment office. After a week, I nearly resigned myself to failure. I started to feel depressed. Reality revealed itself, and it hit hard. I took a day off.

I slept late into the day. At three o'clock in the afternoon, the landlady knocked at my door and told me that Mr. Murphy from Empire Shipping Company phoned; he had a job for me. An hour later, the unemployment office called. They also lined up a job interview. I started working at Empire Shipping Company the following Monday.

While working at Empire Shipping Company, I realized I needed higher professional qualifications. Education credentials are essential in North America. I inquired about professional accounting degrees. Admission to a five-year accounting program requires a minimum of a Grade 12, a High School degree. I left school in Grade 9 but completed a banking apprenticeship. That did not impress many. I needed to do more. To catch up, I signed up for Algebra. Studying at home after work, I completed the required three grades of High School Math in four months.

But English was a problem. My English proficiency was at a Grade Three level - probably an overstatement. Nevertheless, I boldly enrolled in an evening class for Grade 12 English. I vividly remember the first session when an animated class discussed the finer points of scenes in Geoffrey Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales. Or was it Shakespeare's Hamlet? I could not comprehend the essence and beauty of classical English literature. I had trouble finding the veiled messages in the poetic passages and was stressed out when trying to discuss them in front of the class, hearing faint chuckles. And 'gladly wolde he lerne...'. One evening, after a mentally straining session, the teacher motioned me over to his desk. "Hey..., hey," he glanced at his list of students, "hey Joseph, Joe, can I see you for a moment?" He must have noticed my distress and struggle and realized that English 12 was a challenge and an insurmountable barrier for me. He suggested that I see the school's admission office downstairs and see if they could find a spot for me in a lower class.

To stay, or not to stay, whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of a chuckling horde, take up arms against a sea of troubles, or throw up my hands and knuckle under.

By good fortune, the Society of Industrial Accountants admitted me to their five-year accounting program. Their admission policy was somewhat more liberal. They looked at my background and made an exception for me, not insisting on Grade 12 as an entrance prerequisite. The courses were held two or three evenings a week at the University of British Columbia, with a lot of homework.

I graduated among the top five in Canada. Now with my recognized Accounting Degree, I could add the three-letter professional designation after my name - if I wanted.

I changed jobs twice in Vancouver, always trying to diversify, broaden my knowledge, and for better pay. While studying for my accounting degree, I worked in the accounting department of a construction company, followed by three years at a large forest products company, advancing to financial analyst. After receiving my professional accounting qualifications, I joined an international mutual fund company. My career started to jell. I was the Accountant for two mutual funds.

I was eager to become a Canadian citizen, but it required five years of Canadian residency. Exactly five years after arriving at the port of Halifax, I applied for Canadian citizenship. The city's newspaper covered the Citizenship Award ceremony. The article mentioned one new Canadian citizen from Switzerland, a country famous for clocks and on-time trains, a young man who applied for citizenship five years after arriving in Canada, exactly to the day; a man of good timekeeping. Although we are no longer living in Canada, I still value and honor my Canadian citizenship.

My brother Isidor joined me in August 1966. At that time, we shared a small apartment on Haro Street in Vancouver's beautiful West End. It felt good to have my brother with me in Vancouver.

In the spring of 1967, I met the beautiful Louise at a dance at the Pavilion in Stanley Park, Vancouver. We danced all night. Le coup de foudre! Louise had recently arrived in Vancouver from Quebec with her sister Odette. They planned to stay in Vancouver for a year to learn English. Louise and I dated for a year, and we married in June of 1968 at the French Canadian church near Madame Marchand's house, where Louise lived. We spent our 'nuit de noce' at Harrison Hot Springs and the honeymoon at a beach cabin on Okanagan Lake in Kelowna.

[Back to Beginning]

Mustang Moment

When I was a kid, only a few families in my village owned a car; I could count the number on the fingers of one hand. It was a treat and joy when a neighborhood family bought a new car. A particular one in the mid-fifties impressed and inspired us more than any other. A neighborhood family bought such a car. They needed it for business. Consul Car

On our way to school, my brother Isidor and I stopped and marveled at the family's new car parked outside their house. We admired its features - the modern look and vibrant colors. We thought this 1953 Ford Consul Mark One reached the apex of automobile design. As seen from the side, the front and the rear were almost symmetrical; the wheels were tucked in, and the rear wheels covered halfway down. How advanced and revolutionary, so different from the accustomed old styles, how stunningly beautiful! Did we witness a tipping point in automobile design? We knew we might never own a car or not for a long time. There was no envy; we were so happy to see these new cars in our neighborhood.

I was fascinated by automobiles from a young age, but it took a long time before I owned my first car. It finally happened in Vancouver, Canada. I was 24 years old.

The major American automobile companies revealed their new models each autumn. The dealers of Vancouver's West Broadway promoted the Annual New Model Opening Day with grand fanfare, wooing all folks to the showrooms. Each model tried to outsmart the previous year's design. Novelties and new stylish details were introduced, some stunning and jaw-dropping, others funky. Never mind that style and functionality were often given a backseat to clever innovation. - Witness the 1959 Chevrolet 'bat wing' model.

My first car was a small, blue, boxy Chevrolet. The car did not have fancy equipment; it was bare-bones, with manual crank windows, no radio, nothing.

Getting my driver's license is a long story. I signed up for driving lessons with a driving school. First, a few lessons on a simulator. That was easy. I progressed to a real car on the road. The driving school's automobile was a standard model with a three-speed manual transmission. Embarrassingly, I struggled to master the clutch. I admired the patience and courage of the instructor. Hats off to him. He tried his utmost. I attempted to move the car after it stalled on a railway crossing, and could not immediately get it into gear. Eventually, the frustrated instructor gave up. I settled for a restrictive Automatic Transmission license. Although embarrassing, driving an automatic vehicle was easy.

My failure with driving a stick shift car kept nagging me. In my mind, I tried to explain and rationalize my ineptitude. My physical coordination has always been a little challenge; witness my lack of skills when playing ball. Trying to comfort me, someone said that my handicap was surely amply counterbalanced by some other physical blessing.

Mustang

My second car was a yellow Mustang, fully loaded with a vinyl top and whitewall tires. It had all the options. The first ride was a magical and hypnotic moment. I sat in the comfortable bucket seat, overlooking the bulging hood with its powerful beast below it, the sound of the FM stereo radio at full blast, mixing with the rich roar of the V8 engine. My senses were mesmerized. I still remember the song 'I Got You Babe' on the radio as I drove westward on 41st Avenue. I was on cloud nine. I kept on driving, not caring where the road would lead. It was my Mustang Moment, a day I will remember forever.

My restricted driver's license and the stick-shift handicap kept nagging me. I was in my early forties in Philadelphia when I tackled the problem again, head-on, and I finally succeeded.

Fast-forward to 1988. Philadelphia. I decided to face the sticky situation once and for all. I was due for a new company car; I decided on a stick-shift Turbo Thunderbird. It would force me to learn to drive a manual transmission car; no ifs, ands, or buts.

When I picked up my brand-new Thunderbird at the dealership, I asked the salesman to go over the mechanics of the manual transmission again. I signed the papers, received the keys, and was ready to face the challenge.

I made myself comfortable in my seat and got ready to drive home. I noticed the entire dealership staff was watching and laughing. A moment of levity and free entertainment! I pulled myself together. I started the motor and selected the gear, as per instructions. The car jerked and stalled. And again. After a few more attempts, I managed to exit the parking lot onto the main road. - with applause coming from the dealership office. I stalled again at the next intersection. The itinerary home was well planned - no left turns, no railway crossing. Eventually, I made it home without an accident and without causing a traffic disruption, mishap, or embarrassment

That evening, I drove to a nearby large Sears parking lot and practiced, practiced, practiced. I woke up very early the following morning. I had to drive my new car to my office in Center City, Philadelphia, and get there before the rush hour.

[Back to Beginning]

The Return

Autumn 1969. I worked as an Accountant for an international mutual fund company in downtown Vancouver. My boss called me to his office and said the company wanted me to work at their new and rapidly expanding headquarters in Zurich, Switzerland. It was a message sent from heaven. Louise and I flew to Switzerland in early November, and I started my new job in Zurich as Manager of Investor Accounting. I loved my job; it was challenging and rewarding.

For the first months, we lived in an old patrician stone house with my boss's family, Barry and Karen, and their two young children. The Snider family had also moved from Vancouver to Zurich.

We were expecting our first baby any day. Late evening on December 12, 1969, Louise and Karen watched a musical television show when Louise felt back pain. Karen knew that the time had come. I had just arrived home from the office. By 10 o'clock, Louise had severe cramps, and we knew it was time to go to the Hospital. The bags were packed and ready. I called a taxi, and we rushed to the hospital. We filled out the necessary forms. The process was very formal. On the check-in form, we had to fill in a boy's and a girl's name so the hospital could complete the paperwork immediately upon birth. Louise was in much pain. She was nervous and anxious, not knowing what to expect. Only a few nurses spoke French, none spoke English, and Louise did not understand much German.

I had to leave for home. The hospital did not allow the husbands to stay late in the evening. I walked home, my mind both excited and worried; we would have our first baby within a few hours.

I got up early in the morning. I called the hospital. No news. It was Saturday, and my boss and I went to work. I called the hospital every hour, but still no news by mid-afternoon.

Louise told me later how she experienced a terrible time at the hospital. She was in a large room with five other women, all in labour. A heavy-set nurse with short hair and an unfriendly face walked up and down the line of beds, like a sergeant major. When a woman cried in pain, the nurse raised her arm and pointed a finger at her, yelling: "Ruhe! Quiet!" The women pulled their bedsheets over their heads and were afraid to cry. She screamed at Louise a few times. The pain was unbearable. To control the pain, Louise had learned patterned breathing techniques in Canada, deep inhalation followed by short exhalations, repeated many times. "What are you doing?" screamed the nasty nurse. "Breathe normally!" A young nurse was kinder. She tried to console the suffering women, and she could speak French. When that young nurse came to Louise, Louise told her that the screaming nurse scared her, that she was like the devil, and that she could even see her devil horns. "No, no," the kind nurse said. The sergeant-major nurse must have overheard Louise's comments; she probably understood some French. Something happened at that moment, an epiphany, a metamorphosis like in a fairy tale. The unpleasant nurse's attitude suddenly changed. She realized how nasty she was and now tried to be the kindest and most compassionate person in the room.

When I called the hospital at four o'clock, I received good news. Our baby was born about an hour earlier. I rushed to the hospital. When I arrived in the maternity section, a nurse met me and said she recognized me because the baby looked like me. Louise stayed at the hospital for a couple of days. Our daughter Barbara was healthy and the most beautiful baby girl.

After a month, we moved to a small one-bedroom apartment on Winterthurerstrasse with a promise that a larger apartment would be available in two months. It was a miserable, poorly furnished place. And we had to endure an unpleasant janitor. The mattress was so old that it gave Louise severe backaches, bad enough that she had to see a doctor, who suggested surgery.

One afternoon, Karen and her two children came to visit Louise. The children left some faint finger marks on the entrance door's glass panels. The janitor came, screaming, and ordered me to clean the glass panels. "Clean it up. Immediately!" The janitor was furious. He returned with a bucket of water and a sponge. "You clean up or else...," he screamed. I took the sponge and washed the door.

After two months, the landlord showed us the promised larger apartment. It was dirty, needed repainting badly, and the furniture was worse than in the first apartment. I refused to accept the apartment in its current state. The landlord said, "Take it - or leave it." We refused.

The next day, while I was at the office, the janitor ordered Louise and the baby Barbara out of the building and locked the door behind them. It was on a cold day in the middle of winter. Louise called me. I immediately left for the apartment building. As I arrived, Louise was sitting on the concrete doorstep outside the locked door of the building with baby Barbara wrapped in a warm blanket, shivering and anxiously waiting for me. It is a sight that I will never forget, Louise in her blue winter coat holding the baby, next to two suitcases and some bags. The nasty janitor probably hoped I would crawl back to him and beg him to let us move into the dirty apartment. No!

I discussed the problem with the company's general manager. Since I was on a temporary assignment in Zurich, he said we could stay at their vacant company house in Küsnacht. As it turned out, it was a blessing in disguise. The Schiedhaldenstrasse house in Küsnacht, the Zurich Gold Coast, was beautiful and nicely furnished, with a large garden. Nearby was a lovely natural park with a pond, the perfect place for short strolls with our baby. We stayed in that house for about six months until the company's rental agreement on the property expired. After Küsnacht, we moved to another beautiful company house on Kurhausstrasse on the Dolder mountain in Zürich.

As a Swiss citizen and still young enough, I was again subject to military service, three weeks of military training each year, in a camp. It had been a long time since my initial military training as a recruit. I looked back on that time with mostly fond memories. I felt happy and proud to have completed the five-month-long military boot camp as a young recruit. It was the right thing to do. But now, so many years later, I was not overly eager to go back to a military camp. One good thing: I would see my army comrades again. Being a Swiss Citizen, I should be ready and proud to fulfill my military obligations. So, I registered with the Military office and picked up the uniform, the rifle, and all military gear. After a few months, I received a summons for military service. My employer requested a deferment, which, to my relief, was granted.

During the year, on many Sundays, all Swiss men of military age attend obligatory shooting drills. Every town and every village has a shooting range for military firearm practice. It honed the shooting skills of Swiss men to be primed for military service when called to defend the country. I was busy at the office, working late evenings and most Saturdays. Sundays were family days of rest. Military shooting exercises were the last thing on my mind. I would always postpone that duty to the following Sunday. I heard the cracking of the rifles on Sundays. It provoked a nagging reminder and guilt, knowing I should be at the shooting range with my gun and fire the mandated practice shots. Looking back, these shooting drills would have been a lot of fun.

Early in October, I received another summons for a three-week military service. I was to appear in uniform and with all army gear at the military camp on a Monday in early November. Also scheduled for the same Monday was an all-day military exercise at the local shooting range. The practice day was for the men who failed to complete the mandatory Sunday firearm target shooting, a demeaning day of instructions, mainly meant as punishment and humiliation. One does not mess with the military authority!.

It was late autumn. The company's mutual funds business began to falter. I wanted to leave my job before the company closed down. Louise and I decided it was best to leave Switzerland and return to Canada. It made little sense for me to do the three-week military service a few weeks before leaving Switzerland. On November 10, I stopped at the military office to formally sign out. I felt shamefaced as I walked in, and I expected a reprimand for leaving the country a few days before the scheduled military service. The military official was surprisingly kind and friendly. He knew I made the right decision. With so many years since my last military training, I would, simply put, be out of place at the military camp. I also went to the armory and returned all my military gear in good order. I felt good; I did everything correctly and strictly according to army regulations. I would never need to be concerned about entering Switzerland. And that is a good thing. As I grow older, I feel drawn back to my home country, the feelings growing stronger and stronger. I visit Switzerland most years. For me, Switzerland is one of the best countries in the world.

Soon after, on Sunday night, the day before the scheduled military service and the rifle training session, our young family boarded an airplane for Malaga, Spain. We enjoyed long walks on the beach in Costa del Sol with our beautiful baby 'Babaia' on my shoulder. It was the beginning of winter. We planned to return to Canada the following spring.

We had spent six beautiful weeks in Torremolinos when I received a letter from an international software and computer leasing company in London, England. They wanted to interview me for a job. I flew to London and met with the people. At the interview, they offered me a job as Financial Controller for Europe, based in London. I accepted. Louise and baby Barbara flew to Montreal and spent two weeks with her parents while I made arrangements for our move to London.

[Back to Beginning]

England, Oh England

I flew to London on New Year's Day in 1971. London Heathrow Airport was covered in fog; we landed at Luton Airport and were transferred to the City by bus. I started my job the following morning. Louise and baby Barbara joined me two weeks later.

We did not like London at first. The weather was cold and damp; it was always dark and foggy. The air had a sooty smell from burning coal. We struggled with the old British currency system, Pounds, Shillings, and Pence. It all seemed so strange. For a long while, we wondered if our move to England was the right decision. Packing up and moving back to Canada had always been an option.

Spring arrived with splendid English weather, the smoke-filled air cleared, the British currency system went decimal, and it was just a bad memory. Soon, we came to like England very much. Our first home was in Orpington, Kent. We stayed there for a year. We expected our second child and bought the house Moncrieff in the idyllic village of Lindfield, near Haywards Heath in Sussex.

And soon we knew, the move to England was the best decision. England is truly a wonderful country, next to my native homeland, one of the best in the world. To this day, I have the fondest, heartwarming memories of our years in England.

Our second baby was born in November 1971 at Farnborough Hospital, Kent. The baby was seriously ill and nearly died at birth. In the emergency, a Catholic priest baptized the baby. Louise chose the name John because the Apostle John was Jesus's favored disciple. The name would give baby John special blessings. The priest told us we could rename the baby later -- if he survived. Baby John was rushed to the Sydenham Children's Hospital, south of London, for open surgery.

For several days, baby John's life hung in the balance. The following two weeks were, without a doubt, the most worrisome days in our lives. We were still waiting for a telephone line to be installed in our house. The waiting time for a new phone was more than a year. The nearest phone booth was located at the street intersection, a five-minute walk. Every evening, we called the attending doctor at the hospital. The wait for a connection was agonizing. We never knew if baby John survived the day. A few times, we were unable to talk to the doctor. I left the office half an hour early twice a week and took a train to Sydenham to be at the hospital before closing time for visitors. My boss, Dan, complained that I took too much time off. Thank God, Baby John recovered. After three weeks, we were allowed to bring baby John home.

We were so happy to have baby John home with us. Three times, during the next few months, baby John choked and had to be rushed to the hospital for an emergency. We still did not have a telephone in our house, and Louise ran to the neighbor's house for help. Twice, baby John choked when I was at the office, and Louise had to cope with it alone. The worry and anxiety when waiting for medical help cannot be put into words. Our good neighbors were great and did everything to help, and the British medical system was amazing.

John grew up to be a healthy and strong boy. We are forever thankful to the doctor who attended to the birth of John for his quick thinking and savvy grasp of baby John's serious health condition and to the Sydenham Children's Hospital for their medical expertise and attention.

The company moved the offices from London's West End to Maidenhead, Berkshire, so we moved from Lindfield to Cookham. Our new house, 'Woodlands' on Berries Road, was beautiful. Behind our garden was the Cookham Church, and we could see it from our back window. It dates back to the eleventh century, Norman times. The church was lit at night, a magnificent sight. On Sundays, we could hear the church bells ring. The beautiful River Thames was within a three-minute walk down our Berries Road. A two-minute stroll at the other end of the road, and we were at 'The Crown', a popular pub on the iconic Cookham High Street.

I enjoyed my job in England. It was challenging and rewarding, with talented staff and friendly people to work with. We lived in a historic and beautiful country, a hop away from the European continent. As the Financial Controller for Europe, I regularly visited the company's offices in Paris, Cologne, Amsterdam, Milan, and Zurich.

I had never worked so hard in my life. I worked past midnight at quarter ends so the accounting numbers would be ready for New York on time. When the German accounting firm complained that they had too much work and needed to assign a third full-time person to our account, I knew they were trying to bamboozle us. I canceled the contract with them and flew to Germany once a month for two days, and took care of the accounting myself.

On one of my monthly trips to the Cologne office, I finished work past midnight and was ready to leave for the hotel. The building door was locked. There was no way to unlock it. I checked all the exit doors, and I went to each floor to find someone still working - no luck. I returned to my office on the third floor. My only option was to call the Cologne Fire Department and ask them to come and let me out of the building. When I heard the fire truck. I opened the window and waved. They were not a happy group. They shouted, "Jump down, we will catch you". I stepped up to the windowsill, looked down, - three stories. I could not gather the courage to jump. Eventually, they raised the ladder, and I climbed down.

Some say Great Britain is a land of haughtiness and rigid class distinction. Not so. On the contrary, we liked the easy-going life in England, the friendly people, the non-adversarial dealings with the officialdom, and the everyday freedom. I will never forget the general election in May 1979. Margaret Thatcher ran for the office of Prime Minister. Early evening, our neighbor knocked at the door and said, "Quick, come and vote. The polling booths close in an hour." We had never voted in our lives. We were not British citizens. "You live here, you own a home, you are Canadian citizens - so, you are British subjects. Yes, you can vote!" We rushed to the polling station down the road on School Lane, signed in, and cast our votes. We showed some identification, proof of residency, and a passport. It was the very first vote; all went so smoothly. It was a great experience, Democracy at its best.

The bureaucracy was so casual and good-natured. Tax office dealings were always pleasant and human; letters always started with an apology for the late response. I traveled a lot. The customs officers were so friendly and so non-authoritative. "Welcome home," they often said. Once, when I worked late, I saw an ex-Prime Minister traveling home on the same train. He traveled on the train alone, without an army of security guards. Amazing.

England is a unique country: we will forever have the fondest memories of the ten years we lived there.

I always drink the morning cup of joe in my Union Jack coffee mug. The radiant Union Jack flag brings heartwarming cheeriness in the early morning hours. The design of the Union Jack is ingenious, and it faithfully abides by the ancient rules of heraldry. The traditional bleu-blanc-rouge crosses, all three neatly overlaid, symbolize the kingdom's Patron Saints - Scotland's Saint Andrew, England's Saint George, and Ireland's Saint Patrick.

[Back to Beginning]

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA

My employer's computer leasing business in Europe was in gradual decline. Computers were now so inexpensive that leasing them no longer made much financial sense. The New York headquarters decided to scale down and eventually close the European computer leasing operations. My English boss was posted to the United States and appointed President and Chief Executive Officer of a sister company, a large national insurance company based in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. That company badly needed new leadership. He asked me to join him in a senior position with that company in Philadelphia. The London office no longer offered any opportunities, and I liked working for the corporate group, so I welcomed the opportunity and agreed to relocate to the USA.

I started my job in Philadelphia in April 1980. I was 38 years old. Louise and the children joined me three months later, at the end of the school year, when our house was sold and the furniture shipped. We all settled down on the beautiful Philadelphia Main Line.

Foreign Accent

Throughout the years, I was the subject of sad discrimination. There is nothing wrong with speaking with a foreign accent. Some people think that it adds a touch of class. People with a foreign accent should be proud to be bilingual and have the guts to live in a different cultural region. For most of my life, ever since I left Switzerland, I have spoken with a foreign accent and have experienced discrimination. I have taken and ducked mean-spirited insults slung at me, some very nasty ones. On the lighter side, once, in a shop, the sales assistant exclaimed, "Wow, you have a strong accent. You could be in commercials." Hmm. I could have yodeled or blown the alphorn in the Ricola Swiss herb candy commercial. Or maybe not. It used to bother me a lot, but no longer - I am proud of my Swiss heritage.

[Back to Beginning]

Amazing Journeys

I had a fear of flying. Yet, as a boy, my bedroom drawers were jam-packed with the major airline flight schedules: Swissair, Pan Am, Trans World Airlines, and other iconic names. Years later, when leaving home for Canada, I did not fly; I booked a passage on a ship.

I was in my mid-twenties when I boarded an airplane for the first time. It was a short business flight on a Douglas DC-6 from Vancouver to Prince Rupert, British Columbia. I was nervous; I could not sleep the night before. I almost missed the flight. I did not know I had to go to the counter with my ticket and check in my luggage; I thought it was the same as boarding the bus or the train.

In time, I became more relaxed with flying. But not fully. I was boarding a flight from London to Manchester and was shocked when I saw my plane. It was the weirdest-looking old machine. I backed out. I did not dare to board. The cabin crew smiled, probably rolled their eyes, and retrieved my checked luggage. They said they had seen it before. "No problem," they said. I took the tube to Euston Station and boarded a train for Manchester.

When working in London, I had to fly often, almost weekly, and I became less fearful of flying. Traveling in Europe was fun. I could make stopovers in Switzerland and see my parents and brothers. And all the other beautiful cities in Europe. A one-hour hop and I was in another country: a different scene, different culture, different feel, different food. I experienced some of the most memorable air trips, such as taking the helicopter from New York airport to the helipad on top of the Pan Am skyscraper, jetting across the Atlantic on the supersonic Concorde several times, both ways, sleeping on a real bed upstairs in a jumbo jet, and eating dinner at the plane's sit-down table. They are treasured experiences of a distant past, now pleasant memories. I remember an emergency landing in Memphis because of a bomb threat.

In Philadelphia, my son John and I enjoyed three great trips. We biked in the Grand Canyon for a week, journeyed 'impromptu' around Europe by train for two weeks, and traveled down the Nile valley in Egypt.

Egypt was a wonderful trip. First, we visited the Great Pyramid of Giza, one of the Wonders of the World. Truly unforgettable! We crouch-walked through the dark passageways of the pyramid and climbed up the Grand Gallery. Then, we horsebacked in the desert to the Saqqara step pyramid. The next day, we traveled on the overnight train up the Nile to Aswan, stopped at Luxor on the way back, and visited King Tut's tomb.

I made three exciting trips on my own. First, a fantastic three-week hike of the Annapurna Circuit in Nepal, trekking over the 18,000-foot Thorong La pass. No roads, no telephone, no electricity! It was a spectacular trip. In 1988, I traveled to Kenya and Tanzania. After a safari in the Ngorongoro Crater, famous for its wildlife, I ventured on a 4-day climb up Mount Kilimanjaro. Our small group left the Kilimanjaro high base camp shortly after midnight with flashlights and a small bag of sugar candies. It was a strenuous trek, but I reached the top at sunrise, 6:30 a.m. At the edge of the crater, Gillman's Point, 18,885 feet, I saw the African expanse and looked down into the crater wall. It was stunning. I was exhausted and lay down to rest ..., and I fell asleep. I got disconnected from the group. I walked down the mountain alone. We were the only group climbing that day; it was totally deserted. I felt I owned the whole mountain. Halfway down, I could not see a clear path and feared I was lost. But there was only one way to go - Down. I rejoined my team at the hotel down in the village. I am so happy I made the trip. I wish everyone had a chance to do it.

Another memorable trip was a few years later, when I traveled five days and nights on the Trans-Siberian Railway. Read it below, or at Trans-Siberian Railway

[Back to Beginning]

Crusty Bread

Switzerland has the world's best bread. Swiss bread has always been my favorite everyday food. The darker, the crustier, the chewier, the better. Bauern Brot

Now that I live on another continent, I miss the crusty Swiss bread. Growing up in Switzerland as a young boy, my family knew I loved the end piece of a fresh loaf, the heel, that first cut. And they always saved it for me.

On my rare trips to Switzerland, I never miss my favorite meal: crusty farmers' bread and a bottle of red wine. In Lucerne, the hometown of my youth, I go to the Coop food store in the basement of the train station, buy two of the darkest and crustiest bread buns, called 'Mutschli', and grab a small bottle of red wine. I walk over to the lake where the ships dock and sail. I sit down on the stone steps at the water's edge, open my bottle of wine, and tear off pieces of the chewy bread crust. Mmm - I love every bite. The swans and ducks soon catch a whiff of the bread and paddle towards me. I share my pleasure and throw them some crumbs.

I don't mind the many tourists, eying me with a snooty, quizzical look. An alcoholic drunkard, they may think, how sad, how low. No - I treasure the moment in a country where you can enjoy a sip of wine in the open air, not break the law, with no fear of being roughed up and hauled away. I feel on top of the world and would not swap that meal for a New York steak at a Michelin-rated restaurant. Looking at the label on the screw cap wine bottle, yes, a vino smartypants might raise his eyebrows at my choice. When constantly striving for luxury living, with only the finest gourmet food at a ritzy place, many miss out on the best experience in life. A crusty farmer's bread bun with a bottle of red at the water's edge, with a view of the Alps, is a moment unmatchable. The good feeling cannot be described; there are simply no words for it.

[Back to Beginning]

Trans-Siberian Railway

I climbed up to the rim of Kilimanjaro and trekked for four weeks in the Himalayan mountains. But my most treasured travel experience was the Trans-Siberian Railway trip in August 1991.

Ever since my youth, I have been fascinated by Russia and its people. I had this inner urge to visit that culturally diverse country. As a teenager, I memorized all the train stops on the Trans-Siberian Railway line. Was I perhaps a Cossack in my previous life? And why are Rachmaninov and Prokofiev my two most favored classical music composers? Russians are down-to-earth people whose character has been tempered forever by oppression and hard work, but they are full of life. Despite their rough and tough exterior, Russians have a passion for the arts.

In Switzerland, at school, at church, and at home, Russia was despised as evil, a country of invaders and disbelievers. We were all scared of Russia. The Russians are coming, the Communists are coming. They will come and crush us, invade our land, and conquer the world. A group of Lucerne schoolboys traveled on a surreptitiously organized trip to Moscow to watch a football match. When they arrived home in Lucerne, the fathers waited for them on the railway platform and beat up the boys. Years earlier, in 1953, we were jubilant when we heard of Stalin's death.

Why is my interest so profound in everything Russian? Was I intrigued by Russia because it was a 'forbidden land' or maybe because of Russia's exciting space explorations? I remember watching the Sputnik satellite in the sky at night like a star, listening in awe to Sputnik's beep-beep-beep on the radio. Perhaps I was fascinated by Russia simply because of the little rebel in me, as my mother said.

When I lived in Paris as a young man, less than 20 years old, the Soviet Union hosted an industrial and cultural exhibition at the Porte de Versailles convention center. I visited the show on the first day, standing in line at the exhibit's entrance early in the morning before opening. Piped music played popular Russian folk songs, balalaika, mixed with stirring anthems sung by the Red Army Choir. I was nervous as I entered the Russian exhibition hall, but I soon relaxed. I saw real Russians for the first time. Surprise, they looked and behaved like everybody else.

I never liked Russia's political system; I rejected Communism for my life and everybody. But I can understand why some people were drawn to a political system that offered 'cradle-to-grave security', a hypothesis that all property be publicly owned, and each person work and be paid according to their abilities and needs. It may be a worthwhile subject of study. The system was tried out and failed for many reasons. In many cases, Communism mutated into Autocracy. We must discourage that system for the good of mankind. I console and grieve with the Russian folks who lived through that system for so long.

I flew from Alaska to Khabarovsk on the great river of Namur, with a short stopover in Magadan, a port city and administrative center on the Sea of Okhotsk. The town was closed to outsiders until the late 1980s.

Magadan is the endpoint of the Kolyma Highway, Stalin's Road of Bones. Stalin forced countless numbers of Russians to hard labor in the Gulag death camps. They labored to extract gold and minerals in the Siberian permafrost and built a road along the gulags. Thousands of laborers died, and the bodies were buried in the foundation of the road. After the death of tyrant Stalin in 1953, the gulags were abandoned, and the prisoners were transferred or released.

From Magadan, our Alaska Airlines plane continued south to Khabarovsk. The captain was overcome with emotion and excitement; it was a euphoric moment for him. He expressed his feelings over the intercom. Here he was, flying a USA airplane for the first time in previously forbidden Soviet airspace. I am a nervous flyer, even more so with a captain in such a state of elation at the plane's controls. After two hours, we landed safely in Khabarovsk.

The customs controls at the Khabarovsk airport were quick and professional. In fact, to my surprise, the customs officer was most friendly. "Welcome to Russia," the young lady customs officer said with a genuine smile.

My train voyage started in Khabarovsk, some distance north of the maritime town of Vladivostok. Vladivostok was still closed to tourists. Before boarding the train, I sat down for a quick meal. I ordered a cheese sandwich and a bottle of 'mineralnje vody', mineral water, the only items listed on the menu. The sandwich was small but delicious, and I ordered a second one. I learned that food was scarce sometimes; foreign tourists were often refused service at restaurants. Later on my trip, I enjoyed some great meals, like caviar with the most delicious black Russian bread and a carafe of vodka.

When I boarded the train, the lady conductor told me my cabin was unavailable. She could not explain the problem due to language, but gestured that I should follow her, and she would show me. In that cabin sat a grand old lady, tall, most impressive, and impeccably dressed in traditional Siberian costume. She was so imposing, almost majestic, that she could have played the leading role in a movie about Siberia. "Vladivostok," the lady conductor said. I understood; the lady came from Vladivostok; she was traveling alone and could not share a room with other travelers. Okay.

For the first 24 hours, I had to share a cabin with a hard-drinking Russian. He did not want to share a cabin with an American, 'njet Amerikantsev', and complained loudly to the train conductor. In the end, he was very hospitable, maybe too hospitable. We had a hard time communicating. He did not speak a word of English, German, or French, and I did not know a word of Russian except mineralnje vody. For hours into the late night, I had to drink Russian cognac with him, glass after glass. I know little about cognac and cannot differentiate between ordinary and premium cognac. The cognac may have been a bit raw, but it went down well after a couple more gulps. Another Russian passenger on the train did not like Americans either. He signaled with his gesture that he would cut my throat. After another bluff, I showed him my friendly face. His big mouth spread to a big grin, highlighting his gold and silver retouched teeth. He probably wanted to say he did not mean to cut my throat. I stayed vigilant and never felt in real danger. The cabin door had strong locks; the train was built to a high-quality standard in Eastern Germany.

At train stops, locals set up stands on the platform and sold cheese, bread, tomatoes, pine cones, and other Siberian delicacies. During longer train stops, the passengers would leave the train to stretch their stiff legs and stock up on food. I didn't know the customs, so the Prowodnitsa, the kind lady train conductor, did the shopping for me. The train also had a dining car. The menu featured simple, good Russian fare. The problem was that the train ran on Moscow time, and we traversed five time zones. I did not know when the diner would open or if it served late lunch or early dinner.

I was reading a book on the latest 'Microsoft Windows' personal computer technology. It was a thick book with "Windows 101" printed in large letters on its cover. Or was it "Windows for Dummies"? A friendly Russian traveler saw me reading the book. He stopped by and said that he was a carpenter too. Everybody was polite and friendly; time passed quickly.

Two photo correspondents from the Condé Nast Traveler magazine traveled on the same train. They discovered the old lady from Vladivostok and found her very photogenic and representative of Siberia. They took many pictures of her, which they planned to publish in their magazine, probably on the front cover. The lady from Vladivostok could not speak English. She came to me with a bag of Siberian pine cones, bought during a train stop, with a handwritten note showing her address in Vladivostok. She asked me to contact the magazine publisher in New York and give them her mailing address so they could send her a copy of the published magazine.

After 48 hours, we arrived in Irkutsk, a major Siberian town. I visited the magnificent Lake Baikal with a tour group, about an hour's drive from Irkutsk. On a hill in a park overlooking the lake, we hung some ribbons on a tree. According to folklore, the person who hangs a ribbon on the tree can make one wish for the future. Mine was, among others, that I shall return to this beautiful place. Do Svidaniya - Goodbye.

In Irkutsk, I visited the local attractions. What a beautiful city. In an old cemetery, the guide showed me an unusual tombstone. It was the grave of a merchant aristocrat who lived in Irkutsk two centuries ago. The aristocrat designed his gravestone himself. It represented a small tree. The tree's stem had ten branches, each cut down to a short stub. According to the story, the aristocrat died unhappy. He had ten daughters and no sons. It was a heartbreaking thought; what a sad metaphor. I could not dismiss the image from my mind all day. What can be more beautiful than a house full of beautiful daughters?

After three more days and nights on the train, I finally arrived in Moscow. While waiting at the train station for transport to the hotel, a group of Swiss tourists snatched my taxi. Very unbecoming of Swiss people, I thought. I had met them earlier on the train - nice folks. They probably did not see me standing in the queue, first in line for a taxi. No problem.

The following morning, before breakfast, I learned of the coup d'état, the overthrow of Russian President Gorbachev's government. All foreigners ate breakfast at a large shared table. I had to translate the breaking news for everybody - in French, German, and English. The coup, le coup, der Putsch. That same morning, I was lucky enough to visit the Kremlin. The first military soldiers took positions on the Red Square. I was in the last group allowed to enter before the Kremlin gates were locked and shut for visitors. The Kremlin is a 'must-see'. I was impressed by the architecture of the buildings inside the Kremlin walls and the many exhibits.

Throughout the day, columns of tanks moved into Moscow and secured all major roads and bridges. I could feel a growing tension and see the fear and worry in people's faces. Many tourists contacted their country's consulates for advice and guidance, and some decided to return home. I was not yet an American citizen; I traveled with my Swiss passport. I did not think I was in danger. I also carried my expired Canadian passport with me, just in case. I relished the excitement of the moment, observing history unfold. I called home and told Louise not to worry; all was fine. That afternoon, I met the tourist group that had haughtily snatched away my taxi the night before. They were on a leisurely walk towards the Red Square. I did not relish being the bearer of bad news, but I had to tell them the army had cordoned off the Red Square, and the Kremlin was closed and off-limits to visitors. I cannot repeat the curse words I heard.

Moscow is a large city with beautiful churches, buildings, and an efficient underground transportation system. The people look sad, and many are poor. I was attacked twice by a gang of young Romani girls. In the first attack on a busy street outside the hotel, I defended myself and prevailed. The gypsies regrouped and attacked me again in the nearby underground station. This time, some Russians came to my rescue.

The next day, I took the Red Arrow night train to Leningrad and spent two days in the city of the czars. The military emergency made it somewhat difficult to get to the railway station. Many bridges were closed, and the taxi broke down on the way to the station. The train ride to Leningrad was fast and comfortable. More sightseeing in Leningrad: the magnificent Hermitage Museum, the breathtaking Petrodvorets Palace, churches, and cathedrals.

Russians are kind and good-natured people. I boarded a bus from the hotel to the Leningrad city center. I struggled with the ticket machine inside the bus. A kind lady came to the rescue and graciously handed me one of her tickets. I thanked her and tried to give her a banknote in Russian Rubles to pay her back. She smiled and said: "Nyet, ni nada."

After Leningrad, I traveled by train to Helsinki, then flew to Stockholm, Copenhagen, London, and back home. What a fabulous trip!

As soon as I arrived back home, I contacted the photo correspondents of Condé Nast Traveler magazine and faxed them the address of the iconic Lady from Vladivostok. Unfortunately, due to the turmoil in Russia at the time, the magazine could not publish the travel article.

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The Abduction of 1572

This is an amazing story of a convergence of two events. Both events happened four days apart, in 1572, more than four centuries ago.

In November 1572, a well-known Swedish astronomer noticed a bright new star in the Cassiopeia constellation. Four days later, in the Swiss countryside, a peasant farmer was mysteriously abducted and transported across the Alps to Milan, Italy. A random coincidence? Or an alien Abduction? You decide. The story is based on historically documented chronicles.

The story is especially dear to me because the abducted man bore my family name, and he lived less than 500 yards from my childhood home.

Tycho Brahe, at the young age of twenty, was an accomplished scholar. He learned Latin at home and studied Mathematics, Philosophy, Law, and Rhetoric at the universities of Copenhagen and Leipzig. Ever since he witnessed a solar eclipse as a boy, Tycho had been immensely interested in the emerging science of astronomy. The time was several years before Galileo invented the telescope. Tycho ingeniously built several instruments that helped him measure and calculate the movements of the celestial bodies.

November 11, 1572. Back in his beloved Scania (then Denmark), Tycho, now 26 years old, walks home one evening after sunset. The sky is clear, and the moon is half full. His trained eyes scan the sky, observing the familiar constellations, stars, and planets, each in its proper position. Amazed, he notices a bright light in the Cassiopeia constellation, right above his head, an object shinier than the other stars, a star as brilliant as Planet Jupiter. But that star does not belong there. He stares at the strange object, pauses, and reflects on his knowledge of the heavenly vault. He is surprised at the sight, but he is not ashamed to doubt his perception. Did his profound understanding of the sky play a trick on him? Surely not. He looks at the star again. Yes, he is convinced: this is a new star. The next evening, he contacts his astronomer friends, points out the location of the new star, and asks them to verify that what he saw is indeed a new star. They concur. A wondrous moment in time, a new star that has never been seen before, never since the world's creation. Tycho tells his learned friends, and the news spreads. Tycho later writes a book called Stella Nova. It will make him a celebrity and a recognized astronomer throughout Europe.

News of the discovery of Stella Nova slowly spread throughout the continent, but had yet to reach the villages in Switzerland. It would be weeks before word of the discovery would get to the remote hamlet of Kriesbühl. Kriesbühl is a small hamlet with one or two family farms, half an hour's walk south of the village of Römerswil, situated in the Swiss alpine foothills. Life in Kriesbühl in early winter was calm and peaceful. The crops had been gathered and were safely stored away in the barn. The new star shone brilliantly in the night sky, yet no one had noticed her arrival in the Cassiopeia constellation.

The following is based on a true story, chronicled by the well-known Lucerne town clerk and historian Renward Cysat (1515-1614).

Saturday, 15th November 1572, four days after the historic sighting in Scania. Hans Buchmann, a farmer in Kriesbühl, must go to Sempach to pay Hans Schürmann, a tavern owner, sixteen Florins, a mighty sum of money. It was a long trek, up a gentle slope to the hamlet of Williswil, then following the road to Traselingen, Hildisrieden, and down the hill towards the lake to the town of Sempach. In the distance, he could see the beautiful panorama of the Alps, the snow-covered Mount Pilatus, and Rigi in the foreground. Without incident, the walk to Sempach will take an hour and a half, and he should arrive there by midday.

For the peasant farmer Hans Buchmann, Sempach was a large, vibrant city with crowded markets and imposing patrician houses inside a thick city wall. 186 years earlier, in 1386, a fierce battle between the local Swiss and the despised ruling Habsburg overlords was fought near Sempach. The brave Swiss won the battle but lost many comrades, including a Peter Buchmann.

Hans arrived in Sempach, entered through the imposing city gate, and smartly walked directly to the man's house to whom he owed the money. He knocked at the door but was told the master was not home. Having made this long journey in vain, Hans Buchmann decided to take care of some other business while in town. The business took a bit longer than planned, so he allowed himself a break at a tavern and drank a few goblets of brew, not too many, according to a testimony given later to the police.

Later that evening, after sunset, on his way back up the hill towards the village of Hildisrieden, he passed by the woods next to the field of the Battle of Sempach. Suddenly, he was engulfed by a strange swishing, buzzing sound. Did a swarm of bees attack him? The noise grew stronger and developed into a roaring, deafening sound. Fear and horror overcame Hans. He grabbed his walking stick and swung it around him, to no avail. Hans felt himself being lifted upwards to the skies; then he lost consciousness.

When he regained consciousness, he found himself in a strange city where people spoke a language Hans did not understand. His face was swollen, and he had lost all his hair.

Aimlessly wandering through the foreign town, he met a German-speaking guard or soldier, probably a Swiss mercenary. He was South of the Alps in Milan, Northern Italy, a traveling distance of four or five days in those days. The church bells were ringing, and men, women, and children from all walks of life streamed toward the church for prayers. The atmosphere was festive. It was the evening of the day of St. Andrews; fourteen days had elapsed since he disappeared in Sempach. Hans was confused. How was he transported to this distant city? And how did his face swell up, and how did he lose all his hair?

The guard was kind enough to help Hans return to his home. The trip home took many days. Two full days in a wagon up the Ticino valley, then the treacherous voyage over the St Gotthard pass, then along the lake of the four cantons home to Kriesbühl. It is not historically documented how his wife received him back.

The strange voyage of Hans Buchmann had come to the attention of the district administrator, and he demanded a full investigation into the matter. Hans was summoned to present himself at the Rothenburg police station. He left home early in the morning and walked two hours to arrive in Rothenburg at the appointed hour. He was questioned and examined all day. The police naturally suspected that Hans may have been intoxicated by alcohol and that he used the bizarre story as a cover. By the end of the day, the investigators concluded that Hans was telling the truth, and they let him go home.

Clarification: Some accounts state that Hans went first to the nearby village of Römerswil to pay off the debt to Hans Schürmann, the local tavern owner. That may be a misunderstanding. Römerswil had no tavern in 1572; the first tavern rights in Römerswil were granted to Jakob Budmiger more than a century later, in 1709. After some research, I concluded that the tavern owner Hans Schürmann may have lived in Mettenwill, a 30-minute walking distance from Sempach. Documents show that a Hans Schürmann was Mayor (Schultheiss) of Sempach in 1537 (32 years before our incident), and that a Hans Schürmann sold his estate of Mettenwil in 1578. The two men are likely the same person, or father and son, and he is likely the innkeeper we are talking about.

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The Buchmann History

Families with the Buchmann name have lived in central Switzerland since the early 1300s. It is a time when the general population began adopting present-day surnames.

The Buchmann family name may have originated between Willisau and Wolhusen, some 25 kilometers west of Lucerne. Around 1346, Heinrich and Burkart Buochmann were 'Kellner' of the 'Hof zu Malters', a manor community near Wolhusen.

'Kellner' was the position of Tax Collector and record keeper of a manor. He worked for the Maier (Mayor) at the command and leisure of the lord of a manor community. Kellner's standing was close to that of Ministerial, and the position was sometimes hereditary. As such, a Kellner could stand tall and hold his head high. A Maier and the Kellner generally rose from the class of free farmers; it was about the only path up to a position of some prestige. In more ancient times, as the name implies, 'Kellner' referred to the man in charge of the food and wine provisions stored in the manor's cellar.

Heinrich Buochmann, as officiating Kellner and tax collector of Malters, was involved in Besthaupt disputes. In the Middle Ages, most land was held by the feudal Lord, up the chain, and ultimately the Monarch. When a farmer died, the best cow or horse, the 'Besthaupt', had to be offered to his feudal lord. It was like a death tax. In 1291, when the Habsburgs of Austria acquired Malters, the Besthaupt law was challenged. Around 1346, according to documents, Heinrich Buchmann and Burkart Buchmann gave sworn testimony to the bailiff of Rothenburg in a quarrel over the lawful right to the Besthaupt.

I've always wondered about the origin of the Buchmann family name. The assumption has been that my ancient forebears lived in a village or hamlet called 'Bueche', a place by the beech trees. The word 'Buche' means 'Beech Tree'. The folks of that hamlet and their descendants, so the assumption goes, were called 'von Buoch', in German meaning 'coming from Buoch. Later, the name morphed to Buochmann, 'Man from Buoch'.

Today, a hamlet called 'Buechen' still exists, in the Wolhusen parish, close to Malters, twenty kilometers west of Lucerne. The forefathers of Heinrich and Burkart Buchmann, Kellners of Malters, may have come from that hamlet. Are they the first known Buchmanns?

The Beech tree, in German called 'Buchen', is the most common broadleaf tree in mid-western Europe. It stands to reason that 'Buchen' hamlets and villages sprang up everywhere. So many, I can't count them on the fingers of both my hands. Given that Heinrich was Kellner of Malters, near Wolhusen, the pick of the Buechen hamlet in Wolhusen is a good bet.

Or do I have it all wrong....? Am I barking up the wrong tree? Do I have it in reverse? Could the Buechen hamlet be named after a person named 'Buech' who had his family seat there?

vonBuoch

An ancient document (Quellen zur Schweizer Geschichte) mentions 'Cunradus de Buch' acquiring land on the slope of the Willisau castle. Willisau is near Wolhusen and Malters. In a footnote to the article, the historian Mr. Leu clarifies that Cunradus de Buch may have lived in the castle by the beeches, in the parish of Wolhusen. The document also mentions Eberhardus and Berchtholdus de Buch living in the Willisau area in 1270, and Friedrich de Buch being Dekan of Hochdorf in the early 1300s. The original article is written in Latin, so 'de' could be the prefix of a noble family name, or mean 'coming from'. People in the know have also noted that the 'Buch' ancestors, before settling in Wolhusen, may have come from the Bern/Fribourg area. They may be descendants of an ancient Bern noble cadet branch, now extinct.

A cadet branch begins with younger sons of noble dynasties. So as not to whittle away the glory and prestige of an established aristocratic lineage, the firstborn son of the noble dynasty would inherit all or most of the family's wealth and the aristocratic title. For the younger sons, to prevent conflict with the entitled firstborn, the family pursued other choices: allocation of a small piece of land, appointment to a high-ranking army officer, and prominent ecclesiastical or secular positions, at home or abroad.

The von Buch noble line of Bern ended with Cäcilia von Buch (1432-1456), daughter of Anton von Buch, who had no sons. With it went the noble title. However, descendants of non-firstborn 'von Buch' sons of earlier generations would have kept a more humble 'von Buch' family name alive.

Over time, the Bern von Buch families spread South and West in the wider Bern area, and towards Fribourg.

Are Rudolfus, Eberhardus, and Berchtholdus, mentioned earlier, descendants of Rudolf von Buch of Bern? Did the family name 'von Buch' morph to 'Buchmann? Were the Kellners of Malters, Heinrich and Burkart Buchmann, descendants of the 'von Buch' of Bern?

As early as the turn of the millennium, there were 'von Buch' noble dynasties in Thuringia and Saxony, the present-day Central Germany. The most notable von Buch of that time is Christian von Buch (1130-1183), Archbishop of Mainz and Arch-chancellor to the Emperor Barbarossa (Frederick I) of the Holy Roman Empire. Christian von Buch, diplomat, warrior, and counselor, was one of the highest dignitaries of the Holy Roman Empire. He was a 'nomad' archbishop; as an appointed archbishop, he only visited Mainz once in his lifetime. He was a statesman and politician.

Continuing on that thread.... The powerful Duke of Zähringen (Berthold V, 1160-1218) ruled over the pre-alpine area of present-day Switzerland. In 1191, the Zähringen founded the town of Bern, Switzerland, as a military post on the frontier between the German-speaking Alemanni and the French-speaking Burgundy. The Duke would have had connections with the 'von Buch' noble houses of Thuringia and Saxony. Any von Buch family would have been eager to help the Duke and send one of their younger sons to Bern as a functionary. With a good position in Bern, the son would be given a good start in life and settle there, the cradle of a new 'von Buch' cadet branch.

I always return to Heinrich Buchmann, Kellner of Malters in 1346, the first documented Buchmann. He could well be a descendant of the early Bern 'von Buch' noble cadet branch. With his prominent Kellner position, he was a man of some standing; he probably had favorable family connections and a well-established ancestry.

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