Late November 1941, Ingenbohl, Switzerland. It was a cool Sunday morning. A light fog hung over Lake Lucerne, drifting up Mount Rigi. A break in the clouds unveiled the mighty Mythen mountains. From afar, the church bells of the hillside abbey rang, solemn and soothing, calling folks to early Sunday mass. It was a restful morning in Brunnen-Ingenbohl, the small lakeside town 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 in the morning. When he entered, he saw a sheet of paper dangling 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, and it must be handled without delay, transcribed onto paper, and delivered.

Postal Clerk Föhn recorded the telegram in the ledger, 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 squeezed in the word 'Please.' No extra charge, even though the text now exceeded the word limit 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 Swiss people often express 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 looked after the farm.

The telegram was addressed to Trumpeter Gefreiter Buchmann. 'Gefreiter' was an honored military grade the army captain awarded to the best soldiers on a team. It was an old military rank that goes back to the sixteenth century. The Gefreiter served as a stand-in for a Corporal if needed. 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, paid for the telegram, and 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 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 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, was a boy and would grow up to help on the farm. Perhaps the next baby ought to 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. The captain generously rounded up the balance and deposited it in a new savings account with the Luzerner Kantonalbank.

The omen appeared propitious: born into a loving family, in a free and peaceful country, and having some money in the bank. -- Postscriptum: After half a century, when the bank discovered that I lived in the United States, it insisted that I close my account. I wanted to keep it as a keepsake, a memento - forever. Though ruthlessly void-stamped and punch-holed, I still have the booklet as a priceless memento in my souvenir collection. Swiss banks no longer want Americans to hold small accounts - there are too many regulations. Sad!

On November 22, 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 shows a beautiful young girl at the family dinner table saying grace and eyeing a finger-licking 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.

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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 in Bürglen, a small hamlet outside the village of Rain, near Lucerne, in the alpine foothills of central Switzerland. The village name "Rain" 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 village church spire and heard the bells ring. On clear days, we could see the beautiful Alps: the Pilatus and Rigi mountains in the foreground, with the mighty, snow-covered Titlis sitting 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...

Bürglen history 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 in the center of the continent, was an island of peace. For several centuries, Switzerland had declared itself a Neutral Nation, and the government walked a tightrope, taking every precaution to avoid 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 trapped in France when fighting the Nazi army. They escaped across the border into Switzerland. They surrendered their arms and 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 orphanage, joined our family. Father helped during home leaves. Later during the war, my mother and grandmother received help from French and Polish war internees. Father leased the farm from a well-off butcher shop owner at rather costly terms. The young family struggled to make ends meet. As if that hardship wasn't already bad enough, our farm was hit by the devastating foot-and-mouth disease. Sadly, we had to slaughter the cattle and place the farm under quarantine for several days.

I was about three years old. I have echoes of memories so faint 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 clearly remember an evening a few days after the 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. Now, when I hear military marching music from old, crackly recordings, it takes me back to my earliest childhood.

Monika, a young girl 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.

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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 it was not the carefree life, not for a long time. Europe was devastated; the economy recovered slowly, gradually. Compared to the devastated neighbouring countries, Switzerland was lucky.

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 while they had to go to their local store, with ration coupons in hand like beggars, and buy from a limited stock. A meal at a 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 a fair distribution 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. Hope and a better feeling returned. Some city folks put back their pounds, and some no longer recognized their farmer friends. 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 visited us regularly, even after we had moved to Ludiswil. Fritz owned a fabric store in Lucerne. The store thrived, but after the war, his business endured hardship. When the war ended suddenly, unexpectedly, prices dropped precipitously. Fritz Leber suffered extensive losses. His shop was stocked with overpriced goods, but he never talked about his business problems.

We boys were always pleased when Herr Leber came. If we worked in the fields and saw Herr Leber arrive, we dropped our 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, cheerful air. We invited him to sit down in our kitchen for a snack. While he ate our thinly sliced air-cured smoked pork speck with crusty farmer's bread and drank 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 Anton Wohlfart, a young son of a German working family, 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.

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My Hochdorf, the Ancestral Town, My First Birthday

The war had ended; I was nearly four. 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. Father grabbed his bike and pedaled to Hochdorf in less than fifteen minutes

Hochdorf's history goes back deep, stretching from the Middle Stone Age hunter-gatherers to the Celts, Romans, and the Alemanni. Hochdorf, mainly near Lake Baldegg, was inhabited as early as 8000 BC, at the end of the Ice Age, when the glaciers retreated and the climate warmed. Small groups of Mesolithic hunter-gatherers lived in seasonal camps at the lake's edge, moving as needed. They fished, hunted, gathered berries, and foraged. Later Celts, Romans, and earlier cultures left a lasting impression on Switzerland and a healthy Blueprint of Life; the Allimanni today live in German-speaking Switzerland.

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; Photo-Shop 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, was the beautiful City Hall. Locked up in its vaults and archives are all the historical Hochdorf documents. In a bound leather book, masterfully handwritten on vellum in gracious letters, I can 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 list my name and the names of my children and grandchildren, but the latest records are digital, not on vellum.

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. An air of ease and calm drifted through the crowd, 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, and before the war, had he seen so many interesting new things.

One stand was chock-a-block filled with fruits. A bunch of bananas hung on a side pole. Father hasn't seen bananas for years. The war ended a year earlier, and few exotic fruits were available during these austerity times. 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."

Imported exotic fruits were rare and expensive. We received a juicy orange when we were 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 pineapple advertisements in magazines; to us, they were sculptured artwork. Golden bananas were fruits we dreamed of, a taste we could only wonder about.

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 in his warm side pocket.

Slowly, with an air of suspense, like a magician, 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. All went quiet in the kitchen. Vati felt bad and disappointed.

I returned to the kitchen, wiping tears from my eyes and cheeks, sniffing between words, saying I didn't want that rotten banana. Since no one moved, Rösi, the young lady who stayed with us, took the initiative and carefully peeled 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. After a while, Rösi picked up my share of the banana and divided it into three smaller parts. She handed Franzi one slice, Isidor another, and Rösi took one herself.

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Ludiswil

Aunt Marie, my father's sister, was married to Uncle Adolf. They owned a farm in Römerswil, about four kilometers north of our home in Rain, the next village on the Erlosen Mountain. They had bad luck. Their farmhouse was destroyed by fire. The house was rebuilt. A few years later, Aunt Marie became ill, and she died at a young age. Uncle Adolf could not manage the farm alone. So, in 1948, he offered the farm to my father. My father agreed to lease the farm for a few years with the promise that he could buy it later at a favorable price. It sounded like a proposition sent from heaven. My father accepted the offer, and we got ready to move to Römerswil.

Early spring 1949; it was moving day. We traveled to our new home on a horse-drawn wagon loaded with home goods and farm equipment. My father drove the wagon, and we boys sat at the back on top of firewood and turned-over rabbit cages. My baby brother Adolf was 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 wagon, with wobbly steel-rimmed wheels, was halfway up the Buchen hill when Muetti's car caught up and passed us. Muetti was well aware of the royal treatment and seized the moment, playing the role of a queen. Muetti sat at the back of her 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.

Römerswil is located near the top of the Erlosen Mountain in central Switzerland. Before you 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 during the ice ages. Our new home was in the small hamlet of Ludiswil, a half-hour walk from the village of Römerswil. On a clear day, the panoramic view 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: twenty hectares of fields for growing cereals and vegetables, with grazing meadows dotted with fruit trees - apples, pears, plums, and cherries. The barn had 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 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 bee stings almost daily. At Muetti's insistence, Adolf removed the beehouse after a few years.

The family's move to Römerswil was a courageous decision. Swiss farming families are settled on their land; they rarely move. They have owned their farm for centuries. Newcomers are often shunned. We were lucky; all Römerswil residents received our family warmly.

The friendly and neighborly atmosphere cooled during the political elections. Well, 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, by convention, political affiliation passed from father to son. Women were not allowed to vote. My father was proud of his political heritage and often told us a forefather's adage: "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. For centuries, the Lucerne district was a Conservative stronghold, a protectorate for semi-aristocratic Lucerne burghers. We were the only local family who 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 hide it? We were proud Liberals.

During election times, 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. Black was the color of the Liberals, and red was the color of the Conservatives. Other than pig-painting, 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 enjoyed a friendly relationship with them. The nearest neighbor was down a path within shouting distance. We shared farming tools 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, across a creek, was our fifth neighbor's home. 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 far 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 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 took 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 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 jubilant. 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, happy and smiling. What a revelation. Our neighbors were real humans who could feel joy and happiness like we did; they weren't 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 we could not deliver the Welcome-Home banner. We were late and too shy to go to the house and knock. And - and 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'.

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A bit of Ludiswil history...

Ludiswil 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; 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 land of the 'Hänsel and Gretel' fairy tale.

In the Middle Ages, our home hamlet, Ludiswil, was a 'Dinghof'. This is according to a history book covering the year 1306. 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', a 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 'compelled' 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.

Gundoldingen was the Dinghof for the Berghof. Berghof consisted of parts of Römerswil, Rain, Hildisrieden, and nearby hamlets. The Gundoldingen hamlet is between Hildisrieden and Rain. The name Gundoldingen was associated with the Gundolingen noble family, a prominent family in the Lucerne city-state. Around 1306, after Gundoldingen declined, the Dinghof was shifted to Ludiswil. Ludiswil is at the intersection point of Römerswil, Rain, and Hildisrieden. Petermann von Gundoldingen led the Lucerne contingent in the historic Battle of Sempach (1386), a fierce battle fought by the Swiss against the Habsburgs, near Ludiswil and Gundoldingen. The Swiss infantry were outnumbered 3 to 1, but won a decisive victory. The battle ended the Habsburg dominance in central Switzerland. To what extent the shift of the Dinghof location related to the quarrel with the Habsburgs, I do not know. Ludiswil/Gundoldingen and the Nunwil Dinghofs are often confused; both existed, covered different areas, and were owned by different authorities. The Nunwil Dinghof may be more prominent.

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', black-robed witches flew in from all sides on broomsticks and gathered on a cleared patch of forest on Erlosen Mountain. 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 the ancient German word 'Aran', meaning 'plowing a field' ('acker'). The word 'Losen' ties in with the current German suffix 'los', meaning 'without'. So, Erlosen is a forest-covered mountain, not cultivated; it was 'unplowed'.

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School

May 1949 - my first day of class. My grandmother accompanied me to school on that special day, a thirty-minute walk. The schoolhouse entrance portal had a classical look. In the arch's stone relief, an angel held an open book. We entered a House of Learning.

We walked upstairs to my classroom. I was amazed by the room size and the large number of desks. The classroom accommodated three grades, about fifty children. Grandmother greeted the teacher, Miss Räber, and told 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 did not attend 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 and 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 a very kind teacher. She retired at the end of the school year.

The preparation for a new grade was an exciting time. Schoolbooks passed down from 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.

Sharing a classroom with three grades gave us an enriching experience. The teacher split his time between the three grades. When he taught one class, the other students quietly worked on assignments. Some subjects, such as gymnastics and singing, were joint classes. 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. In my second grade, my brother Isidor started school as a first-grader in the same classroom.

At 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 the 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 the occasional authoritative look at the boys and girls. Boys were not allowed near the girls' playground, and the girls didn't dare 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: 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 Pfarrer's warning. Light corporal punishments were permitted in those days. The teacher would hit the schoolchild'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, the Karl May 'Winnetou' novels were my favorite. 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 test. If we passed, and virtually everyone did, we could move on to senior secondary school level. A student who failed the test would be sidetracked to Grade Seven, their last year of mandated schooling. 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. As for liberal arts, we could learn on our own later in life. All our teachers were highly qualified and dedicated. The teachers worked hard. They have my sincerest gratitude.

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The Ten Commandments

The Church exerted a considerable influence over our young lives. Living in the Church's orbit, we followed its rigid teachings and traditions. Regular catechism classes, church attendance, and monthly confessions were routine. But no complaints; it was the 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 were not protected by our faith, its blessings, and spiritual well-being. The village priest was president of the school board and was highly respected. The school curriculum ranked Religion at the top, and no student 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, our moral compass guided us on 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 profanity, 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.

In my early teens, a world of hitherto unknown sins began to creep in. They were sins of a higher order. Until then, petty sins cleared from our conscience like chalk marks wiped off a school blackboard with a sponge. But not these emerging new sins.

Our minds were now plagued by strong feelings of guilt, nagging with no end. It was a different sin: a spontaneous thought or act of wickedness not willfully committed but one that invaded 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 now old enough to hear an adult joke, laugh out loud, and reflect on it. And we paged through the Sunday magazine, contemplating Sandro Botticelli's masterpiece, the Birth of Venus, the Goddess of Love sensuously stepping from the shell. Moments of imagination and fantasies. Then, shock! We realized we bumbled badly; we let a carnal thought enter our mind; we committed a sin, 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. The briefest reverie would be excused, 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 than memorizing pages and pages of the Catechism and knowing all the stories in the Bible.

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

From early teenage years, tradition, habit, and obligation had us confess our sins every month. Older folks went to confession less often, or never. Confession hours were held on Saturday 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. It was deadly quiet. The church nave had great acoustics; it was a virtual echo chamber. We could hear the squeaks as we shifted our aching knees on the wooden kneelers - moving closer to the confessional. We prepared for the confession.

Someone said that Moses broke the third tablet as he was walking down from Mount Sinai. If there were a third tablet, I could think of a few sins to inscribe on 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, slavery, racism, pollution, wastefulness, animal cruelty, and the squandering of the world's resources? And I could go on. There are too many; they would not fit on a third tablet, even if chiseled in minuscule script. Why do most commandments start with 'You shall not'? Why only a 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, honor nature, and protect our planet Earth?

Why can the sins only be forgiven by confession? Why not calmly approach God directly, show remorse, pledge, and receive His forgiveness? Why the constant snooping over our shoulders? We knew of the Church's timeless grace and mercy for Mankind. Could the forced confession be a clever ploy to keep the faithful on a tight leash and have them walk the straight and narrow?

To render the confession valid, 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 Jesus on the crucifix helped to create a deep sense of repentance. The loving and kindhearted Madonna gave us 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 an intense concentration and a 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, careful not to stumble, I entered the confessional booth and dropped to 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 preferred anonymity and would rather confess to a visiting priest or a monk than the strict Pfarrer, whom we would see the next day at school during religion classes. I cleared my throat. Following the script, I made the sign of the cross and, in a whispered, monotone voice, I faithfully confessed 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 to thwart questions. It must have been boring for the confessor to hear the litany of my sins. At least once, I noticed him yawning, but he was 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, fair prayer-penalty. 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 an empty pew, and said the ten 'Our Fathers' and 'Hail Marys'.

I grabbed my bike and pedaled 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 was indescribable. I felt 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 sinning again. Anytime.

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Altar Boys

My brothers and I were altar boys at the village church. We served proudly and honored our duty. I am not sure why we all chose to be altar boys. It wasn't 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 have a reserved 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, Gotte was a pillar 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

Gotte's husband, Nicklaus, died from a head injury in a farm accident. My mother was 12 years old. 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 a large family, my mother had many relatives.

After the death of her husband, Nicklaus, Grandmother Gotte brought up her daughter, 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 an excellent cook and seamstress. She had a keen sense of humor and brought joy wherever she worked. The world loved Gotte.

When my mother, Barbara Elisabeth, finished grade school, Grandmother Gotte signed her up for a year at a convent girls' school in Brussels, Belgium, to learn French. Gotte was progressive and open-minded. Later, she even asked Barbara Elisabeth to spend a year in England to learn English, but she preferred to stay home. Grandmother Gotte then enrolled her in a housekeeping school in Baldegg.

Barbara Elisabeth, my mother, got engaged to my father, Franz Xaver Buchmann. The couple had great plans for their lives. Franz Xaver was twenty-seven and hoped to manage his own farm one day. He did not want to work for his father or his older brother as a farmhand. At one point earlier in his life, he considered emigrating to South America. Soon after the couple got engaged, a one-time opportunity knocked - a chance to lease a farm in Oberbürglen, near the village of Rain. My father had to decide on the spot or let the opportunity slip by. After careful consideration, he signed the lease contract. My mother and Grandmother moved to the farmhouse. Father had to wait until the wedding day, but he worked on the farm during the day.

I have the fondest memories of Grandmother Gotte. Most summers, she took us on a day trip. A few were to Sachseln, the holy site of Saint Niklaus von Flüe, revered Patron Saint of Switzerland. Once, we stayed at a hotel and made the outing into a two-day trip. We travelled 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 got caught in 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, followed by 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 at 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, the mere recitation of the poetic verses sent shudders down our spines 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. She was masterfully skilled at sewing and knitting. All leftover cloth and yarn were stored in a drawer and used for repairs. Every afternoon, she rested from heavy work, sat down, and enjoyed a glass of Malaga wine with 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. 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 wearing 'knickers' almost every day, to church, at school, and we felt rather gauche sporting them. Our clothes were always cut oversized so we could 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 came home from school one afternoon. I was fourteen years old. I will never forget that day. As I approached the house, I was ensnared in a net of anxiety, a feeling of worry, a tightening in my chest. It happened suddenly. I had never experienced anything like it before. It was like a premonition, a feeling that something bad had happened. As I got closer to the house, the fear grew; it was unrelenting. I was worried. Did an otherworldly spirit want to forewarn me? Our house cat, always calm, must have been rattled by the same ghostly presence. In an uncontrolled panic attack, she jumped down from the guardrail plank and, with a loud crash, smashed a large flower pot to pieces. It was frightening - it was creepy, it was scary. I entered the house. 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 my mother's cousin. 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 flew by plane 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

After the long winter, the snow patches melted away; the days were warmer and brighter. The trees began to bud, the grass fields grew green, and the birds were chirping. Daffodils peeked out and would soon open in full glory.

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

During the 40 days leading up to Easter, called Lent, we were told not to eat any sweets. We dropped all bonbons received 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 the old buggy out of the barn and harnessed our horse, Fritz, to it. For a special treat, he wanted to take the family on a horse-and-buggy ride through the neighborhood. The ride began somewhat unscripted. Fritz was trained to pull a plough or hay carts, not a buggy. When cars tried to pass our slow-moving buggy, the passengers stared at us, making us a bit - uhmm - uncomfortable. Nevertheless, it was a great and memorable experience.

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 already been installed in the village center a day before. 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 galloping motion, the spin's power pushing us outward. The speed blurred our eyesight, and the loud calliope circus music doped our senses. We stretched out our arms, hoping to grab the golden brass ring. He who caught the ring would get a free ride - wearing the king's crown. I snatched the ring once and relished the moment, riding as a king and leading the realm.

A crowd, young and old, stood around the baker's raffle table. They bought numbered 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 the platter, 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. New 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 support each other in their struggle against the overbearing Habsburg overlords.

The celebration of this important event in Swiss history took place in the evening. The community gathered on the village plaza for lively, patriotic entertainment. 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. After the conductor's last-minute instructions, he swung his baton, gave the upbeat, and the band played the Swiss national anthem.

The band played a few more pieces, and we were ready for the Römerswil Men's Athletic Club's presentation. It was the main event. All was quiet, in total darkness. From the back, a group of men jumped onto the wooden stage. We heard footsteps, knocking, and the team leader's quiet commands. The athletes, dressed in white spandex, built a human pyramid, the men standing on each other's shoulders, - four levels high. The group leader dashed to the front of the stage, struck a match, and lit the lime compound in the metal box. Flash. For a brief moment, the stage lit up in its splendor. We were in awe of 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 nervous young man paced back and forth, whispering to himself. He prepared his speech; it was next on the program. He wore a dapper military officer's uniform. Two thin golden stripes circled his cap, marking his military rank. He was the son of a prominent Römerswil, rising in the army, and soon to be a Captain. The Lieutenant stepped up to the stage. The sudden military presence on the podium quickly hushed the noisy crowd to unmoving 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 colorful paper lanterns and waved little Swiss flags. 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 began in early December. Mother hung up an Advent calendar. Each day, the kids took turns opening a window of the Advent calendar, leading up to Christmas Day. Muetti was busy baking Christmas cookies, enough to fill many large tin cans, filled to the rim. The cookies would last many 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. 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 a 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 frightened the children. We had not always been good boys; we feared Santa's harsh scoldings and the Schmutzlis' threats.

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

Santa and his party entered the living room ceremoniously. The holy man with a long white beard faced us with a stern but paternal look. He was 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 together, our hearts pounding. We had good reason to be scared. Bad boys would be stuffed in Schmutzlis' bags and carried away; where, 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 knew some of our recent faults and failings. How did he find out? Yet, he would overlook the misdeeds this time. Then, he grabbed a burlap bag and emptied it on the table: walnuts, tangerines, peanuts, chestnuts, dried figs, and ginger cake. We spent the evening in joy and relief, reflecting on Santa's wise-spoken words.

Christmas

Christmas evokes some of the most cherished memories. In Switzerland, as in all German-speaking countries, Christkindl is the gift-bringer, not Santa. Christkindl is depicted as a loving angel, dressed in white, wearing wings. Christmas' high point was the night before, Christmas Eve. We always celebrated Christmas in the back room, a room which we used only for the most special occasions. 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.

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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 coordinated fingering: the melody keys are played with right-hand fingers, and the bass keys are played simultaneously with the left hand, all in perfect tact and harmony. It was hard. Later, I took clarinet lessons and loved it. But despite unwavering patience and practice, I never became a natural.

My brother Isidor was more musically talented. He learned to play piano on his own. Once, he proudly told his teacher about his interest in playing the piano. He was reminded that piano playing was meant for boys of a higher social echelon -piano was not his calling. Instead, the teacher advised Isidor to learn a brass instrument, trumpet or horn, 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.

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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. Chocolate bars, a package of raisins, and cookies were the traditional gifts. But the supreme gift was a box of dates. I remember the oblong wooden sheet boxes, tightly packed in a chevron pattern with sticky dates.

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, beautiful cursive handwriting was an important 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 large country, very advanced, 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. We could buy chocolate and cookies 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 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. The footpath was likely an ancient track laid out by forebears, the medieval 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 evoke an image: 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 no longer visible, not even detectable; and all access is closed to hikers. The forty-minute walk passed quickly. We recalled stories of our past birthdays, the quirks, and the kinks.

One year, I was probably seven or eight, 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 my palm, 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.

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 at a summer camp when I proudly told a friend I had never in my whole life spent one penny buying sweets for myself. My friend stared at me with 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, the family celebrated my birthday on the wrong date, a day off. My true birthday was discovered in official papers, and it was promptly adjusted. No big deal, but inevitably, my Zodiac sign shifted from Scorpio to Sagittarius. I wondered what sway that move would have on my life. On the horoscope page of the Weekly Tabloid, I read: "Curious and energetic, the Sagittarius is the biggest traveler 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 looked at the stuff in the display 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 store owner's daughter. After I explained our needs, the saleslady 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, the decision 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 couldn't 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 realized the pen must have slipped out of my pocket during the walk home. We could find the pen if we retraced our path down to Hochdorf. Isidor and I left immediately to reach Hochdorf before dark. We scanned the ground, looking 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. We walked back home, not saying a word.

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Battle of Sempach

On July 9th, during the cherry-picking season, the country celebrated the 1386 Battle of Sempach memorial day. The battle was between the freedom-loving Swiss and the despised Habsburg feudal overlords. The anniversary of this fierce engagement fought six hundred years ago was special for us 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 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, the names of the Habsburg knights and nobles, the battle's enemy, are displayed, painted in bold, multicolored, ornate letters, complete with their 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 - the day's highlight. 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 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 is no match for this traditional treat on a hot July afternoon.

According to historical documents by the well-known Lucerne chronicler Renward Cysat (1515-1614), Hans Buchmann mysteriously disappeared in 1572, near the Sempach battlefield, only to be found weeks later in Milan, Italy. It is a story about a strange and unexplained alien abduction. Hans Buchmann lived a short kilometer from my home in Ludiswil, and he may well have been an ancestor. The fascinating story is in a separate chapter above.

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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 mousetraps, 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 didn't mind working. 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. We delivered the best quality apples to the cooperative. Some good apples with hailstorm blemishes did not meet the high retail standards. We kept them for our family, stored in the cool cellar. The cellar was dark and cool, keeping the apples fresh for many months. The lowest-quality apples were set aside. We chopped and pressed them for apple cider. Father prepared half the apple juice for fermentation - alcoholic cider- and the rest for pasteurization and sweet apple juice. We scooped the pressed apple mash, added some water, and dumped it into barrels for fermentation and later alcohol distillation.

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 mash into briquettes. A year later, when dry, the briquettes heated our kitchen stove and the house. The ashes of the burned briquettes later fertilized the fields and gardens. The sun's energy, which nature so ingeniously stored in the fruits, was thus released back to nature. It nourished us, quenched our thirst, lifted the men's spirits, warmed our bodies, and kept nature's rhythm running strong - never-ending.

We harvested and stored the wheat 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 we lifted the sheaves of wheat, disturbed mice jumped from their nests. The cats sitting on posts were on high alert, ready to jump. We poured the grain into burlap bags and hauled it 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; fastening the harness was almost impossible. Prinz pulled the milk cart up the hill to the cheese dairy. We rolled the slightly tilted milk cans into the building. 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 had a name, written on a plate hanging at its 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 - it was healthy and invigorating for the 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 and the fresh air. They saw the open grass field, bright green everywhere. Perhaps the cows had a flashback to summers past as youngsters in the Alps. They felt the sudden freedom, jumped wildly, and ran 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. A hundred tasks must 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 that knowledge, a strong work ethic, and perseverance to my older brother, Franz.

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Dunging

The most loathed duty on the farm was helping Father spray the liquid cow manure. It was a dirty, smelly job, but important for growing 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 paused the flow of manure, allowing Father 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.

At the barn's dung pit, we lifted and removed some wooden planks and opened it up. 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 don't know if any biological safety measures were in effect, but my father would have followed the regulations to a T. The muck had settled at the bottom, and I 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, 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. We filled the pump to the rim, and sealed the cover tightly before the priming liquid could drain back into the pool. We ran to the electric switch and turned on the motor. Cautiously, we tiptoed back, watchful not to get snared in the fast-reeling pulley belt and limber, stumble over the loose wooden planks, or 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, we waited for Father's signal to stop the flow. The calls came at short intervals whenever he finished spraying a section, and when the pipes had to be moved. Quickly, we turned the valve's crank handle - as fast and tight as possible. Father also disliked 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, spat, and wiped off the muck with our shirt sleeves. Then, we waited for Father's signal to reopen the valve.

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Hay Day

It was mid-morning, humid and sweltering hot; the sky was blue. The radio weather forecast predicted thunderstorms for the evening and rain for the next two days. Father knuckle-tapped the barometer. 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 to be raked, loaded, and stored in the barn. But it may need 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 his palm. The hay was a good mix of fine-stemmed, healthy grass blades, clover leaves, field flowers, and herbs, with good nutrients for our cows. Father decided to rake, load, and store the hay in the barn before the first raindrops.

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

Father arrived with the hay cart and guided the horse along a line of raked hay. One of us was the stacker, a post of pride. The hay stacker jumped on the hay cart, lifted the front and back railings, and got ready for the hay. The men shoved the hay into heaps, then pitchforked and hoisted them onto the cart. The hay stacker arranged the hay and weighed it down on each side, nice and neat. 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, waited patiently between the stops. He vigorously slapped his tail and 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 with a log beam placed on top. He then slung a rope over the beam's end and anchored it to the torsion cylinder. With levers inserted into the cylinder, he cranked down the log beam nearly to the snapping point. Think of ancient Roman soldiers pulling down a catapult's throw-arm. Father told us never to sit on top of the log beam. If the rope should snap, we would be hurled halfway 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 thundering thumps and the pounding of the horse's hooves on the wooden planks. Father stopped the cart at 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 swept the itchy hay off our shirt collars and wiped the sweat from our foreheads. The work wasn't finished; we had at least three more carts to load. We jumped on the cart and bumped back to the hayfield, ready for a new load.

By evening, with 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 heard 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.

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Winters

Winters in Switzerland were bitterly cold. Fields were blanketed knee-deep in snow, and the roads were glazed with ice. The only heat in the house came from the kitchen's wood-burning cooking stove and baking furnace. They radiated heat in the kitchen, warming up the tiled stove in the adjoining family room. There was no heating upstairs. Temperature in our bedrooms often stayed below freezing, day and night. Anything liquid was frozen. But thick bed covers kept us comfortable all night.

On cold winter days, we couldn't use our bikes; we walked to school or skied, thirty minutes each way, twice a day. My brothers and I served as altar boys. On snow days, we had to leave home early to get to church before Mass time. I remember once scratching a peephole in the frost-covered kitchen window and checking the overnight snowfall. The sight was spectacular. The sky was pitch black, yet the pure white snow lit up the wintry scene. Some trees were buried in snow drifts halfway up their trunks. We left the house with the north wind blowing; we were ready to face Arctic weather: two layers of long socks, sturdy winter boots, thick corduroy trousers, and a heavy coat. A woolly hat and mittens, knitted by Grandmother, would keep us warm in the freezing weather. And we wrapped a woolen scarf around our necks and faces.

I will never forget the coldest freeze. The outside temperature at night dropped to an arctic minus 40 degrees. I clearly remember that number. Minus 40 is cold, but you ask: was that Fahrenheit or Celsius? The answer? Yes, yes- both.

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Hi-Tech

Rapid Gas Mower

I remember, as a young kid, how my father and a farmhand cut the grass with a scythe. It was a daily routine, cutting enough grass to feed our cows. But imagine cutting a large field for hay-making by hand. Scything skills require 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 at 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 he bought a farm tool, especially machinery that expensive. After much thought, he was set 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, one evening, the dealer delivered the mower. After he left, 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 Rapid engine powering up. Vati had to try his new machine. We jumped out of our beds 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, they invited us. The kind lady offered us homemade vanilla ice cream. She 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. Few families owned a refrigerator; it was 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 wanted to keep it a secret; no one should know we purchased a refrigerator. So the news about our fridge wouldn't 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 screen' set up 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.

In our neighborhood, the Emmenegger family at the cheese factory was the only family that owned a television. In 1953, my mother and father were invited to watch Queen Elizabeth II's coronation. 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 was offered a deal to purchase an inexpensive old television set. Father was not pleased when Isidor came 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 we owned a TV.

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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, the whiffs of 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. They did not exist in our village. But if they did, people wore them discreetly, and no one 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 leather, and how ably he handled all the shoemaker's tools. He did not mind us watching. He enjoyed company during long hours of work.

Michael the Shoemaker was an honest, true-blue craftsman, a master of his trade. He liked working with all things leather. Michael didn't work for the money; he devoted himself 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 Michael's 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 scrappy work when a quick buck means more than the worker's honor and pride. We must find the true Michaels. They still exist. When we find them, honor them, and reward them well.

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School at Emmenbrücke

I had good grades at school. After Grade Eight, my parents decided I should continue with higher education, um, at least through Grade Nine. Grade 9 was optional. Our village didn't 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 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 being thrust into a new, unfamiliar setting, but I soon found my footing and marched on with confidence.

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; it was in mint condition, only a few years old. I roamed through the long halls, trying nervously to find my classroom. I knew my first session would be in the chemistry lab, but where was the lab? 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 classroom was too small for the large number of students. 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 and sat in the empty chairs too.

The physics and chemistry room was extensive. The front section was set up as a laboratory, with a row of kitchen sinks. The shelves were packed with laboratory utensils. I could hardly wait for the class to begin.

The Physics and Chemistry teacher arrived. Without giving us 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 desk 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 feigned fury, he yanked a loose sink from 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 smirk, probably thinking he was funny. It was mean. This senseless, off-the-wall insult on that first day at the new school didn't help my vulnerable self-confidence. On the positive side, this unforgettable lesson taught me this: Whatever the problem, there is always a solution. Use your imagination! For this 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 English. 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. Our English teacher was an attractive young lady and didn't escape the attention of our class of pubescent boys. And, surprisingly, we also liked the Religion lessons. The priest teacher had a good sense of humor. He not only taught Church doctrine 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 parents at home preferred to leave alone.

I had reached the age when I became interested in girls. The Emmenbrücke school authority, with outdated thinking, decided that Grade 9 students were of an age needing boys' and girls' classrooms to be separated. 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; 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, going on sixteen, but looked younger, more like fourteen. I hadn't made an impression on girls yet. I was not exactly the hottest guy. And, not to put too fine a point on it, my face didn't have any of that Classic Greek look; I mean, a touch of that coveted chiseled jawline, and a clean profile. I wanted to look older, grow some stubble on my chin, and have that rugged, manly look. I had to boost my machismo, make the girls turn their heads toward me. It was 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 romantic and more charming. He organized dance parties and soirées. The girls flocked around him as bumblebees buzz around a honeysuckle tree. He had the most beautiful girlfriends at 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. 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, coordination, and strategy 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 untrained, not prepared. I could beat or match anyone in basic athletics, like running, jumping, and climbing, but not play ball. The football teams were constituted afresh for each game. The team leaders took turns picking the players from the pool. My name was often one of the last to be called. It hurt. When faced with the ball, I did my damnedest, and some days were better than others. Despite my low rank in football, I got along well with all my schoolmates.

Looking back, when we were young boys, we had little interest in sports games. Switzerland has many popular football teams. We never watched a football game at a sports field or stadium; we lived on a farm, far from the nearest sports venue. Major games were broadcast on the radio, but it was hard to picture the action mentally. 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 celebrated 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 an interest in sports, enthusiasm, and a passion for it. I would now understand the intricacies of football and baseball, have a favorite team, wear my team's sports cap, loudly cheer when my team scores a winning point, 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 played 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 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 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 for that slam dunk and win the game. The ball is in my court. C'mon, Bucky - get off the bench!

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It's the Real Thing

I was fifteen or sixteen when I tasted the first sip of 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 it. When thirsty from hard work in the hot sun, we made homemade sparkling 'Perli' lemonade. On special occasions, we allowed ourselves a bottle of Orangina. And we always had plenty of homemade sweet apple cider.

The bottling company organized the tour to introduce our generation to Coca-Cola. Coca-Cola, the Real Thing!

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

At the end of the tour, each student received a trademark Coca-Cola bottle, 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 Coke releases fizzy gas that develops bubbles; it expands in your mouth and fills 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 the whole family to experience and enjoy Coca-Cola. 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 waited tensely 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.

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Estavayer

The summer of 1957 was extra special. I was fifteen, 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 nun's 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 of much political turmoil in Europe. 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. How I was looking forward to that summer escapade! I had never been away from home. What a wonderful experience that would be.

As my departure day neared, Muetti worried about me traveling alone to Estavayer, a three-hour trip with two train changes. She inquired whether 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, was not wildly pleased to travel with me. He was polite, though not overly friendly. We didn't have much in common. His father was a musical director of the city symphony orchestra. The boy played the cello, not many farm boys' first choice of musical instruments. I can understand why there wasn't an instant bond.

We settled in at the Estavayer school. We were a group of boys from European countries, mainly from Switzerland, Germany, Italy, and Spain. The classes started the following morning. It soon became apparent that my French language knowledge was lacking. 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 with the food platters. In 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. 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 to someone speaking their native language. The unlucky boy holding the medallion at dinner was called to the head table, paid the penalty, and suffered the embarrassment. Once, a trusted friend engaged me in 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 it 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 more circumspect and suspicious. 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. 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 could 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. Mistakenly, I missed a week of school.

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.

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At a Crossroad

When I was young, I often fantasized about my future life. I felt the gentle breeze of a wide-open world. All children everywhere should have that good feeling, dream of life's possibilities, and let their aspirations flourish.

At a very young age, I dreamed of becoming a carpenter, working with wood. 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.

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

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. Government-run offices with specialists helped boys and girls choose a profession suited to their abilities and character. The choices were countless and fascinating. Picking the right trade and career is one of life's most far-reaching decisions. 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 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 pedaled to the nearest Teacher's College for the admission test. I thought I did okay.

I flunked the entrance exam. I was perplexed - I was disappointed. I always had above-average grades at school. I was great in math. Why did I fail now? I concluded I failed the German composition test. We had 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, a 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 story review, or the story itself. And my essay didn't have much of Schiller's and Goethe's prose. The examiners were looking for more. They wanted insight into my character and to know my appreciation for good literature. I failed. I was just not destined to be a teacher, a clear signal.

They sent the test results 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 do farm chores, dung, and plow the fields my whole life. I would work for my older brother for little pay. And be lucky if not less. Nice.

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. The bank still had a bad reputation, but the new owners tried their best to put it on a righteous path.

The apprenticeship was uneventful. During the first two years, I spent a considerable amount of 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, and 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.

Two half-days a 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 proud to call Lucerne 'My Hometown'.

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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, top rank, second-best among hundreds of students. The Lucerne main newspaper even had my picture. 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, which 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 world airline pamphlets and flight schedules.

I planned to spend a year in Paris to perfect my French, then move to Canada or Australia for two or three years to learn English, and then, perhaps, 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, from all mistakes I will learn. I will settle in a far-flung corner of the world, fall in love, raise 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 proudly and warmly treasure my Swiss inner self. Eventually, inevitably, in the distant future, I will be drawn back to my Swiss Homeland, drawn home like a salmon or a sea turtle. Life will be a long trek; life will be an adventure.

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Tunisia

After completing the three-year bank apprenticeship, I deserved a short break. I was eager to travel somewhere, a trip abroad, a trip to a different continent: 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, with a stopover in Palermo, Sicily. I had a whole day to explore the beautiful Mediterranean city.

I was in Sicily before. My schoolmate Wicki and I camped on Sicily's west coast for a week. On that trip, for the first time in my life, I saw the sea, the clean line of the horizon, the edge of the earth. I had seen pictures of ocean scenes on postcards and in travel magazines; now I could see it myself. My forefathers were farmers and may never have traveled beyond the Alps. I could be the first in many generations to stand at the ocean's shore, and gaze out at the horizon, and see the sun rise from the sea and slip under in the evening.

On that earlier trip to Sciacca, Sicily, we were sleeping on the night train south of Naples, our heads on backpacks. The train rolled quietly along the coast, approaching the Strait of Messina on Italy's toe. I woke up and looked out. Dawn broke over the pristine Tyrrhenian Sea. 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. A hazy mist blurred the magical line, but the view was out of this world. - Today, which do I like more: a view of the sea and its horizon, or a Swiss alpine mountain scene? Which one do I want in my life? I like both.

Now, I was in Sicily again, on my trip to Tunisia. That evening, I boarded my ship for the crossing to Tunisia, on the African coast. The next morning, as I stepped onto African land, I embraced the moment. 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; it was ad hoc, impromptu. Each day I decided where to go next.

After overnight stays in Sousse and Monastir, I continued to Sfax, then further south. I travelled on minivans and buses. I walked to the local marketplace and looked for cars displaying their destination, a 'ride-share'. When the cars were filled with 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 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 stay at Gabès, it was time to return to Tunis for the ship passage back to Naples. I traveled to Sousse by bus and car-share. On the way, the friendly driver stopped in the ancient town of Kairouan, letting me 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 to catch 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 evening. I walked to the marketplace, hoping to find a bus or a ride-share. There were none. I was stuck. I was in a quandary. I didn't know what to do.

I walked back and forth. How could I get back to Tunis that evening? I sat down on a bench, trying to gather my thoughts. I felt weak and unwell; I hadn't 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 started to walk north along a main road. The sun faded behind desert dunes when I reached the edge of town.

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 at the side of the road and raised my arm, my thumb pointed up. It felt strange; I looked like a novice. I had never hitchhiked before. Many cars drove past. Was I doing that right? It started to get dark. I worried drivers would not see me standing on the side of the road. I felt weak and tired, and I was not myself.

Eventually, a car stopped, and the driver offered me 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 to Tunis safely. 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 annoying advance 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 nasty situation. 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 felt unwell, tired, and feverish. I had not eaten all day.

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.

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Leaving Home

It was time to leave home. My plans were falling into place: First, a year in Paris, then off to Canada or Australia. 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, seemingly unreachable. On a cool spring morning in May, that day had come, the day to explore the world. I could sense 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, and flutters its wings. With zest and boldness, it dares to jump and take its first flight, knowing well the wings will lift it high. I was that bird, eager to fly.

I had finished my breakfast with a cup of Muetti's freshly brewed coffee and checked the clock; it was time to say goodbye. My suitcase was at the front door, bulging to burst. Next to it sat my new iconic blue Swissair shoulder bag; it would make me look like a seasoned world traveler - a tad 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 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, now and for a long time. "Don't forget to write as soon as you get there."

It was time to go, to leave my family home, 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, 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 on my left and my right, I walked up the hill to the bus stop at the crossroads. It was a short walk, but as a wise man once 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 only saw its taillights disappear at the curve. I wouldn't 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. I grabbed the handgrip, leaned down, and caught 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 passengers' faces 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 an air of enthusiasm. I was entering a new life, a new world. Then, on the drab canvas, I noticed a bright spot: Marie Felber's smiling face. 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 the moment of excitement was 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.

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Paris

Spring 1961. I was 19 years old. I arrived in Paris late in the evening and stayed the first night at a hotel near the train station. The following morning, I 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 within easy walking distance of the Arc de Triomphe.

I left behind the protected life in rural Ludiswil and moved to a large metropolis. It was so exciting. During the first few weeks in Paris, I was obsessed with watching parades of many visiting celebrities. I missed a French class to see the motorcade of John Kennedy and Jacqueline's State visit. Here they were, in person, sitting in an open black limousine, smiling and waving to the ecstatic crowd 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 his assured deportment. On several occasions, I saw the Président de la République Charles de Gaulle parading down the Champs-Elysées with his trademark stalwart posture. The thrill soon wore off.

Two weeks after I arrived in Paris, with help from the language school, I got a job offer from Monsieur Romain Dupont as a bank trainee, known as a Stagiaire at the Banque L Dupont. Monsieur Dupont was a principal and an owner of the bank, 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.

There are many beautiful and historic buildings in Paris. When I first emerged from the subway station at Place d'Etoile, I was especially astounded by the beauty 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.

My room was on the sixth floor of an apartment building in the 17th arrondissement, on Rue Théodore de Banville. It is a beautiful bourgeois street near the Arc de Triomphe and not far from Parc Monceau, one of the most beautiful parks in Paris. Review articles describe Rue Théodore de Banville as a calm residential area with an upscale atmosphere, Haussmann-style buildings, bakeries, and local shops. And Cafés. Braggadocio!

Many old apartment buildings in Paris have small rooms in the attic, called 'Chambre de Bonne', meaning maid's room. In earlier times, these were accommodations of the owners' maids; now they are rented to students and poor folks. My room was such a Chambre de Bonne. 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 a toilet and a cold-water faucet in the hallway, but no bathroom. In winter, it was cold, and in summer, hot and stuffy. Access to the floor was via ten flights of stairs from the courtyard, through 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 watch a movie or walked the beautiful boulevards. 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 cutting. Vati, working all day, would have preferred to rest in the evening. He was not always in a good mood when he cut 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; it cost a week's pay. Eventually, after I paged through again and counted the money in my pocket, my frugality relented, and I bought it. I kept my Petit Larousse book my entire life. It always found a place in my luggage as I moved from country to country, first in my suitcase, then in a shipping chest, a moving van, and finally in a dedicated Atlantic cargo container. Today, I still have the Petit Larousse book, proudly displayed on our bookshelf, a most precious keepsake.

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 on the outside, soft and airy on the 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 she said, '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.

In the early days of my stay in Paris, bomb explosions rocked the city several times. Political rebels opposed the liberation of the French colony of Algeria, and they instigated attacks against France. One day, on my way to the grocery store, an army convoy screeched to a halt. Soldiers jumped off an army truck, surrounded me, and searched my bag. Across the street, a group of soldiers aimed their guns at me. I was stunned. Then - the soldiers had left. It took a moment to realize what had just happened. Huh? What was that? Why me? I did not look like a terrorist.

Most days, I walked to the bank, a 30-minute walk. All employees entered from the back of the building. We had to check in before 8:15. 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.

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 brings back the most treasured memories.

The working atmosphere was very friendly. In the morning, we greeted the boss and each employee with a handshake. In the evening, again, goodbye with a friendly handshake. 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.'

I loved my job at the bank. As a stagiaire, I moved through the bank's various departments, including check clearing, foreign exchange, stock brokerage, and foreign trade. I learned new things every day; it was a great experience.

It was summer, and I was assigned to the stock brokerage department. The stock market was so quiet that sometimes we waited half an hour between customer orders. We all got lazy and read a magazine. Even the boss was reading. When an agitated stockbroker rushed into the sleepy room with an order slip, everyone tried to look busy and avoided eye contact; nobody wanted to handle the order. Idleness begets laziness. The boss, overlooking the room from his elevated front desk, casually pointed to one of us, signaling to process the order. It was a mere five minutes of work.

One late summer evening, I was relaxing in bed when someone knocked on the door. Who could that be at that late hour? It could not be a robber; who would think to rob 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 at how Isidor could find me at Rue Théodore de Banville 18, in the 17th arrondissement.

My place was located on a small street, not shown on many city maps. He told me how he got lost, buzzing around streets of Paris on his motorbike for more than an hour; he couldn't 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 the building's main door. 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 showed only five floors, so Isidor knocked at an apartment door on the fifth floor and politely asked where to find the stairs to the penthouse on the sixth floor, the penthouse. 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. When the cake cools, 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 in the hot sun all day. He opened his traveling bag, lifted out the cake, and unwrapped it. Horror! The cake was in 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 had no fridge to cool it, and the room was hot day and night. There was no practical solution to salvage the cake. I scooped up some runny chocolate off the box. It was good. But what to do? Isidor and I agreed we could not eat the cake. That hard work Muetti did for me, creating that wonderful present.

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. My work permit extension was approved. I was pleased to spend my second summer in beautiful 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'.

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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. With deep feelings for my Swiss homeland and respect for my family's wishes, I chose to honor my military responsibilities.

All young, able-bodied Swiss men, from a workman to an aspiring lawyer, must complete a five-month military training program. It is called the 'Rekrutenschule', a school for recruits. Then, the men are summoned back each year for a three-week military refresher course. 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 decide: Artillery or Infantry? A cannoneer or a foot soldier? Would I prefer maneuvering armored vehicles through mud and rocks, firing heavy machine guns, and learning cannon ballistics? 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 an extensive network of tunnels, hospitals, sleeping quarters, cannon infrastructure, 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; they gave me temporary pants - much oversized and very loose. I asked for a belt so 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 right-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 distant relative of my mother. He proudly wore his military uniform decorated with a double-chevron patch showing 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 didn't fit, a weird-looking knapsack hanging on my back, a rifle and coat slung over my shoulder, shirt hanging out, and my left hand clenching the top of my oversized pants. I must have been like a picture out of a comic book.

The military training began the next morning with rifle drills and long-distance marching. Some days, for a few hours, I worked in the accounting office, processing payments. The sergeant in charge of that office spent a year as an internee at a bank in Paris, just as I did, and we had many great conversations about our experiences. Occasionally, I was assigned to other functions, such as helping in the kitchen or operating the switchboard. The switchboard was pre-war; you still see them now in old movies. It was an interesting experience.

We soon learned we would not operate cannons or drive armored vehicles through mud and rock, not what we had hoped. We were never taught Gunnery and Ballistics, although we were curious and eager to learn. 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 cable layers did not reach gunman status. Our corporal told us that our job as telephonists was just as important, and we should wear the mantle given with pride.

The exercises lasted all day. We got up early, long before sunrise. We carried the telephone cables on our backs and hung them on tree branches 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 at a target across the valley. We stayed both next to the cannons and at a safe vantage point where the spotters could observe the impact. Commanders were at both locations, communicating through us, the humble cable men. The commanders shouted the impact coordinates, and we relayed the data back to the cannon group. We had to concentrate, be alert, and not mix up the numbers. Think of repeating a long telephone number under stress. The commanders expressed their displeasure quickly and liberally if the communication was not precise.

When the artillery shooting practice ended, 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 and deep reverence 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 by 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 could stand at ease, but for salutes I had to stand at attention, shoulders straight, head up, and my rifle firmly pressed to my body. I marched back and forth to keep my feet warm.

I dutifully stayed guard hour after hour. As it darkened, I expected to be relieved from guard duty. 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. No movement; it was deadly quiet. The entrance gate was closed and locked as always at night. I shouted into the tunnel for attention. My voice was too faint to travel. I screamed louder, "Hello," but just heard my echo.

By nine o'clock, all lights were off. I suspected my Corporal must have forgotten about me. Did any of my colleagues notice I was absent? By now, they would have completed the nightly roll call; someone surely noticed that a soldier was missing. They will come, open the gate, and call me in. Nine-thirty. At lights-out, someone will notice my bunk bed was empty and will call a sergeant. My bunk bed was at the bottom, not the top; everyone would have seen it was not undone. Nobody noticed. I tend to go unnoticed. Someone once told me I could 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 my arms around my shoulders, 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 lay down on the back of the open truck and slipped under the plastic tarps. My helmet kept my head warm. I dozed off and fell asleep.

The night was long. At first light, I staggered from the truck, my limbs half frozen. 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 came to see me. He said I could stay in all day, rest, and catch up on my sleep. My 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 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, 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 discharge ceremony, the combined regiment marched one more time before the Colonel.

I feel good and happy; I have completed the Swiss military service.

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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 it is French-speaking, and I felt comfortable speaking French. After a year or so in Canada, 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 also secured a small banker's draft for a few weeks of living expenses and emergencies.

On the evening of 7 March, Dorli drove me to the train station in Lucerne. On the way to the port of Le Havre, I stopped in Paris to visit my cousin Elisabeth, who studied at a convent in Trappes, southwest of the city. The nuns didn't 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 Banque L Dupont, my previous employer in Paris. Unlike a bank employee, I could now enter through the main entrance on Avenue Franklin D. Roosevelt, off Boulevard Champs-Elysées. Monsieur Romain Dupont, chief executive and part-owner, was pleased to see me. He handed me a letter of recommendation that should help me find a job in Montreal, Canada.

SSRyndam

The SS Ryndam steamship of the Holland-America Line sailed from 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 book the crossing on the luxurious brand-new SS France, but 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, a large lounge, a card room, a library, a bar, and a 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 didn't know it existed. Anyway, I was not hungry. After three days at sea, the ship's purser came to see me. He was annoyed because he had 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 it to the washroom down the hallway. I adjusted to the rough sea and enjoyed the remaining three days.

On the fourth day, I finally went to the dining room. At our assigned table, I met the other guests: an older American couple returning from a trip to Europe, a French immigrant, François from Bordeaux, a young American lady, and a professor from Philadelphia. Philadelphia, 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 up as the ship's bow rose to the waves' crest, then plunged into the trough with a healthy spritz of salty spray spewing into our faces.

On arrival in Halifax, 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 in the afternoon, a special overnight immigrant train took us to Montreal.

Finally, the next day, from far away, beyond the flat expanse of snow-covered fields, we could see the Montreal skyline with its towering skyscrapers and smoky factory chimneys on the city's outskirts. We were in awe. This will be our new hometown. In this big city, surely, we figured, there are jobs for all of us. Soon, we arrived at the Central Station.

We soon discovered that finding a job in Montreal was difficult. Every morning, we returned to the train station and met our friends in the large central hall. The hall was warm and had benches. We may have had little in common, yet we all shared the same concerns. We were alone, without family, and were trying to find jobs. The small social gathering lifted our spirits. Each day, as some of us found jobs, the group became smaller. And smaller.

To conserve our limited financial resources, François from France, who was seated at the same dining table on the ship, and I shared a room for a few weeks. He soon found a job 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 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. All employees arrived and waited outside the bank at 8:30. One senior employee unlocked the door and went inside alone to check it out. He 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. 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 many 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 the thousands of savings accounts. It was before computers. When we worked overtime, we received 80 cents in 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 deposit $ 1 each month and receive $ 12 back in mid-December. I forgot the exact details of the deal; maybe there were more and better incentives. I tried to convince all the customers at my counter of the Christmas Club advantages: a painless, 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 could claim 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.

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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: breathtaking skyscrapers, the subways, the Statue of Liberty, and its dynamism. I remember paging through a magazine - I was in pre-school then - and being fascinated by a New York bank ad. It showed a large office, rows upon rows of desks, and employees busy working on typewriters and calculating machines. I saw myself as one of them, working there, in New York.

The train trip from Montreal to New York City lasted ten hours. As I stepped out of the train station, I was stunned by New York's scene and vivacity. Woah! I walked around Midtown Manhattan and tried to find a hotel room, but was shocked by the high prices and the snooty attitude of the hotel receptionists. I couldn't afford two weeks' pay for a one-night hotel stay. 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 it. 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. On a tight, narrow path, I couldn't pass a man walking very slowly. 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 walk past him.

The walking path led into a tunnel-like underpass. Halfway inside the pass, the man stopped and turned around. He 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 treasured my Pax camera. I paid a lot for it at the end of my apprenticeship, and it had many shots of my trip. I shook my head. "No." He kept pointing his knife at me, closer, gesturing. Mentally overcome and inexplicably, I offered him some money instead of the camera. Duh! Not the smartest thing. I was stunned and could not think straight. The man nodded. I was reaching for the wallet in my jacket. Then, my inborn instinct took charge. On impulse, instead of pulling the wallet out of my jacket, I whammed my wrenched fist into the man's stomach. He fell back. I sprinted out of the underpass.

As I bolted away, my rubber overshoes spun off and rolled down into the dry brook inside the tunnel. 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 calmed down. I could not see or hear anyone. I had to find the rubber covers that slipped off my shoes; I had no choice. 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 overshoes. As I emerged from the tunnel, a gang of men ran down the slope towards me. They probably were friends or associates of the attacker, seeking 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 seven or eight 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 trouble remembering faces. I was reasonably sure who the attacker was, but could not be totally sure. The officer told me to punch the stomach of each suspect as I did when attacked. I thought I misheard, but he repeated and explained. Doing the punch, he said, might help me remember. So I did, with a softer touch. In the end, I had to tell the officer I could not identify the person with absolute certainty. They had to release the entire gang. I left the police station and cautiously returned to my hotel in Brooklyn.

When I told my parents about the adventure in New York, Muetti wrote 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, on impulse, I charged after the gypsy group. I caught the young bag snatcher, 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 all day.

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Vancouver

As it was written in the stars, I would 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 had 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 reservations about hiring me because many 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 really liked Farnham and the Province of Quebec. Everybody was 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. I started job-hunting on the first day. 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 English didn't 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 set in, and it hit hard. I took a day off.

I slept late into the day. At three o'clock, the landlady knocked at my door and told me 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 required a Grade 12 High School diploma. 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 years 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 a Grade 12 English class. 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 couldn't comprehend the essence and beauty of classical English literature. I couldn't always find the veiled messages in the poetic passages and got stressed discussing them in front of the class, noticing 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 probably noticed my distress and struggle and realized English 12 was a challenge and an insurmountable barrier for me. He suggested I stop by the admissions office downstairs and see if they could find a spot in a lower class.

To stay, or not to stay, whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of a giggling 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 reviewed my background, made an exception, and did not insist on the Grade 12 entrance prerequisite. The courses were held two or three evenings a week at the University of British Columbia. There was much homework.

I graduated among the top five in Canada (1969). 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 earn better pay. While studying for my accounting degree, I worked in the accounting department of a construction company, then joined a large forest products company, where I was promoted to a financial analyst. After receiving my professional accounting qualifications, I joined an international mutual fund company. My career started to gel. I was the Accountant for two mutual funds.

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 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.

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Mustang Moment

When I was a kid, only a few families in my village owned a car; I could count them on my fingers. It was a joy when a family bought a new car. A particular car model in the mid-fifties impressed and inspired us most. A nearby family bought such a car. They needed it for business. Consul Car

On our way to school, my brother Isidor and I stopped to admire the family's new car parked outside their house. We liked its new style - the modern look and vibrant colors. We thought this 1953 Ford Consul Mark One reached the apex of automobile design. Seen from the side, the hood and trunk were almost symmetrical; the wheels were tucked in, with 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 to own my first car. It finally happened in Vancouver, Canada. I was 24 years old.

The major American automobile companies displayed their new models each autumn. In Vancouver, all West Broadway car dealers promoted the Annual New Model Opening Day with grand fanfare, buttering up everyone. Each model tried to outsmart the previous year's design. They introduced technical novelties and new styles, some stunning and jaw-dropping, others funky. Style and functionality often took a backseat to clever innovation. - Witness the 1959 Chevrolet 'bat wing' model.

My first car was a small, boxy Chevrolet. It had no 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 moved on 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 instructor's patience and courage. Hats off to him. He tried his utmost. I tried to move the car after it stalled at a railway crossing and couldn't 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 to drive 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 bit of a challenge; witness my lack of ball-playing skills. 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, hypnotic moment. I sat in the comfortable bucket seat, looking over the bulging hood, the powerful beast below it, 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 chose a stick-shift Turbo Thunderbird. It would force me 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 manual transmission once more. I signed the papers, received the keys, and was ready to face the challenge.

I sat in the car seat, made myself comfortable, 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 engine and selected the gear. The car jerked and stalled. And again. After a few more attempts, I managed to leave 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 rush hour.

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The Return

Autumn 1969. I worked as an Accountant for an international mutual fund company in downtown Vancouver. My boss called and said the head office wanted me to work at their rapidly expanding main office in Zurich, Switzerland. It was a message 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 were watching 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 rushed to the nearby Universitätsspital. We filled out the necessary forms. The process was very formal. On the check-in form, we wrote in the names of a boy and a girl so the hospital could complete the paperwork immediately upon birth. Louise was in much pain, was nervous and anxious, not knowing what to expect. Only a few nurses spoke French; none spoke English, and Louise did not speak German.

I had to leave for home. The hospital did not allow husbands to stay late after visiting hours. I walked home, my mind 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 midafternoon.

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, afraid to cry. She screamed at Louise a few times. The pain was unbearable. To control the suffering, 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 woman, 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 she tried to be the kindest, 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 the 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 a few faint finger marks on the entrance door. 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; it badly needed repainting, and the furniture was worse than in the first apartment. I refused to accept the apartment in that 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 baby Barbara out of the building and locked the door behind them. It was cold, in the middle of winter. Louise called me. I left for the apartment building immediately. When I arrived home, Louise sat on the concrete doorstep outside the locked door with baby Barbara wrapped in a warm blanket, shivering and anxiously waiting for me. I will never forget the sight: 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. It turned out to be 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 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 army training. 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 return to a military camp. One good thing: I would see my military 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. A few months later, 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 their shooting skills, keeping them ready for military service when called to defend the country. I was busy at the office, working late hours 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 rifles cracking 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 the annual three-week military service. I was to appear in uniform with all army gear at the military camp on a Monday in early November. A full-day military exercise at the local shooting range was also scheduled for that day. 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 three weeks of military training shortly before leaving Switzerland. On November 10, I stopped at the military office to sign out. I felt shamefaced as I walked in, and 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 followed the Army regulations. I would never be concerned about entering Switzerland. And that is a good thing. As I grow older, I feel drawn back to my home country, and these feelings grow stronger with time. 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 both scheduled military service and the rifle training session, our young family boarded our 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; I got ready for our move to London.

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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. 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 smelled sooty from the burning of 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 moving 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 Lindfield, an idyllic village near Haywards Heath in Sussex.

Soon we knew that 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 special blessings to baby John. 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 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 couldn't talk to the doctor. I left the office half an hour early twice a week and took the train to Sydenham to be at the hospital before visitor closing time. My boss, Dan, complained that I took too much time off. Thank God, Baby John recovered. After three weeks, we were allowed to bring our 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 didn't 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, and we moved from Lindfield to Cookham. Our new house, 'Woodlands' on Berries Road, was beautiful. Behind our garden stood the Cookham Church; 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 in the other direction was '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 to have the accounting numbers 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 and flew to Germany once a month. Only two days once a month, and I did the accounting myself.

When I think of the German town of Cologne now, one incident always comes to mind. The story seems unreal, like a bad dream, but it is true. However strange the story may appear, I have to tell it. On one of my monthly trips to the Cologne office, I finished my work close to midnight and was leaving for the hotel. I was about to leave the office building, but the main door was locked. There was no way to unlock it. I tried everything. I looked for alternative exits; there were none. 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 unlock the building. When I heard the fire truck. I opened the window and waved. They were not a happy group. They saw me and shouted, "Jump down, we will catch you." I stepped up to the windowsill, looked down, - three stories down. I did not dare to jump. I was in my business suit, sitting all day; my legs were stiff; I was unprepared. Eventually, the firefighters 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 UK Prime Minister's office. 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 legally, you own a home, you are Canadian citizens - you are British subjects. Yes, you can vote!" We rushed to the polling station on School Lane and signed in. We showed some identification, proof of residency, and a passport. We cast our votes; it went so smoothly. It was a great experience, Democracy at its best. Margaret Thatcher, the Iron Lady, was elected and remained Prime Minister for eleven years.

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 non-authoritative. "Welcome home," they often said. Once, after working late, I saw an ex-Prime Minister traveling home on the same train. He traveled on the train 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; 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.

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Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA

My employer's computer leasing business in Europe was gradually declining. Computers became inexpensive enough 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 in Philadelphia. The London office no longer offered any opportunities. I liked working for the corporate group and appreciated the offer. I agreed to relocate to the USA.

I started my job in Philadelphia in April 1980. I was 38 years old. Things were tough for the first few weeks. I could feel resentment from some people about my job appointment. Twice, I experienced death threats in the middle of the night; I grabbed a few things and checked in at a hotel. I am not accusing anyone; they were probably just random incidents. I reported the incident to the police. I decided not to mention it to Louise back in England; I did not want to worry the family. Soon, things improved. Louise and the children joined me three months later, at the end of the school year, when the house was sold, and the furniture had been shipped. We all settled down on the beautiful Philadelphia Main Line.

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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 I left home for Canada, I didn't fly; I booked 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 four-engine, piston-powered 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 didn't know I had to go to the counter and check my luggage; I thought it was the same as boarding a bus or train.

In time, I became more relaxed with flying. But not fully. I was boarding a flight from London to Manchester when I was shocked to see my plane. It was the weirdest-looking old aircraft, with an aging fuselage and the wings mounted on top. I backed out. I did not have the guts to board that plane. 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 I worked in London, I flew 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. With a short one-hour hop, I was in another country: different scenery, culture, feel, and food. I experienced some of the most memorable air trips, including taking a helicopter from New York airport to the helipad atop the Pan Am skyscraper, flying across the Atlantic on the supersonic Concorde several times, sleeping in a real bed upstairs in a jumbo jet, and other treasured travel experiences. They are treasured experiences of a distant past. And I remember a bomb threat and an emergency landing.

In Philadelphia, my son John and I enjoyed three great trips. We biked in the Grand Canyon for a week, travelled '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! Inside the pyramid, we crouch-walked through dark passageways and climbed the Grand Gallery. Then we rode on horseback in the desert to the Saqqara Step Pyramid. The next day, we traveled overnight by 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 around 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 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: I lay down to rest ... and 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... - Downwards. I rejoined my team that evening. 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 in a section below.

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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, 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 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 glass of wine in the open air, not roughed up and hauled away by the police. I feel on top of the world and wouldn't trade 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. People constantly striving for luxury living, with only the finest gourmet food at a ritzy place, often miss out on the best experiences. A crusty farmer's bread bun and a bottle of red at the water's edge, with a view of the Alps... the good feeling is indescribable.

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Trans-Siberian Railway

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

Since my youth, I have been curious about Russia, its geography, culture, and its vastness. I had this inner urge to visit that culturally diverse country. As a teenager, I memorized the names of towns along the Trans-Siberian Railway line. Was I perhaps a Cossack in my previous life? Why are Rachmaninov and Prokofiev two of my favored classical 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 are passionate about 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 was I so interested 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 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.

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

I flew from Alaska to Khabarovsk, a city on the Amur River, 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 Russians to hard labor in the Gulag death camps. They extracted gold and minerals from 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 control at Khabarovsk airport was quick and professional. To my surprise, the customs officer was very friendly. "Welcome to Russia," the young lady customs officer said with a genuine smile.

My train voyage began in Khabarovsk, some distance north of the maritime town of Vladivostok. Vladivostok was still closed to tourists. Before boarding, I sat down for a quick meal. I ordered a cheese sandwich and a bottle of 'mineralnje vody' mineral water, the only items on the menu. The sandwich was small but delicious, and I ordered another. I learned that food was sometimes scarce and not available at restaurants. Later during 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 couldn't explain because of the language; she gestured for me to follow her. In my 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 comes from Vladivostok; she travels alone, and she can't 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 didn't speak a word of English, German, or French, and I didn't understand a word of Russian except mineralnje vody. For hours into the late night, I had no choice but to drink Russian cognac with him, glass after glass. I know little about cognac and cannot taste a difference 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 a gesture that he would cut my throat. After another bluff, I showed him my friendly face. He opened his big mouth with a grin, highlighting his teeth retouched with gold and silver. 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 high standards in Eastern Germany.

At train stops, locals set up stands on the platform and sold food, 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 didn't know when the diner would open or if it served late lunch or early dinner.

I was reading the book 'Microsoft Windows' on the fascinating, rapidly evolving 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; they planned to publish them 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 and a handwritten note with her Vladivostok address. She asked me to contact the magazine publisher in New York 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, he 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, 19th August 1991, 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 military took positions on Red Square. I was in the last group allowed in before the Kremlin gates were locked and shut to visitors. The Kremlin is a 'must-see'. I was impressed by the Kremlin buildings, the architecture, and the many exhibits.

Throughout the day, columns of tanks moved into Moscow and secured all major roads and bridges. I felt the tension and saw worry in people's faces. Many tourists contacted their country's consulates for advice, and some decided to return home. I traveled with two passports. I did not think I was in danger. I relished the excitement of the moment; I was 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 didn't 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 difficult to reach 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 repay her. 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 returned 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 couldn't publish the travel article. Trans-Siberian Railway

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The Abduction of 1572

This is an amazing story - two remarkable events happened at the same time, just 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. It 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 location. 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 the 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 new star's location, and asks them to verify that what he saw is indeed a new star. They concur. A wondrous moment in time, a new star never seen before, never since the world's creation. Tycho tells his learned friends, and the news spreads. Tycho later wrote 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 reach 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). Renward Cysat is a well-known and highly regarded figure in Lucerne's history; a street in the old section of the city bears his name.

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 along 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 would 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 the city wall. 186 years earlier, in the 1386 historic Battle of Sempach, the Swiss engaged the despised ruling Habsburg overlords. The brave Swiss won the battle but lost many comrades, including a man called 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 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, a strange swishing, buzzing sound overwhelmed him. Did a swarm of bees attack him? The noise grew stronger, developing into a deafening roar. Fear and horror overcame Hans. He grabbed his walking stick and swung it around him, to no avail. Hans felt himself lifted into the skies; then he lost consciousness.

The family was concerned when Hans did not return home that night. His sons went on a search. They found some of the father's belongings on the forest path: his coat, saber, and sheath. After some days, because of a long-standing feud, the family suspected that cousin Klaus Buchmann may have murdered Hans.

Many days later.....

When Hans regained consciousness, he found himself in a strange city where people spoke a language he 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; in those days, a five-day travel distance. 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. Andrew; 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?

A guard was kind and helped 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.

Hans Buchmann's strange voyage had come to the district administrator's attention. He demanded a full investigation. He summoned Hans to appear at the Rothenburg police station. They questioned and examined him 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 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 walk 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 Family

My grandfather, Josef Buchmann (1873-1948), and my grandmother, Josefa Elise, resided in Hochdorf, 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 my forefathers' ancestral home for at least four centuries. We can trace my family's ancestry 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. My siblings and I were born in Rain, a neighboring village of Hochdorf. We are all registered Burghers of Hochdorf.

Hochdorf Church

My father's great-great-great-grandfather, Josef Buchmann, was born in 1723 and was a Chief District Administrator ('Amtsweibel') of Hochdorf. 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, always calm and cheerful, was so happy to see us and served us home-baked cookies. 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 child. He was born in 1911. He had two brothers and two sisters: Josef (1903), Elise 1905), Isidor (1906), and Marie (1908).

Uncle Josef, my father's oldest brother, 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-franc silver coin, called 'Fünfliber'. When I was a toddler or preschooler, Götti came to see us on New Year's Day and give me a Fünfliber. The silver coin was so beautiful and precious, and I immediately slipped it into my locked piggy bank. Safely in the piggy bank, it would keep its beautiful 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 ancient tradition and local laws, the oldest son, if he so chooses, inherits the family farm. Male siblings can pursue their own goals and dreams, or stay home and work as farmhands for their brother. In earlier times, some young men emigrated. Sadly, corrupt middlemen often recruited some young sons into mercenary service, enticed with promises of war bounties and adventure. Some returned home with all limbs; others did not. Stephan Buchmann of Hochdorf served as a mercenary in Dalmatia from 1685 to 1698.

In my family line, my Uncle Josef, as the firstborn son, inherited the farm and farmhouse. Uncle Josef had several children, our cousins. Uncle Josef's beautiful farm was near the center of sprawling Hochdorf. The entire farmland had since been urbanised, densely filled with dozens of apartments and commercial buildings. Thank God, the refurbished, beautiful old Buchmann family house is historically protected; it proudly stands amidst the many new buildings.

My father's second brother, Isidor, worked as a farmhand for his older brother Josef. A 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 when I was seven. 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 Mattmann, 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!

Hans Buchmann of Kriesbühl, on the Erlosen Mountain, mysteriously disappeared in 1572, only to be found weeks later in Milan, Italy. The well-known Lucerne chronicler Renward Cysat (1515-1614) documented the story. The writing suggests an alien abduction. Hmm... The story is especially dear to me because Kriesbühl, 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.

I traced my ancestors back to 1229 in Sarnen, Obwalden. The first settler in Seetal was Heini Buchmann (~1420), and the first permanent settler in Hochdorf was Martin Buchmann (1550-1620). Please have a look at the direct family line; it covers over 20 generations in the Buchmann History chapter below.

Johann Georg Buchmann (1757-1840)

Grandparents and young family 1917

Joseph Buchmann (1872) and Family

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.

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The Buchmann History

Families with the Buchmann name have lived in central Switzerland since the early 1200s. This was the time when the general population began adopting the surnames we use today.

A 1229 document mentions the first Buochmann as Kellner of Sarnen, Obwalden. In medieval times, Kellner were 'Ministerials', officials who served monastic or feudal estates. They managed grain stores, wine cellars, and food stores, rents, tithes, and financial accounts. The documented Kellner of Sarnen were Ministerials who served the Murbach-Lucerne Abbey, which owned land in many places, including Obwalden, since early times. In 1291, Murbach-Lucerne Abbey sold its possessions to the Lords of Habsburg, and the Ministerials now served their new masters.

I am sure the Kellner of Sarnen were Buochmann families. A 1317 document in the Luzern state archive charter (URK/127/1894) retroactively confirmed the last Kellner of Sarnen's true surname to be Heinrich Buochmann. Typically, a Kellner family served in a town through several generations. According to documents, Kellner Heinrich and Niklaus built the Hexentower in 1285-86, used for grain and food storage, as a wine cellar, and as a Kellner abode. The tower still stands today. We can safely assume the Buochmann family served as Kellner in Sarnen since 1226.

In 1307, when the Habsburgs lost lordship over Obwalden, all Kellner functions in Sarnen ended. The Kellner were transferred to other towns. Ministerials were in a tight network; their masters reshuffled them at will. Around 1346, Heinrich and Burkart Buochmann were documented as Kellner of the 'Hof zu Malters', a manor community near Wolhusen, possibly their ancestral home.

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 originally, before their three-generation stint in Sarnen, Oberwalden, have been from that hamlet.

The Beech tree, in German called 'Buchen', is the most common broadleaf tree in midwestern Europe. It stands to reason that 'Buchen' hamlets and villages sprang up everywhere. So many, I can't count them with fingers on both hands. Given that the Buochmann had some far-back connection with 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'. They may be descendants of the ancient Bern noble cadet branch 'von Buch', possibly originating from Thuringia. The cadet line is now extinct.

History books mention that many 'von Buch' lived in Bern (Switzerland) in the Middle Ages. According to old archives, the 'von Buch' ladies and gentlemen of Bern were descendants of an aristocratic cadet branch. That much we know from historical accounts. It is unknown what aristocracy the 'von Buch' cadet branch stems from. We know they were well off. Some 'von Buch' gentlemen held high positions in the Bern city-state as early as 1294. A 'von Buch' owned the church and the village of Muehleberg, Bern (1387).

A cadet branch begins with younger sons of noble dynasties. To prevent the glory and prestige of an established aristocratic lineage from being whittled away, the noble dynasty's firstborn son inherited all or most of the family's wealth and the aristocratic title. To avoid conflict with the entitled firstborn, the family offered the younger sons other options: a small piece of land, a high-ranking army officer appointment, and prominent ecclesiastical or secular positions, at home or abroad.

The First Buchmanns

From 1229 to 1307, three generations of Buochmann families were Keller of Sarnen, officially called 'Kellner von Sarnen'. The last Sarnen Keller was Heinrich Buochmann (~1285-1307) More....

1317 Rudolf and Heinrich, Kellner of Malters

1346 Heinrich and Burkhart, Kellner of Malters

~1350-1380 Konrad Buochmann, Vogt (bailiff) of Wolhusen

~1380-1400 Heinrich Buochmann, Meier (mayor) of Littau

~1420 Heini Buchmann, First Buchmann in Seetal, Mülibach, Rural ministerial, tenant of Dinghof Nunwil, Last Ministerial. First Buochmann/Buchmann of Seetal, Switzerland. Heini Buchmann donates/assigns Gülten/land in Mülibach/Tempikon to Heiliggeist Hospital St Gallen. Image of deed

~1450 Hans Buchmann, Mühlibach/Tempikon, first stable farmer after centuries of ministerial service

~1480-1500 Nicklaus Buchmann, Tempikon, free rural landholder, post-ministerial farming family.

~1520-1580 Ulrich Buchmann, Tempikon, Mülibach. He split into Hochdorf and Hitzkirch families. Hitzkirch: Peter, Hans, and Jörg; Hochdorf: Martin

~1550-1620 Martin Buchmann, Hochdorf

~1580-1650 Jakob Buchmann, Hochdorf

Buchmann Family Tree 1229-1950.

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