Claire Gebben

I am home safely.

On Saturday, I had the opportunity to harvest grapes the old-fashioned way, by hand, with local Freinsheimers. Then, on Monday morning, just as my suitcases were being loaded into the car, the local Die Rheinpfalz newspaper arrived at Barbel’s door. And there I appeared, in the local news section, page 2.

“Search for roots leads to vineyard: In the city vineyard, American author from Seattle assists in her grape harvest debut ” etc. etc. and a few paragraphs later, the following text:

My last weekend here I participate in the City of Freinsheim’s “Weinlese” (grape harvest). We dress against the damp and cold, and warm up with sips of Stadtwein as soon as we arrive.

The Mayor of Freinsheim, town council members, the head of the Verbandsgemeinde (the political administration of eight small villages) and two of the region’s wine princesses have all gathered to pitch in.

Local wine-makers have also come to help, haul away the harvested grapes, and transform them into Stadtwein. The city gives bottles of wine to the elderly in the village on milestone birthdays (70th, 80th, and so on).

After a session of pass-the-glass, we set to work on three rows at the edge of town. I’m told it is the worst harvest in 25 years due to so much rain. The vines are producing 60 percent less than normal.

Manfred shrugs at the news. “What can you do? This is wine-making.”

The job would normally take 3-4 hours, but with so few grapes, we’re done in 45 minutes. Afterwards, we gather at the Von Busch-hof Restaurant for speech-making, beef stew and kuchen.

Tomorrow, I’m homeward bound. Auf Wiedersehen.

What’s a good journey without a story of near catastrophe? After a Golden Herbst day of visiting the historical Speyer Cathedral and the Speyer Museum of Palatinate History and the summer home of King Ludwig I known as Ludwigshöhe, I can’t find my camera anywhere.

“Das macht nichts,” I say to Manfrede and Heike when they pick me up for dinner. (We dine out at Mykonos Greek Restaurant.) “It doesn’t matter. I’m sure it will turn up.”

But it doesn’t turn up. In the morning I head off on a lens-less journey over the mountains to Kaiserslautern with Angela and her family for a meeting with historian Roland Paul — an incredibly valuable session.

While we’re in the West Palatinate anyway, we make a brief trip to the Burg Lichtenberg bei Kusel — yet another amazing castle — to visit the Musikantenlandmuseum. Here I pick up information about the German wandering Mackenbachers, music bands who circled the globe in the 19th and early 20th century.

Back in Freinsheim, I locate my camera in the back seat of Matthias’ car. Via email, I learn I have almost lost my Aunt Elizabeth, who fell and needs immediate medical attention. I am grateful for my time here, but am also grateful to soon be going home.

Before coming to Germany, I had not considered that one could make a decent meal of roasted chestnuts and new wine.

I had not imagined I would see so many U.S. military air transports crossing the sky every day.

I had not known about “Golden Herbst” — Golden Autumn — when the yellow leaves of the grapevine bring an ethereal glow to the fields.

I spend lunch with Tante Marliese (she serves Dampfnudeln mit Weinsosse), Manfred, Stephanie and Kristina. Afterwards, we leaf through old photo albums. Marliese lived for a time with her mother-in-law Kitsche Katsche, the daughter of Grossmutter Harm. She remembers the prayer meetings, and how the woman had a Bible verse for every occasion. We pull out an old 1861 Martin Luther Bible to look up a few, for example Wisdom of Solomon 1:10, about jealousy and grumbling.

On the way back to Barbel’s, I learn that Michael Harm probably grew up in this house.

Or maybe this one (across the street). After we say good-bye, I continue down the Wallstrasse, past Pirrman’s and Reibold’s, both names mentioned in the old letters.

Later, I visit Tante Gretel and Onkel Otto and Cousine Sigrid. Since our Sunday gathering, they have gone looking for old pictures and come across two more 19th century documents – an 1824 legal document on the occasion of the death of Michael Harm’s paternal grandfather, and a letter written from Cleveland in 1856.

We sit down at the table that moment to decipher the Suetterlin script. All this time, Angela and I had understood that Katherina Handrich suffered an accident which severed her leg below her knee. But this new letter, three pages long, reveals it was not Katherina, but her husband the blacksmith who suffered the injury.

The letter describes the two-year rehabilitation, culminating in the purchase of a $150 wooden leg from Philadelphia. How their house burned to the ground, and was rebuilt the next year. How the wagon building shop in Cleveland hired 18 workers: blacksmiths, wagon builders, painters, and saddle-makers.

In the evening, Angela and I give our talk at the Heimatsmuseum, where 12 people come to listen and share what they know about 19th century history. My treasure chest brims over.