At eighteen
I could have been a hippie. It was the right time, but I
was not in
the right place. Hell, back then (considering the where
and the when),
I didn’t even know what a hippie was. In 1966 I was
walking down
the cobblestone streets of a small, medieval German
town, a
young AmerIcan G.I. out on pass for the evening, coming
from my
favorite gasthaus where I had enjoyed my fill of beer.
The Germans
would say I was tipsy, and I would admit that I had
probably had
a few too many. But the beer was refreshing and cheap,
most affordable,
even on a low-ranking enlisted man’s pay. And by
volume, deliriously
potent, I must say. So, while hippies were protes-
ting the
Vietnam War and toking their Maryjane back in the good ole
US of A, I was
contentedly beer-saturated and semiconsciously making
my way back
to the billets before bed check at midnight.
But there
was a must, a need, this certain craving thing which had to
be
fulfilled, something of a tradition, you might say, before signing-in
and relinquishing
my freedom again back to Uncle Sam—Bratwurst.
The
seductive smell of Bratwurst was in the crisp evening air. It per-
meated every
fiber of my ravenously hungry being. And yes, senf, lots
of senf, mustard
of an extraordinary sort. My night out on the town
would not have
been complete without an authentic German Brat-
wurst smothered
in spicy, nasal–passage clearing senf.
And, I tell
you this, my friends, had I known anything about hippies
at the time,
they could go ahead and wear their hair long and scraggly;
they could knock
themselves out sucking on their rolled-up joints all
day long. I’d
be damned if I would ever consider bonding with their
scruffy ranks
lest I be deprived of that stout German brew and those
heavenly Bratwurst
gloriously drenched in senf (tipsy as I may have
been),
signing in blurry-eyed and tangy just minutes before midnight
and bed check
time.
Chris
Hanch 9-8-15
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