Heritage

Today at lunch I noticed that my mother had left a back issue of The Beaver on the table, opened to a map of the area surrounding Kiev and Odessa. "It's our people," I said, pointing to the map, somewhere south of Chernobyl. Being thoroughbred Germans, it makes perfect sense that they lived in the breadbasket of Mother Russia, and not, say, in a place where people actually spoke German.

"Our people?" my father asked, "not my people."

"No, our people," mom said. "Vi vil have a German Christmas and explore our German roots."

"Ja," I always agree when she gets that way.

"And vi vil eat pickled beets!" she continues.

"Vi vil eat pickled everything!"

"Everything vi pickle!"

"And I vil bake a Stollen!" I shreik.

"Ja, because it's Christmas. Vi vil eat Stollen and YOU VIL LIKE IT!"

And that's about the time when my father backs out the door and starts mowing the lawn. This happens far more often than you might think.