Hi everyone! I haven’t said this for a while but be sure to hit that Like button and the the circular Restack button. It really helps me get other people to read my stories. Summer is in full force and we are busy and hot! Unfortunately a lot of the rivers are being shut down for fishing because of lack of water and heat. It keeps getting worse year after year and sooner or later it will hurt our tourism so much, someone might pay attention. Hope your summer is going well. Talk later!
Montana, the fourth largest state by land mass, has just over one million people living in it. That’s about how many people live in Jacksonville, Florida. That means we have lots of open space here. That open space is owned by ranchers, farmers, government, and is populated by crops, wildlife and cows. In fact, despite what you see on television, around 53% of Montanans live in cities and towns. So many live in towns now that we have run out of places to live and therefore the price of housing, and everything else, has risen precipitously. Kerry and I were fortunate that we came here when we did back in 1995. Both of us know change is inevitable but we can’t help but be a little sad at the fast-paced loss of affordability, civility, warmth and acceptance that was ever present when we first moved to Big Timber with two little boys. Even if they didn’t mean it, people at least pretended to be friendly and welcoming!
One of the first things we noticed upon our arrival was the number of churches in the town and county. There was everything from Lutherans to Congregationalists. Catholics and Episcopalians. Evangelicals, Latter Day Saints and Baptists. There were also churches that were run out of people’s homes and store fronts. All of this is in a county of around 3600 people. That’s a lot of religion spread across a smallish population. We cautiously hunted around for a church to go to because we thought it important that the kids learn about Christianity and the Bible. We ended up, after some false starts, at First Congregational run by Pastor Martin Siebert and his wife Heida.
Martin and Heida were both born in Germany and lived through World War 2 as children. The war certainly affected their lives in major ways. Martin’s brother was killed in an American bombing raid. Heida and her family fled on foot from the invading Soviets hoping to find Americans or the British for protection. Martin witnessed Kristallnacht in his town and remembered ashes falling from the sky as the local synagogue burned.
These were just the stories they told us. I’m sure there were more. In fact, I remember talking with Martin after church one Sunday when he mentioned his brother’s death again.
“I’m sure you hated us after that,” I said.
“Yes, I’m ashamed to admit it, but yes I did.”
“So how did you get over it enough to come here and work as a pastor?”
He smiled and offered me a plate of pastry.
“An American Army unit was marching down the road past our house. The soldiers were laughing and talking as you do on a march (Martin became a soldier as an adult. More on that later). What struck me was they were all eating apples as they walked. I was sure they had taken them from the orchard a mile or so up the road. There wasn’t much food back then and it was expensive. We certainly couldn’t afford apples. I stood there with my stomach grumbling while the hated Americans walked past me. One soldier got out of line and looked me right in the face. He pulled an apple out of his jacket pocket and handed it to me then patted me on the head and got back in line.”
Martin cleared his throat and got up for more coffee. With his back to me he quietly said, “I didn’t hate them so much after that. I brought the apple inside and we cut it up so we all could have a piece. It was wonderful. I eventually came to realize that the Americans were just people like us.”
He took his handkerchief out and blew his nose.
“When I joined the Bundeswehr…” he hesitated, “You know what that is?”
I nodded. “The West German army,” I said.
“Well done. When I joined up, I was in tanks and became a commander. We worked with Americans all the time in case the Soviets came again. I enjoyed my time with them.”
Kerry and I spent many Sundays after church with Martin and Heida. We learned about making cheese and sausage which they were very good at. Sometimes we spoke of music, a favorite topic of Martin’s; and of German culture and village life both before the war and after, a favorite topic of Heida’s. Most Sundays Martin and I would take some time to talk about his sermons which he encouraged. Martin couldn’t get over the fact that most parishioners didn’t want to talk about what he preached about or to ask where he got his source material.
“This would not happen in Germany. When my father preached, people would always come up to him to agree or disagree, sometimes for hours!” He said with a laugh.
I remember we argued about some minor theological point he had made one Sunday. I don’t remember exactly what it was about, but he took me by the arm and led me into his library to give me some reading material, so “you will understand what you are arguing about and how wrong you are.”
He was going through his books when he turned to me and fixed me with those wonderful commanding eyes of his.
“You being American, I assume you cannot read Greek or Hebrew.”
“I’m afraid not Martin. I’m sorry.”
He turned back to his bookshelves with a shrug.
“No need to apologize. It’s not your fault; it’s your education system. I know I have it in English somewhere in this mess.”
I smiled. His study was so immaculately organized I was afraid to touch anything.
“Ah! Here it is.” He flipped through the pages taking notes on a pad of paper then handed me the note and the book.
“Read these pages carefully and next week I expect a full report.” If that sounded like an order, it’s because it was an order.
I drew myself to attention taking the paper and book.
“Jawohl, Herr Hauptmann,” I said. (Yes Captain)
Martin roared with laughter and slapped me on the back.
“John, you always surprise me with what you know.”
That reminds me of the time I stopped in at The Grand bar for a beer. In the back of the bar stood Martin and several very German looking gentlemen with glasses of beer. They were having a marvelous time. Martin sat at the piano, and they began to sing army songs when Martin saw me.
“John, come meet my comrades!” He shouted.
I was embarrassed how their English was so good, and my German was so poor. I know about ten words total.
“John knows so much music. We performed together. We were great of course!” The men howled with laughter and slapped both of us on the back.
“John, do you know this? “Martin asked with a laugh and began to play the Panzerlied.
Now, my brain is stuffed with mostly useless information but sometimes it comes in handy. Sure enough, I did know it.
Before you even start, the Panzerlied is not a Nazi song. It’s a song about driving/riding panzers (tanks), and about going into combat for honor, glory and Germany. The song was popularized in the movie, The Battle of the Bulge, which I have seen so many times I memorized the verses via osmosis. So, when the Martin and his buddies started to sing, I joined in with enthusiasm, faking my way through lots of it. Then, just like in the movie, we all started stomping our booted feet in rhythm while swaying our beer glasses back and forth. Martin couldn’t sing he was laughing so hard at my fake singing or maybe it was my American accent. The rest of the bar was now staring at us with a mixture of curiosity and confusion. It was hysterical. When we finished Martin shook my hand and gave me a bear hug, spilling some of my beer.
Click here to listen to the Panzerlied song on YouTube! It has subtitles!
“Again, you always surprise me!” he exclaimed.
My new comrades shouted their approval. The locals probably still talk about the German Panzer invaders in town to this day.
As I said, Martin loved music. He had a wonderful bass voice and played the trumpet as well. We sang in church together a few times, in German of course! One of my prouder moments was during a Christmas service when I performed Oh Holy Night. It went very well, and I finished strong but the reception was silence. Not one sound. Not even a cough. Not sure of what to do, I started down the alter stairs when Martin’s voice boomed from the congregation, “God Bless You!” The assembly burst into applause which wasn’t normal for that church. Still gives me chills thinking about it.
I suppose our fondest memories of the Seibert’s was the time we had them over for dinner. We were still in the Blue Trailer, and we didn’t have many people over because one, we didn’t know that many folks, and two, we were slightly embarrassed about the 1970s décor in the trailer, so this was a big occasion. Martin came in with Heida and surveyed the room. Heida took a seat next to Kerry on the couch and we all stared at Martin who was looking at the floor. He bent over and grabbed a throw rug we had and tuned it 90 degrees. With hands on his hips and turned to all of us.
“Much better, yes?”
Heida put her face in her hands and moaned, “Oh Martin.”
Kerry and I burst out laughing. It was just so perfectly Martin! I got drinks for everyone, and we made small talk. The boys, who loved the Seibert’s, came out and told Martin about their grades (Martin required it), then told Heida about all the wildlife they had seen and asked about the Seibert’s horses.
While everyone was chatting, I went out to the kitchen to check on my dinner when I noticed it had grown quiet in the living room. I walked back in with some trepidation. Kerry gave me a grin and nodded her head to my left. Martin was studying the bridal portrait Kerry had given me as a wedding gift. It was something I had asked for because my mother had one done for her wedding and my sister had one as well. At the time I was still terribly ill, and we couldn’t afford an extravagance like a portrait, so I never thought it was possible, but my bride was very tricky. Kerry had gone to the photographers after work in secret. In the portrait, she was in her wedding gown and veil with her hair and makeup done, holding flowers. She is radiantly beautiful, and the portrait is my prized possession.
Heida took Kerry by the hand as her eyes grew wide worried about what her husband would say. Kerry looked amused. He studied the portrait for a long minute then turned to look at Kerry then back to the portrait. The boys came up and stood next to him studying the portrait like they had suddenly become aware of its existence. The silence grew. Finally, Martin nodded his head and turned to Kerry.
“You were a beautiful bride.” He turned back to the portrait and straightened it with just a touch which it didn’t need. “Truly beautiful.”
Heida breathed a sigh of relief and gave Kerry a little hug. Kerry smiled and blushed. She knew Martin wouldn’t say it if he didn’t mean it.
“Well, now that we have that settled, its time to eat.” I said.
Everyone laughed and took their places while I served. Of course, I asked Martin to say grace and he did so with his usual eloquence. I remember he asked God to bless our family and make us healthy, happy and prosperous. Despite some hiccups along the way, we are very happy and healthy and certainly better off than lots of people, which, come to think of it, only makes sense. Do any of you think God would not listen to Martin?
Martin and Heida moved back to Germany years ago to retire. We miss them both very much.