I think I will write a book about Dormitz, just sharing my memories as they come. I was having dinner with my housemates tonight and I realized that my experiences there were rather wild. I accepted them as normal, but they truly were not. I'm not sure where to begin. I will try to start with my earliest memories.

The scratch of my uncle's beard on my forehead as he held me in his arms, my toddler body safely enclosed. He smelled of earth and smoked meat. And sometimes of Zwetschgen Schnapps. I just googled Zwetschgen and in English, it is sugar plums. 

We grew those on the farm there. I remember using a ladder from the small barn to climb the sugar plum trees. And then my brother stole the ladder as a prank. So I was stuck in a tree. 

I was scared at first. I was maybe 7 or 8 years old.  But then I remembered I was in the plum tree. So I sat in the tree and ate plums until my dad's cousin's son, Robin, came and rescued me. He was one of my childhood heroes. I was fine. I was happy about my belly full of fresh picked plums. I probably spoiled my dinner. 

My favorite childhood dinner was wienerschnitzel and french fries, usually with ketchup or mayo. Fried veal and potatoes. Basically modern American fast food. 

Hah. 

In Michigan, my parents tried to take us to a "German" restaurant once. But we were Schnitzel snobs, apparently. My siblings and I despised it. We would eat Arby's if we needed fast food on a road trip.

My mom makes a good schnitzel. She hammers the pork or veal with a heavy, spiked metal hammer until it is tender, and then she painstakingly dips it in egg and flour before frying it.. My mom is not Austrian for the record. Though perhaps in spirit. 

Dormitz is the name of the neighborhood. There are three neighborhoods in the village. Dormitz is at the top of the valley. You can see the two chapel spires from our front yard… our prime location is a source of family pride. But was also enticing to the invading Nazis. They took over our house for a while, my great grandmother caring for her family in the  basement. 

That basement holds a lot of history. It often smells of the apples we picked and used for cooking. The apples were often horribly bruised and smaller than a fist, but we would cut off the worst bits and turn the rest to applesauce on the stove, adding just a touch of cinnamon. 

There is a walled off room in the basement below the barn. I'll talk more about that later if I remember. Though there isn’t much to say. Who knows what’s back there.

The floor of the basement slants downwards as it goes into the wine cellar. Just packed earth and a narrowing hallways. To one side, there is a cemented-over staircase leading to the kitchen. The kitchen was renovated in the 70s. My great grandfather built the wood panels in the Stübe. I would translate it as a living room. 

I want to start preserving these memories while I can. I should ask my dad to tell the story of how his parents met again. 

I should ask him the story of how his parents died. I never asked how his dad died. I knew he died young and wasn't in good health, but I never knew why. 

I will ask dad for scanned pictures of the house in Austria. Maybe some photos would help improve this story. I have quite a few photos from there. I'm sure I have one of me eating plums with my sister, my cousin Robin holding the ladder he used to save me. 

Something stirs within me when I see mountains. They call to me. I long to be in a mountain forest, the hush of the wild all around me. A carnal fear of the unknown remains in the dark nooks and tree wells, but a comforting presence emanates from the land. 

I sometimes feel like I had two childhoods. One in Austria and one in the States. But the one here in the US, it was also deeply entrenched in nature.

Remind me to tell you about the festivals. Like the time we opened a bank in the village. Or the Schellerlaufen, the spring Carnival held every third year in the village. Other neighboring villages hosted the festival the other years. It was too much work to host annually. In my village, the men wore the traditional masks, some humans, some giants and witches, some carried weighted bells, danced, acted, and jumped, others carried whips, others dressed as bears, all were drunk on Jäger and Schnapps. The women tirelessly prepared the costumes and coordinated the events. The parade floats were moving bars. You could climb inside each one and buy a shot before it took you too far. One even had a slide inside above the bar, for added dangerous drunken fun! The crowd was in good spirits. 

As I write this, I wonder if I really should. Maybe I should not share this with the world. People will rush to these events and turn them into tourist destinations,  but that really isn't a problem in this case. The village is already quite full and the heritage is being forgotten. I don't want to forget. I'm sure I already got many details wrong and my parents may roll their eyes at half of what I write. But I don't have time to fact check every memory. And that isn't my purpose here. My purpose is to share my memory, as it is. Even if my memory isn't accurate, based on yours or someone else's memory, it is interesting to me to see what it contains. My memory holds a lot that is likely "untrue." Or perhaps it doesn't. Perhaps the world changes and turns itself inside out every so often. It often feels like that these days. 

Not every loose end needs a tie. Please forgive me if I ever misremember. I have no bad intentions. I just want to share the story I carry of this place. 

My dad told me a story once about how he and his buddy found an old army helmet in the attic. Probably a remnant from a World War. Their parents were busy on the farm, so he and his buddy took the helmet to the top of their tree house. Or was it the small barn loft? Probably the barn loft. Maybe I remember it as treehouse because I had a treehouse. Or maybe he really did. Regardless, he took the helmet up somewhere high. And he and his pal took turns trying it on and jumping off, headfirst. The helmet would protect them after all! I found a gas mask up in that attic once, hopefully not filled with asbestos, considering I tried it on for selfies with my first flip phone, of course. Maybe my family has something weird about head injuries. I've had two concussions from snowboarding accidents. I'll tell you about those another time perhaps.

Perhaps my life has just been spent collecting stories. I have quite a few. I lived in China, New Orleans, Austria, Michigan, Texas, and have traveled quite extensively without much money to my name. I have worked with students of all ages of an extremely wide range of abilities and access to resources. I have met individuals from many corners of the earth. Perhaps I’ll speak of people in my stories. People are stories, if you ask me. Walking, talking stories. That’s why one student can so heavily change the dynamic of a classroom.

I should write this stuff down before it is lost to the memory of posterity! 

Though perhaps memory functions differently. Perhaps it isn’t lost if it isn’t recorded. Many moments are more beautiful if they are left unrecorded. But if I am going to do this whole book writing thing, I might as well start with what’s easiest - the things I think I remember. Perhaps my mind has tricked me and made me believe things were worse than they were. Objectively, I had plenty to eat and never was too seriously concerned about my physical health or safety. I was well off. I still am. I am absolutely blessed in every way. I have never had to seriously worry about going hungry. My father has worked his butt off to make sure of that. He is 70 and still works full time at his many ventures. 

Anyways. I don’t really feel like I’m done writing now, but I have to do my Chinese homework and I want to read something Tavey wrote. That guy’s brain works in a magical way and I appreciate it. 

I’m too scatterbrained today to tie all the loose ends in this bit. Perhaps they will become part of an overarching narrative. Is that breaking the 4th wall if I talk about that? Writers can break 4th walls too, oder?

These words are my thoughts

and my thoughts

are my life.

What I do all day is not necessarily my life if my heart is not in it.

my life is what I do when I’m living.

are you living?

am I living?