The Sunday-Family-Walk

I'll never forget the Sunday family walks in the fields, the forest, or just down the street. My father and mother were arm in arm, with my sister and I in front of them. We were hopping, laughing, and tormenting one other. For all of us, it resembled a ritual, albeit a significant one.

My sister was four years old, and I was seven, and my father's only time off was on Sunday afternoons. People were still working six days a week in the 1960s.

So, it was crucial for him to be with all of us at the same time. The day began with coffee, hot chocolate, toast, fresh baked buns, honey and jam, German sausages, cheese, and fresh fruits for all of us.

My father assisted my mother with the dishes after breakfast. My sister and I headed to our room so that I could finish my schoolwork and clean up our room. Then we all sat down and played a board game together. "Don't get angry" was a game we all loved the most. My father was usually defeated in favor of my sister. We played cards after we finished the board game. We had a lot of fun every time. During this time, we were sitting at the kitchen table, and my mother was preparing lunch.

We set the table and enjoyed lunch together once she finished cooking. My mother cooked two different types of dinners most of the time because my sister was mostly unwell and needed different foods. But my mother loved to cook, so that was never an issue.

We talked about where we wanted to go for a walk before dinner. My father enjoyed stopping for a quick visit to the church and strolling through the huge gardens; my mother enjoyed strolling around the big windows of the fancy shops looking for new inventions; my sister was always on the lookout for the ice-cream truck that was driving around during that time; and I enjoyed doing it all at once.

But I enjoyed the gardens as well. I enjoyed putting my face into the flowers and inhaling the fresh scents. Each bloom had a different scent, and the combination tickled my nose. My favorite flowers are carnations, and there was a small shop with hundreds of different colors, styles, and scents of carnations. My mother preferred red roses, but my father was captivated by the massive trees.

There were trees that were over a hundred years old. Massive trees with massive branches and lush foliage.

In between the many varieties of plants, trees, flowers, and grass, there were small little shelters where you could buy ice cream, soft drinks, and other sweets, as well as small pieces of cakes. But the most prevalent item they sold was bird food.

There was a tiny portion in the garden-park where they had a wide variety of caged birds. And the food you could buy was specifically tailored for these birds. So, all the kids enjoyed buying these small bags of food for fifty cents and then going outside to feed the birds. There was always a large swarm of chubby birds waiting for us.

Some of the birds flew high in the air and then dropped to the ground like raindrops when they saw us approaching with food. Sticking to our arms, shoulders, and hair, pinching us to get more food, and then they started fighting. Children began to cry out, some in delight, others in agony, and some out of fear.

It was always the same show, and we were all familiar with it. But we all enjoyed the mayhem, the crying children, the mothers who fought to shield their children from these insane birds, and we all returned every Sunday. My father always kept an eye on us from a distance. He got out his camera and began filming us. The gondola was the next stop following the bird feeding. We enjoyed sitting in them and gliding through the park in these two seated ones. My father and mother sat in one, and we were permitted to sit in the other. We did everything by ourselves.

My father had faith in us to act appropriately. When the 'ride' with the gondola ended and we exited, we found ourselves in a different garden of flowers, grass, and corn; amazing and magical. Our eyes were blinded by the dazzling and fluorescent colors. My father was alright because he was wearing sunglasses, but my mother, sister, and I had to close our eyes for a minute before we could open them without blinking.

Every time, it was an astounding sight for us. Even in the dead of winter, it was breathtakingly gorgeous. But it took your breath away in the spring, summer, and autumn.

My father walked right into all this magnificence, inhaling deeply and exhaling deeply, touching as many flowers, grass and grain as he could. It appears that every time he touched something, he grew stronger and stronger. He appeared to need soul replenishment for the upcoming week of labor. And I was correct in my assessment. Years later, he informed me that if he hadn't been able to get to this wonderful area, he would not have been able to make it through his workweek. This time between him and nature saved his life.

It provided him with the courage and fortitude to face his fears, to stand up for his beliefs, and to make the right judgements.

However, as a child, you view things differently and do not delve deeper into someone's behavior. My sister and I always chose a few flowers for the dining room table, which my mother appreciated. My father peered into the majesty of nature with beaming eyes, and then he took his camera and videotaped it to save it for the future.

We were grateful to him for conserving his "old films" many years later when we watched them. The garden where we used to play as youngsters was long gone. The gondola had vanished, as had the birds, and the wonderful garden of flowers, grass and corn had become a grey concrete square devoid of character, a place where you couldn't hear or see a bird sing. It was a lonely place to die. There was once life where there was now simply neglect.

I remember my family's Sunday walks every time I see Spitzweg's painting "Der Sonntagsspaziergang." A tiny bit different but still somewhat comparable. We all had a good time, loved each other, and enjoyed this time of week together. It was a memorable occasion for all of us. A time that will never be repeated. My father died many years ago, and my family and I relocated to another continent. And, interestingly, we aim to do the same for our children as my father did.

Perhaps because we want our children to have as many memories with us as possible. One thing is certain: we have always wanted our children to be "attached" to nature since we cannot survive without it. We have taught our children to appreciate and value nature, just as one respects and values another human being, regardless of appearance, origin, or status.

I think we did a good job, regardless what others are saying.