I Like You

Z Musikmakers (last year)

[This one goes out to my brother, who reminded me that this blog is supposed to be more about the things (and people) I like than the things and people I don't.]

Every September I make a pilgrimage to the informal Zollner clan reunion otherwise known as the Mt. Angel Oktoberfest. My dad grew up as part of a huge German Catholic farming family in this little community that was settled in the 1860s; the first of the Germans to settle there was named Robert Zollner, my great-great-(great-? Somebody help me out here) grandfather. And so begins the long history of Z-folk in Mt. Angel.

The first year after settling, good old one-armed Bob Z. and his friends got together to give thanks and celebrate their first harvest – the first unofficial “Oktoberfest” (which means harvest festival) in the town. Most of a century later, in 1966, the official Mt. Angel Oktoberfest was born, which has become the largest folk festival in Oregon.

The O’fest is a good place to get your annual fill of lederhosen, dirndls, wurst, kraut, streudel, bier, wein, polkas and alpine horns. Or, just a good place to kick back with some friends and get sawdust in your shoes.

The highlight, of course, for any good Zollner is Z Musikmakers family band – a sort of modern day Von Trapp affair, only much more entertaining. My dad’s brother Paul and his lovely wife Pat started playing music at O’fest 30 years ago, and while Pat “retired” from the band this year, Paul and three of their four ridiculously talented daughters continue to delight the masses in the Weingarten each year, with a set list majoring on polkas and German folk music and minoring in non sequitir favorites like wartime Andrews Sisters hits (“Bei Mir Bist Du Schon,” “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy”) and “Celebrate” by Kool & the Gang. It wouldn’t be Z Musikmakers without a barn-burner of a violin performance (first from Katie, and now Christi). When it comes to “Orange Blossom Special,” I’m surprised the fiddle bow didn’t spontaneously combust. These are some serious chops, friends.

After consuming my O’fest trifecta (a good sausage on a dark grain bun, corn on the cob from the Keizer Fire Fighters booth, and a piece of the dreamiest apple streudel in the world), narrowly avoiding doing the Chicken Dance, and witnessing my umpteenth standing ovation at a Z Musikmakers show, it was time to head back to the Big City.

Or was it? My friends and I were feeling happy and relaxed – maybe we’d stay for the Original Donaumusikanten, a German band that was headlining the Weingarten. Fifteen minutes later, after deciding that those Donau guys are kind of the German cross between Bon Jovi and The Wiggles, we were headed back to the car and our bland, un-folksy urban lives.

I’m not comforted by the idea of being led by people who don’t blink.

From an editorial in the New York Times:

Ms. Palin talked repeatedly about never blinking. When Mr. McCain asked her to run for vice president? “You have to be wired in a way of being so committed to the mission,” she said, that “you can’t blink.”

Fighting terrorism? “We must do whatever it takes, and we must not blink, Charlie, in making those tough decisions of where we go and even who we target.”

Really? I wonder how parents of soldiers would feel, knowing that our leaders would decide to send young men and women into combat without blinking. I want a leader who blinks.

Some sort of sound had woken me up. I rolled over in bed and looked at the glowing numbers: 425. I blinked, and thought for a moment. Those numbers don’t sound familiar at all. Wait – oh yes, I think that’s the temperature for baking biscuits. Was there something I was supposed to put in the oven? No, that’s not it…

Oh yes, that’s an alarm clock, and it’s almost half past four in the morning. Now I remember. I’m pulling on a sweatshirt over my pjs and slipping into a pair of flip flops, ignoring the bed head and moving zombie-like toward the front door. It’s time to take Scott and Glad to the airport, and even though it only takes one of us to drive the car (or fifteen bucks to pay a cab driver), the Arteest and I are both climbing into the van for this one.

The McGriebs are part of our tribe, and they are headed off to do some good, good stuff in other parts of the world for a while. We are sad they are leaving, proud of them for going, and determined to be the best four thirty AM cheering committee we can possibly be. So…we load up the hippie van, drive to PDX and send them off with sleepy hugs and some fruit and yogurt for breakfast. Fifteen minutes later we’re stumbling back upstairs to resume our sleep.

[Disclaimer: Brief political comment to follow.]

In last night’s speeches, people kept touting McCain as an “independent maverick.” As if that was a good thing. Well as far as I’m concerned, I’ve had about enough cowboy for a while – an independent maverick is exactly what we DON’T need. We need a bridge builder – someone who will rebuild our relationships with our allies, cross party lines to find workable solutions to the political stand-offs of the last eight years, surround himself with others who can challenge and inform him, and lead us forward.