My maternal grandfather, born in 1911, grew up in the Texas Hill Country. Granddaddy and his twin brother, Calvin—third or fourth generation Texans, depending on which side of his family you consulted—didn’t learn English until shortly before entering first grade. In their community, everyone spoke Texasdütsch, a dialect of German. When Granddaddy married my grandmother, of English descent, he all but quit speaking Texasdütsch. And during the late 1930s and early 1940s, when my mother and her siblings came along, German wasn’t terribly popular in the US, as you can imagine, so he never taught his children his childhood language.

The Rechenthin children, Clifton, Eva, Clarence, and Calvin—engineer, biologist, soil scientist, and deceased following his sophomore year at Texas A&M.

A few words did trickle down to the grandkids. We reflexively said, “Gesundheit,” when someone sneezed, and we called our bellybutton a “Bellyschnabel.” When I was in college, I met a German exchange student and rattled off my merger German vocabulary, including “Bellyschnabel.” His look of confusion alarmed me. Turns out, my family’s word for bellybutton was just that: a family word.

Granddaddy, a scientist who went jogging every morning at five, suffered a series of strokes when he was in his eighties that began with memory loss. One evening, he returned upset from a course he taught on Texas wildflowers at the University of Mary Hardin-Baylor. He hadn’t been able to recall the Latin name of a specimen—this was a man who’d written a book about Texas wildflowers that’s still in print, who could rattle of a list of names a native herb had and relate any number of tales about it, how, for instance, the Indians had used it and then the settlers. For soap, to dye, or heal a burn.

In the Great Depression, when Doris Hudspeth was a college student, the arrival of a young man to town created quite a stir. He had car. He had a degree. He had a job. What a catch!

Eventually, Granddaddy lost the ability to speak. My grandmother, whom we called GrandDoris, read to him daily, an exercise he enjoyed, but the pleasure of discussing books, music, gardening, and photography was over—until his older sister came to visit. Much to GrandDoris’s astonishment, the siblings struck up a deep conversation; they were speaking Texasdütsch! Around this time, I lived abroad. I’d married to a Swiss native and immersed myself in another German dialect, Schwyzerdütsch. I never got to try out my skills with Granddaddy; he passed away shortly after his conversation with his sister.

Type “Clarence Rechenthin” into a search engine, click on Images, and your screen will fill with photos of wildflowers my granddaddy took during his field work for Texas Soil Conservation Service.

Now, with my understanding of German, I’ve gone back to thinking about that curious word “Bellyschnabel.” By my reckoning, it could be a mash-up of English and Texasdütsch (which itself is quite a mash-up). Having raised three trilingual kids (English, German, and French), I know too well, how mixed languages can get. “Hocken” is the verb the Swiss Germans use for sitting (as do the Pennsylvania Dutch, many of whom have Swiss roots). If our son left a seat for a second and returned to find it occupied, he’d say, “Hey, I was hocking there!” For some reason, I always think of the more vulgar definition of “to hawk” when I hear this construct. (We got a good laugh, anyway, watching Finding Nemo and hearing “Mount Wannahawkaloogie,” the fish-tank volcano’s name.)

(Our eldest daughter holds the Family Polyglot Prize. One evening at the dinner table, she put down her cutlery, pushed away her cleaned plate and said, “I am schon finis!”)

The German word for navel is “Nabel,” so couldn’t “Bellyschnabel” be “belly’s Nabel” with a Germanic-pronunciation twist to better fasten the words together?

Who knows? Sometimes mysteries are best left mystifying.


On the last day of September, a sunny and warm day, I drove to St. Gallen to pick up a friend being checked out of the hospital there. He’d undergone surgery and had asked if I’d please drive him home so he wouldn’t have to navigate public transportation on crutches or call a taxi; he knows I like getting out and about.

Kantonsspital St.Gallen

A coffee aficionado, he treated me to an Americano and conversation at his favorite café. We caught up and resisted every urge to plan—jettisoning talk about Thanksgiving 2020 and forays to Turin.

Kaffeehaus in St. Gallen on Linsebühlstrasse.

At his place, in Liechtenstein, I pulled out a jar of Bols Genever I’d infused for four weeks with wild blackberries. He’s also a bit of a cocktail maven, and I’d considered throwing in an overnight kit in case I couldn’t resist being plied with drink—but there was work to consider, and I didn’t want to presume packing my laptop, so I didn’t. His mix, one part infused Bols, one part Jensen’s gin, and lemon tonic water, worked. It worked well. We nursed the drink, nibbled on slices of pecorino, and discussed at length what might take the mix to the next level, settling on a sprig of basil. Just as well, we didn’t have basil. I hadn’t packed that overnight kit, mind.

Liechtenstein, above Vaduz from an August visit. Looking at the Mittagspitz and the Rhine Valley, the highway running through.

Heading home well after it’d grown dark, I turned onto the highway onramp. A near full moon peeked out from behind the rugged and handsome Mittagspitz peak, and I gasped at the beauty and surprise of the moment. I wanted to stop and savor the scene and especially what it evoked in me, pleasure, appreciation, and thankfulness for the shores Chance has washed me upon.

Onramps are no place to stop. Only for an emergency should you separate yourself from a highway’s function. So, with a dose of regret, I found my place in the flow of traffic, set cruise control, and enjoyed my journey home as best I could. Highways may not be about pausing to connect or reflect on beauty and blessings, but friends are.


My desk occupies a corner of the living room. I’ve thought about changing to a spare bedroom, but I loathe giving up my garden view. This morning, a larch tree in my sister-in-law’s garden holds back the fog. I’m astonished by how much the tree has grown. Shortly before my arrival in Kaiserstuhl thirty years ago, Markus’s parents built the house and planted the garden, including the larch. The fog astonishes me, too; our summer’s over.

A blocked watercolor of Falaise d’Aval, Étretat, France.

When we first moved into this house, Markus set up his workspace in a cozy corner off the entrance hall. A door separated it from the living area. When left open, the door partially covered a picture we’d hung. We removed the door, storing it in the cellar.

In the first weeks of lockdown, Markus apologized for all his noisy conference calls. Really, he minded my noise. To problem solve, I’ll jump up and tackle small chores. Emptying the dishwasher, washing the windows, or running the vacuum helps me untangle ideas. Working at the office in the city challenges me precisely because I can fetch only so many cups of espresso or glasses of water in a day. I try to preempt my restlessness by walking to the office from the train station, a thirty-minute hoof I repeat at day’s end. I enjoy changing up my route, taking the heavily trafficked road or the leafy apartment-block streets.

One day, I came across Zurich’s slaughterhouse, a 1909 structure arresting in purpose but stunning in design, similar to a train station—terminus for the animals, I guess. An eerily silent place; I assumed it’d been repurposed, but my youngest daughter has a friend who lives in the area. Apparently, she rented out an extra bedroom to a woman who woke in the early hours to the cries of distressed animals and had to move out. The cries become audible only when the wind blows a certain way.

During lockdown, I answered problem-solving urges with brisk walks. I yoked my household tasks to Markus’s calendar, vacuuming or cleaning bathrooms during his call-free hours, until I remembered the door. He quickly rehung it. A simple thing; it brought us much relief.

The morning warms. The fog retreats. Before ten, blue sky appears. Sunlight lands on the larch’s topmost branches and spreads downwards.

This morning’s brisk walk included looking back on my sister-in-law’s house—ours a peep behind it.

Soon, though, the fog will break like a wave over midday. Soon, it’ll swamp the day, leaving the sun a soft, brief buoy. These days, I’m still working from home but solo. Still, the door hangs. It blocks the picture. I’d like to enjoy the picture again, yet the flu season creeps close, and a fresh spread of COVID-19 cases threatens. Perhaps Markus will be working from home regularly again.


Earlier this month, I defrosted my refrigerator. It’s not a summer job, but a thick slab of ice covered the back wall and had to go. I don’t know why the slab of ice got going or why it grew so fast. In winter, I do the job when temperatures dip below freezing. I fill a laundry basket with the freezer’s contents and set it outside. The contents of the fridge go into a cool box first, the cool box keeping everything from freezing, from curry pastes to heads of lettuce.

The typical Swiss fridge is about one third the size of a typical American fridge. The kitchens here are also much smaller. We have no room for a big fridge, but we have a second one in the cellar. Having a place to keep everything properly chilled or frozen made the August defrosting job possible.

I worked strategically. First, I made room downstairs for the upstairs contents by what I had stored there to use. The frozen wild strawberries made up a kilo, so I made jam. The frozen blackberries went into a crisp. And, once the crisp was baked, I served it with lots of ice cream, freeing up more room. Anything with freezer burns, I dumped, but there wasn’t much ruined. Next, I shifted the upstairs contents downstairs, and as the fridge defrosted, I gave it a good scrub.

Blackberry crisp and vanilla ice cream locally sourced.

Within minutes, the slab of ice began to slip, and I peeled it from the back wall whole and threw it outside. Once everything was tip-top again, I refilled the fridge. While inspecting the contents, I found a jar of jam that had gone off. Lesions of mold spotted the jellied surface. The mold looked as if I could simply scrape it off, but there’s more to mold than what you see, and some are harmful.

Gschwellti, a meal made more delicious with the help of friendly molds.

I remember being introduced to Gschwellti, steamed potatoes served with a selection of Swiss, French, and Italian or Spanish cheeses, soft, hard, medium. Pasteurised, unpasteurised. Goat, cow, buffalo. Soft rinds, hard rind, and blue. I was new to the culture of cheese eating, familiar with some but not half of what my mother-in-law served, and I didn’t know all of which in the selection could be eaten with their rinds on. I observed how those around me handled each before trying anything myself. When my mother-in-law found a moldy hard-cheese surface, she simply scarped it off, which astonished me. I probably would have thrown away the whole cheese.

There are molds and there are molds. Some are dangerous. Most reach deep.


At a birthday gathering in my brother- and sister-in-law’s garden, family and friends sit well apart, enjoying a respite from lockdown. Kaiserstuhl’s medieval city walls rise four meters above us. Markus and I know this three-family complex well. Thirty years ago, we moved into its maisonette apartment, our first, and our three children were born in the back bedroom. (Yes, home births. I’d tell people, “I’m not sick or injured—I’m pregnant.” Each went smoothly and quickly—our son’s going so smoothly and quickly that he was in Markus’s arms before the midwife arrived.)

I recall moving out—Markus had accepted a job transfer to the Isle de France. As the moving van’s doors were being clamped shut, it occurred to me that the longest I’d ever lived in one place was here, on the Rheingasse; I was thirty-five years old.

After four years in France, we decided to return to Switzerland. At first, we considered moving to the French-speaking region or closer to the Alps, but I yearned for Kaiserstuhl. A military brat, I wanted my children to have what I never had: roots and a sense of place. I wanted them to grow up among grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins.

The garden party laughs. My brother-in-law, the birthday boy, begins describing a balancing exercise. At our age (creeping close to retirement) it’s important to practice, he explains. “Try standing on one leg as you brush your teeth.” Noticing me nod, he grins. “Once you get the hang of it, Meredith, try closing your eyes—and good luck!”

My sister-in-law offers me a bowl of fresh, local strawberries, more wine, and another slice of birthday cake. Stories about growing up here in Kaiserstuhl eddy around me, and I’m captivated. I didn’t grow up knowing community like my husband and his family and friends do. I knew only a culture, a military culture—one in flux. Expedient connections lasted briefly. If I wasn’t just arriving or leaving, my new best friend was.

When recalling the past, my family doesn’t ask when something happened. We ask where it happened—where being the anchor to each when. Most of my former neighbors, classmates, and teachers remain in my memory as if suspended in a bell jar.

My past is a shelf of jars.

The sun is setting. Evening shadows chill the air. The garden party ends. Markus and I walk home, the wine a-swirl in our steps. I’m thinking that making a life in one place sure feels like an accomplishment. “Do you realize,” I say to him, “we are now the age your parents were when I first arrived in Kaiserstuhl?”


On a panorama hike from Waldegg, Beatenberg to Niederhorn.

Recently, I spent four days grubbing under our cinquefoils. The sun burned my south-facing shoulder, and the dust I raised gave me gunky eyes and a scratchy cough (pandemic lockdown’s not the best time for scratchy coughs). I uncovered a swath of oregano, which I decided to leave. In other areas of the garden, I ignore the wild garlic mustard and encourage the spreading of wild strawberries.

Back in April, after harvesting ramsons that grow in the woods along the Rhine, I promised myself to dig up some bulbs come fall to replant along the north side of our house. First, I’ll have a vigorous go at the ivy, dandelions, and weeds choking the slope, which will take another few days of grubbing—but shaded, at least.

Transplanted ramsons should take to the spot. I’ve been lucky with transplants, so far; agreeable bulbs, ferns, and forget-me-nots. Calendulas and lavender never crop up where I prefer them to spread. Ah, the lavender propagating heartily—they’re my own fault. Ever since I noticed how happily birds feed on their seeds, I don’t cut them back until spring. The birds don’t get everything, of course.

My sister-in-law’s strawberries and periwinkle.

My sister-in-law and her family live next door. Her beds of periwinkle are full of wild strawberries she lets me garner. From the handfuls I freeze daily (until I reach a kilo), I make jam, some pots pure and some mixed fifty-fifty with juicier field berries we buy at a roadside booth. Last year, I collected her plants’ runners, stealing them across our property line. The transplants are loving our east-side bed of rhodies and azaleas. Like me, they favor first light.

Let’s be grateful for satisfied transplants. This June, it’s thirty years since I arrived in Switzerland. I’ve tapped into a very good family and graceful life that’s a privilege. My runners and I thrive.

My sister-in-law’s transplanted runners.


In late June of 1980, I spent an afternoon at the Oregon State University Library. I’d parked my bike just outside the front doors. St. John’s wort surrounded the bike rack. I loved the vibrant yellow flowers of St. John’s wort, their large silky petals and prominent and plentiful stamens. When I reemerged from the library and took hold of my bike, I felt a fine grit on the handlebars. The dark leather seat, I noticed, was an ashen color. All the bikes were covered in the same fine grit, and the St. John’s wort had gone gray. “What an odd prank,” I thought, imagining someone strewing the bike racks and shrubs with garden lime.

Our St. John’s wort will blossom sometime in June.

That evening, Mom phoned. “Meredith,” she said in a worried voice, “the horses are covered in ash.” We had more horses than box stalls, so the animals spent their lives grazing on pasturage and sheltering in an open-sided barn. I seldom made the two-hour drive home. Only when I stabled two youngsters close to the university did I begin riding regularly again.

Ah, I thought, picturing the ash-covered horses. Now I know who the bike-rack prankster was, Mt. St. Helens. Just the month before, on the 18th of May, the north side of the mountain had blown out, most of the ash heading eastwards. A change in wind patterns sent a small sample of ash down to Oregon from Washington, and many speculated on the effects of breathing it. Projections ranged from worried to apocalyptic. There were those who insisted on wearing masks and those who refused to bother. Sound familiar? Of course, the animals had no choice.

In the meantime, our rhodies remind me of Mays in Oregon.


Sometimes, all it takes is a small amount of rain.

Laburnum, the golden rain tree

This spring, we went more than six weeks without rain in Switzerland. The vegetation along the sides of the gravel road I walk looked August dusty. Rainfall is usually generous in March and April; this year, I watered those plants coming into blossom, the cherry tree, the rhododendrons—the azaleas and tsutsusi—the lilac and current bushes, and the flowers, the peony, lilies, and roses. The lawn didn’t need mowing.

But rain.

Cool days followed summer-like weeks. To be sure, we enjoyed having meals outside, an occasional grill, and frequent naps in the sun. To be sure, I enjoyed watching the lizards who’ve colonized our deck, and who sun themseves in view of my desk. I even came across two slowworms, rescuing one from a neighbor’s cat.

My husband said, “Is it just me, or is there more birdsong?” (Songbirds have colonized the shrubbery outside our bedroom window—and he likes to sleep in on a weekend morning.)

There is more birdsong. And my watering (most precious resource) saved our struggling plants. But now that the rain has fallen, every living thing has bolted out in relief and joy—and a trust that the world has righted itself again.

You understand the allegory, of course.


I’m not complaining. Working at home is nothing new to me, and I’m enjoying my husband’s company. Listening in on his conference calls, I’m learning new sides to him. In fact, the other day, I said, “You’re less boss and more mentor.” He smiled.

Sure, I miss crossing the bridge to Germany, walking the forested hills and the shore of the Rhine opposite ours; I miss jaunts into Zurich, exploring its narrow, cobbled streets, window shopping, and meeting friends or the kids for coffee, drinks, or dinner; and I miss my writing groups, the causal work-together-weekly group and the monthly critique group—what can replace an absent hug?

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Still, the store shelves are well stocked. We collect fresh milk from a dairy in the neighboring village, and fresh eggs and farm produce are a two-minute walk from our door. Everyone I know is staying employed and healthy (knock on wood). We’re all looking forward to an ease in restrictions and curious to see what hits us once this storm’s eye has passed.

Easter sunrise_04.20