35 Problem Solving

Day 35 - February 23

(Photo: "U.S.O." Girl!)

In 1972 I worked for the U.S.O. in Germany while visiting father and mother for a few months. At the time, the United States Army occupied bases throughout West Germany. As an employee for the United Services Organization, I manned an information booth in the Frankfurt Airport.

My booth perched on a raised platform where I was set up with a military phone, enabling connection to army bases throughout Europe. American personnel exiting customs in Frankfurt saw two familiar stations--the U.S. military booth with Army and Air Force personnel and my booth with the big letters U.S.O. on the front.

My job was to assist military dependents. Day after day, young wives, often with young children, arrived in a strange country after many hours on a flight, to be reunited with their husbands. However, I was there for the ones who arrived only to discover that no one was there to pick them up. To this day I don’t know why it happened so often, but communication failed, flights changed and soldiers were sent to the field…for whatever reason, they were not there. And, more than once I was shocked to hear, “My husband doesn’t even know I’m coming!”

I persisted until husbands were tracked down, calling the bases, asking for commanding officers and basically problem solving for women who were fatigued, confused, afraid, and more than happy for someone to help. If a husband was in the field, then we moved to Plan B.

I had studied German for two years in college at that point, but only remember using one German phrase successfully. The airport restrooms were attended by airport employees and it was expected for travelers to leave money on the counter at every visit. I learned to say, “Ich bin ein Flughafenarbeiter,” explaining that I too was an airport worker, so a tip was not expected each time I visited!

Every morning I walked down the little village hill to the train station with the German commuters on their way to Frankfurt. At the Frankfurt station I found the train directly to the airport. I thought I had figured out how to navigate my commute until one evening in my second week of work.

Father loved to tell the story of how I boarded the train to Wirtheim which would have taken me home. However, unknowingly, I had really boarded the train to Wertheim--a city I didn’t even know existed! The difference in the “i” and the “e” eluded me.

I rode for the usual thirty minutes and then noticed the ride was becoming longer and longer. After an hour I started to ask around, “Is this the train to Wirtheim?” in my school-girl German.

Each time I asked, I received the same answer, “Ja, Wertheim!” It sounded like Wirtheim to me! I continued to ride, wondering how the thirty-minute commute to father and mother’s village could be turning into two hours.

Not knowing what else to do, I rode all he way to Wertheim--three hours from their home--and when I arrived, discovered I did not have Deutschmarks to pay for a return trip back home. It was late at night by then and no currency exchanges were open. Thank God a kind soul took pity on me and let me trade with him, U.S. dollars for German currency!

Today cousin Nancy and her husband Floyd are coming to help. Floyd worked all night Friday, but they arrive Saturday mid-morning to help with the kitchen. They were stationed in Germany years ago, and were able to spend time with mother and father, as well as take advantage of any free time they had to travel throughout Europe.

While Floyd helps pack china and glasses, Nancy attacks the cabinets. We reminisce about our days in Germany. We pack the china I purchased as a Christmas present for mother at the Rhein-Main Air Force base with the help of an MP I met at my U.S.O. booth. We chat about all the trips to outlet stores throughout Germany as we pack so many collections of mugs, plates, candles…

They tell about one outlet where large crates of china plates were reduced to a ridiculously low price. The Americans bought them up--such a bargain! The Germans purchased them for a celebration in which they needed a lot of plates--to break!

Floyd’s witty remarks keep us laughing while he does the heavy lifting and helps me keep straight--these items in a box for Matt, these in a box for Melinda... Nancy tackles shelf after shelf which I can not bear to approach. She sorts mother’s multi-cabinet Tupperware collection, finding a lid for each container--more than my small dose of concentration could possibly accomplish. By the time we are finished, only two cabinets remain.

This space where family came together daily, nourished each other daily, where stories of father and mother’s lives unfold as we pick up a dish, coffee pot, French fry maker, egg cup, pie pan…too many memories abound to do this alone.

In the midst of my fatigue, confusion and fears, they persist till the job is done. We finish off our day at Cracker Barrel remembering father’s joy at their last meal there with him.

Nancy and Floyd are my U.S.O. today!