Catching up with two missionary uncles in their retirement, and a little day trip turns into …, well, a mission of sorts. Ever wondered what Saure Kirschen Schnapps is?
“I know it, I can feel it, we are doomed, this is not going to end well”, wails the uncle with Parkinson’s from the backseat of the Ford Focus, rented in Kaldenkirchen just across the border from Venlo, the southern Dutch city where my two uncles, after a lifetime of missionary globetrotting, have fetched up next door to each door in seniors’ living.
It’s late afternoon.
Parkinson uncle can only manage brief shuffles, clutching indiscriminately at furniture, indoor plants, small souvenir wood carvings and electrical wiring, but earlier that day his objections to the “little outing” proposed by my other uncle were swept aside.
The Ford Focus’s trip odometer has already recorded over 450 kilometres as we make our way back that day.
The outside of Burg Eltz (medieval castle) has been admired and also the River Mosel, from whose banks the cloyingly sweet, undrinkable wine comes. It’s not far from Venlo now. I have managed to divert the Ford Focus from the Autobahn, where traffic had come to a standstill.
Unbeknownst to us, a mini-tornado has hit the area, and off-Autobahn things are just as bad, with road closures and emergency vehicles wanting to get past, sirens bleating in that quaint way European sirens have.
Parkinson Uncle has always been my favourite uncle. When I was a kid, he used to play audio recordings made during his travels of the slow, purposeful clickety-clack of long-distance trains to assist the onset of sleep at night. He used to pretend that recordings of Peruvian trains making their way through the Andes were the most effective for this purpose.
“Need to do a shit, need to do a shit!”, Parkinson Uncle suddenly yells.
Other uncle now takes notice. The Ford Focus is, after all, a rented car, which needs to be returned unsoiled later that day.
“Are you sure?”, he asks reprovingly.
“Yes, yes, yes. Parkinson’s. No muscle control. Going to shit all over the back seat. All over it! Can’t help it. Parkinson’s.”
“You sure? Because it’s very inconvenient.”
“Yes, yes, yes.”
“Better pull over here”, Other Uncle tells Mr Henry, who brakes and indicates a change of direction.
Yes, it is a mystery why left-hand drive needs to be complicated by indicator and wiper controls switching sides as well.
German drivers toot their horns in dismay at the sudden slow-down and change in direction as the Ford Focus comes to a halt at a village kerb, windscreen wipers waving majestically.
“Why are we stopping?”, demands Parkinson uncle.
“Didn’t you say you needed to do a shit?”
“May need to do a shit! May!
“You didn’t say ‘may’.”
I did, I did. Parkinson’s. No muscle control. If, if!, I need to do a shit. Been in this car all day. If, if!, I need to do a shit, it´ll go everywhere.”
“But you don’t have to do a shit.”
“Any second!”
“You need to stretch your legs for a bit.”
“Any second!”
Other uncle and I retrieve Parkinson uncle from the back and conduct him along the village footpath in a gentle frogmarch.
Hours later, the Ford Focus is returned unblemished to the car rental depot in Kaldenkirchen, and back at seniors’ living frayed nerves are soothed by several serves of Saure Kirschen Schnapps, my uncles’ favourite tipple. Killer sweet cherry gin.
