Comfortable sharing his thoughts with men instead of women, he seemed happy to see me. I asked if he had given any thought to returning home. Avoiding my question, he walked to the refrigerator and grabbed a beer. “It’s not as good as a German brew, but it’s all I have. Truth be told, it tastes worse than hog piss, and believe me I should know.” Reminiscing about his youth, he asked if I knew why his father named him Wilhelm. I did not have the heart to say that he had already mentioned the story several times since arriving at the roadside.
“When Grober Krieg (the big war) started,” he began, immediately pausing to wipe saliva off his mouth, “folks in these parts didn’t take kindly to German immigrants. My father was a proud man. He never apologized for loving the fatherland as much as h
