Cold leads

I am as cold as I have ever been before, but even our sons agree, this was an afternoon well spent. 

We set out early to head to the town in Southern Germany where my research indicates all Hellsterns originate. There was a dusting of snow, so we all layered up with longies and everything we had that might protect us from the cold. 

We arranged to meet up with a motley crew of history and genealogy buffs, and the oldest Hellstern in the village, who lives with her son on the edge of the village. 

It is snowing hard on the Autobahn, to the point that we can’t always drive on bare pavement. But Germans are efficient, and plows and salting trucks are out in force, even on a Sunday. There's even a little plow on the sidewalk.

Today's car game is to look for businesses with their surname, and we don’t have to wait long: it’s on the side of a snowplow that makes it possible for us to get into the village. We park in the town square, and meet up with our history buff, and together we walk the kids up to the old, now empty home where their Opa and Tante lived. We know it will soon be sold by the last son (who has no children), so we take lots of pictures and talk about when they got to drive the tractor and climb the cherry tree and stuff their faces with their Tante's warm Hefezopf. 

Cousin Ursula arrives with her husband in tow, and produces a 1970s orange vintage thermos casserole with lovely ham and cheese pastries still warm from her oven. Reinvigorated by the warm snack, we head to the latest cousin we have connected with, who lives with his elderly mother. We hope she can help identify some old pictures.

We arrive, and after explaining that we cannot come in (we are vaccinated, boosted and tested, but we are also traveling), they invite us to the back yard terrace, which overlooks the (currently snowy) rolling fields. Soon, someone brings out a table so we can look at notes and sketch a tree to figure out how we are related. The elder takes a while to figure it out (too many people with the same name!) but we eventually realize we are all related, except for our resident historian, though we decide he is probably a distant cousin—we just need to do more research.

Cousin Ursula ducks back to her car, and emerges with the orange casserole, and a huge cake (Käsecreme with meringue). At which point our new cousin's wife organizes chairs, and scurries around and produces plates, cups, and thermoses of steaming coffee and tea.

Yet another cousin joins us, and helps reduce the amount of cake, the new cousin’s son sticks his head out, and the conversation restarts as we tell him how he is related to everyone. Many jokes about the American "uncle" and tons of pictures.

We were thinking we might visit a nearby castle, but it is clear that is for another (warmer) day. The ham and cheese pockets are gone, there is one fat slice of cake left, and most of us cannot feel our toes. It is time to take one last group photo and say our goodbyes. 

It will take a few hours to warm up completely, and even more hours to research my copious notes, but we have laid a foundation for further collaboration—emails are already flying and scans of sepia images are filling our inboxes.