Hallo-De-Ho Rene,

As promised, and with links to pictures sprinkled into the text below, I’m posting my musings about Oktoberfest, the festival that kicks off Homecoming weekend at my alma mater in western Kansas.

Despite not drinking beer, which to many people is the point of Oktoberfest, I’ve always loved that Friday event because it was the ultimate confluence of the two major cultures of Hays, America: Volga Germans and college students.

Besides love of beer, the two cultures had little directly in common (unless you were a college student who grew up there, in which case you’d also have the distinctive Volga-German accent in common). The booming polka bands of Oktoberfest haven’t been in the Top 40 for a while, and the Schottische does not resemble the dances the young folks do at places like The Home II or The Wild Rose. Somehow, though, for a long day that began with a keg tapping at 10:30 a.m., there was sunny unity.

Not so any more, or at least not as much so. A few years back, many of the local diehards pulled out of Oktoberfest, upset that the old traditions were being crowded out by the growing younger generation. I don’t know the whole story, but as a result there are now two Oktoberfests, one known as the “Genuine German Oktoberfest,” which is a few weeks before the one associated with the university. The Volga-German Society still runs the latter, in association with the university and the Chamber of Commerce, but more than ever now it’s essentially a big Homecoming party.

That’s not to say that there aren’t reminders of the origins: There are fewer dancers now, in part because of the dual events, and in part because the average age of willing dancers has been climbing every year. There are fewer folks dressed in lederhosen, although the president of the Society still sports his signature outfit. There are more college students. And while there is generally less variety of Volga-German cousine available, at least there are plenty of bierocks to choose from. (Mmmmmm. Ground beef, cabbage, and onions, baked inside warm bread pockets. I brought three back frozen for my sister.)

The change was inevitable, but it’s still a little sad. I had a nice time, but somehow, with the concrete dance floor often empty, it just wasn’t the same.

Later,
Kari