Griswold and the Glockenspiel in Muenster Texas

The secret is out.  I’m no longer trying to hide even from those closest to me.  I am addicted to Roadside America.  Giant cement oddities and roadside gimcracks are my quick fix.  You would think that admitting my obsession to family would be the first step towards freedom, but it is really just a ploy to suck them into my kitsch filled world.  Between you and me, I think it might be working.

My mom joined me and the boys on a road trip recently to a small town in northeast Texas.  We had a great day and were returning home when we passed through the tiny town of Muenster, TX, a town known for its German immigrant influence.  “Mom, there is a glockenspiel in the center of Muenster.  Let’s stop and look.” (Just to demonstrate the depths of my dedication to the roadside weird, I actually knew this information off the top of my head.)

My dear mother was unimpressed, so I attempted to ramp up the excitement.  “Come on, it chimes on the hour and little wooden people come out and do a dance!”  It was ten minutes until the hour.  Our timing couldn’t have been more perfect.  Reluctantly, my mom pulled the car off the highway and into the tiny town of Muenster.

How Muenster says Willkommen

As soon as we neared the tower, I could see things were not going to go well.  By the clock in the car, it was ten minutes to three, but the glockenspiel’s hands were frozen at the 11:30 position.   I tried to break the news as gently as possible, but either the extra miles or the lure of the absurd had taken a hold of my normally docile mother

“You can’t just tell people that you have glockenspiel and then it doesn’t work,” she muttered incredulously.   And then, my mother began channeling Clark Griswold.  “We came out here to see a glockenspiel!  You go in there and tell them we drove all the way out here to see a working glockenspiel.  I don’t care if two people have to come out here, push open those doors, and do a little dance.  We want to see the glockenspiel!”

Dutifully, I went inside, but I knew the answer before I even asked.   I found an employee of Fischer’s Meat Market and steeled myself for the inevitable.  With the sunniest smile, I chirped, “Does the clock still chime on the hour?”  The clerk barely looked up as she offered me a deadpan drawl.  ‘No, it doesn’t work.  This is a meat market, not a clock factory.”  It was clearly a question she had been asked before and the answer was well rehearsed.

I returned to the car and tapped on the window to share my knowledge.  I repeated the words of the store clerk, complete with the deep Texas accent.  For a minute, my mom, still in Clark Griswold mode, looked like she was going to punch something in the nose, and I was afraid it might be me.  Instead, she just dropped her head in defeat and jammed the car into reverse.  There would be no glockenspiel for us that day.

Even after this misfortune, I’m hoping she’ll still join us in other quests for peculiar along America’s highways.  After all, it would take more than a rusty clock to stop my passion.   As for the glockenspiel, Clark Griswold said it best. “Somebody owes us an explanation.”

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