Grandma Dumps Mozart for Edelweiss and Silent Night

One weekend in September during my senior year of college, I decided to bless my family with my radiant presence at Sunday dinner. It was a solid hour’s drive, but worth it for the hugs, conversation and storytelling, and the kind of food that makes you forget you’ve been living off Kraft macaroni and cheese made in a corn popper.

While we were all gathered around the table—me basking in my role as the worldly scholar—I casually mentioned that some of my friends were taking a January interim class abroad. A Fine Arts experience in Europe, no less. Picture them sketching cathedrals in Rome and sipping espresso in Paris while I was back on campus, knee-deep in Medieval Art.

 A few weeks later, the dorm pay phone rang—yes, an actual pay phone, like something rescued from a museum—and someone yelled, “It’s for you!” I sprinted wondering who it could be and hoping it wasn’t bad news!

Nope. It was Grandma Rhoads, suspiciously chipper!. “My friend Coleeta—you remember her, my roommate on that five-day coach tour of Southern Illinois…” (Inner voice: “Five days? Did they stop at every cornfield?”) “…gave me an idea. I’m giving you an early graduation gift: I’m paying for your January class in Europe!”

I nearly dropped the receiver, which wouldn’t have been all that tragic because it was attached to the wall like a leash. She wasn’t done.

“Coleeta called McKendree and spoke to your professors, Dr. Farmer and Mr. Schentz. They said we can audit the class and go with you!”

(Long pause. Possibly a minor stroke.)

“Are you there?”

“Uh… yes. Yes. Just… in shock thinking about all of this.”

I was thrilled about the trip, don’t get me wrong. But the mental image of my Southern Baptist grandma and her travel buddy Coleeta tagging along with a pack of college kids in Europe? That was a plot twist I hadn’t storyboarded.

“Oh, Grandma. That sounds awesome. Are you sure you want to do this? I can’t wait!”

Translation: I’m excited, mildly terrified, and already picturing Coleeta critiquing the Louvre’s lighting while Grandma asks the waiter in West Berlin if they serve sweet tea.

 Fast forward – January 1977

The trip kicked off in Paris—romantic, historic, and cold enough to turn your spirit into a popsicle. Snowflakes swirled like they were auditioning for a perfume ad as I climbed into a taxi with Grandma and Coleeta, who’d already cast me as her personal valet. She handed me her bags with the flair of someone expecting a tip—and maybe a foot rub.

I politely declined the role of luggage pack mule. “Sorry, Coleeta, I’ve got my own to wrangle.” She looked mildly betrayed, like I’d just refused to help her cross the Red Sea. Grandma, meanwhile, was hauling her suitcase like a seasoned farmhand dragging feed—no complaints, no drama, just pure Midwestern grit.

Coleeta, however, was not built for grit. She was built for brunch. And she had chosen—God help us all—winter boots with high heels. For a three-week European tour. I stared at them like they were a cry for help in leather form.

Somewhere between the curb and the cab, Coleeta paused—bags dangling, boots defiant—and declared, “I’m your grandmother’s Jewish friend, you know.” As if that explained the luggage, the attitude, or her sudden need to establish religious affiliation mid-snowstorm.

Was it a nod to Grandma’s Southern Baptist roots? A spiritual icebreaker? A preemptive disclaimer in case the cab driver asked about denominational baggage? Whatever it was, it felt like the opening line of a sitcom: The Jew and the Southern Baptist—Coming Soon to a Travel Channel Near You.

I just buckled in, bracing for three weeks of art, architecture, and Coleeta asking if the Louvre had a gift shop with menorahs.

We arrived at the hotel in Paris, snow swirling like a Hallmark movie with a budget. Everyone hopped out of the taxi with the grace of seasoned travelers—except Coleeta, who managed to catch the heel of her boot in the seat belt and launched herself face-first into a snowbank.

We helped her up, brushed off the snow, and checked for signs of trauma—physical or spiritual. She insisted she was fine, but started limping toward the hotel like she’d just survived a Civil War battlefield. I braced for a broken hip, a lawsuit, or at least a dramatic monologue.

Nope. Just a casualty of fashion: one of her high heels had snapped clean off. On her winter boots. In Europe. For a three-week trip. I looked at the broken heel like it was a metaphor for the next 21 days.

Without missing a beat, Coleeta turned to me—her self-appointed travel butler—and declared, “Robert, you will need to find a cobbler tomorrow to get this fixed!”

A cobbler. In Paris. Like I had one on speed dial. I didn’t even respond. I just blinked in fluent sarcasm.

Once we were checked in, I asked the woman at the front desk—who had clearly seen it all—and she said, “Bring me the boot. I’ll have it fixed by tomorrow.” Apparently, she had a cobbler. Because of course she did. Paris: where even the shoe emergencies come with concierge service.

Moving on.

 During our three-week European whirlwind—France, The Netherlands, Austria, Sweden, Germany—we collected passport stamps and emotional baggage. But one moment in Amsterdam inked itself into my soul like a tiny tattoo with attitude.

Grandma Rhoads and Coleeta—bless their matching travel purses—announced that on our free day, they’d be paying their respects at Anne Frank’s house. Coleeta spoke about Anne with such intimate detail, you’d think they’d shared bunk beds and a diary. Honestly, if she’d whipped out a family tree, I wouldn’t have been surprised.

Meanwhile, my friends and I made a grand show of declaring we were off to the Rembrandt Museum. The professors practically swooned—such cultured, inquisitive minds! Future art historians in cargo pants!

In reality? We were headed straight to the Heineken Brewing Factory. Because nothing says “European enlightenment” like day drinking in Amsterdam. My Southern Baptist grandma would’ve clutched her pearls, but hey - Rembrandt probably drank too. We were just honoring the Dutch masters in our own way.

The brewery was everything we hoped for—beer, history, and just enough sketchy charm to feel like we were getting away with something. After the tour, they herded us into the visitors’ center to “sample the product,” which is European for “drink until you forget your student loan balance.”

We were barely into our first mug when Mother Nature decided to throw a tantrum. Thunder cracked like Zeus had opinions, the lights went out, and rain slammed the windows like it was trying to break in and join the party. Then—flicker, flicker—lights came back on like nothing happened.

The tour guide, clearly unfazed and possibly buzzed, chuckled and said, “Looks like you’re stuck here for a while. Help yourselves to all the beer and snacks you want.”

No one moved. No one questioned it. We just silently agreed that if this was purgatory, we were fine staying indefinitely. Free beer, thunder drama, and no judgment? We thought we’d died and gone to sketchy, fermented heaven.

Now, the next part of the story veers into “urban legend” territory. Allegedly—because I have no memory and zero photographic evidence—when we finally left the brewery after the rain let up, I took one heroic step into the night… and promptly face-planted into a street gutter. Water was rushing over me like I was auditioning for a dramatic baptism scene.

It took four people—yes, four—to hoist me upright and steer me toward the hotel like a soggy parade float. I was less “world traveler” and more “drunken street art installation.” Iconic, really.

I mean, at that point I was a soggy, semi-fermented walking canvas of regret—no dignity, questionable motor skills, and the lingering aroma of Heineken wafting off me like a cautionary tale. If ever there was a moment to summon divine backup, it was right then—preferably with holy water and a mop.

The next morning, I woke up—miraculously upright and only mildly marinated. My roommate had dried my clothes on the radiator heaters and had already dressed and headed out for our morning breakfast and class meeting. I took a quick sponge bath, threw on some clothes and scurried out of the room.

Meanwhile, I was bracing for the Southern Baptist grapevine to kick into high gear. If Grandma caught wind of my Amsterdam escapade, I’d be getting scripture and side-eye,

I arrived at the café and spotted Grandma—standing, arms crossed, and not smiling. Great, I thought, here comes the sermon. But instead of judgment, she grabbed me and launched into her own drama: while returning from the tour, a pickpocket had swiped her purse—travelers’ checks and all. Thankfully, her passport hadn’t made the trip, but the mood? Definitely soured.

We hustled to a bank, got the checks reissued, and realized her credit card and license had been tucked in with the passport. So really, all we needed now was a new purse. Coleeta, ever the expert, proudly announced she’d read all about pickpockets in Amsterdam and had clutched her purse to her chest like it contained state secrets. Apparently, she forgot to share that tip with Grandma.

Several days later.

 Our professors had been counting down the days to Salzburg like it was Christmas, graduation, and the second coming of Mozart all rolled into one. They spoke of the Mozart festival with the kind of reverence usually reserved for holy relics or surprise tenure.

When we finally arrived, they practically levitated off the bus—eyes sparkling, scarves fluttering, ready to bask in the glory of back-to-back concerts held in majestic, unheated Catholic churches that doubled as architectural iceboxes. Coleeta, bless her cultured heart, was genuinely thrilled. Grandma, on the other hand, had zero interest in freezing for the sake of a dead composer. She had other plans—ones that involved warmth, time with me, and unexpected heart tugs.

 Now, what happened next was pure Lucile Rhoads diplomacy. Grandma pulled Professor Farmer aside with the tone of someone about to negotiate a hostage release. She informed him—politely but firmly—that she and I would be skipping one day of the Mozart marathon because if she sat in one more icebox disguised as a cathedral, she was going to catch pneumonia and have to be air lifted back to the states.

Also, she wasn’t about to leave Salzburg without paying tribute to The Sound of Music. The hills were alive, and so was her determination.

I braced for impact—fully expecting Dr. Farmer’s head to combust into a cloud of anger and disappointment. But instead, he smiled, nodded, and said, “Whatever you would like to do, Lucile!” I didn’t know whether to hug him or check for signs of a stroke. Either way, Grandma got her way, and I lived to pass the class. Miracles do happen.

So off we went on the Sound of Music tour, led by a guide who clearly believed she was Maria Von Trapp reincarnated—with a karaoke addiction and a flair for unsolicited trivia. She sang every song like we were trapped in a live-action sing-along, and narrated with the intensity of someone who’d personally dusted the gazebo. I was two facts away from telling her where she could stick her Edelweiss. But Grandma? Oh, she was spellbound. Hanging on every word like the guide was revealing state secrets. She beamed through every note, every anecdote, every dramatic pause—as if Julie Andrews herself had descended from the Alps to lead our tour.

After the morning tour, Grandma suggested we go to a nearby ski lodge and ride a ski lift to the top of a slope – what better way to enjoy our time in the Alps? The views were stunning, although midway up, the falling snow turned into a blizzard. I was trying not to have a panic attack, and Grandma loved every minute of it. We ate lunch at the lodge, and then she had a twinkle in her eye that meant, "This day is just getting started!"

 "Robert, I read that not too far from Salzburg is a little town with a church where the famous Christmas song 'Silent Night' was written. I’m wondering if we could take a train to go see this place?" I was quick to respond that we would need more information and that we needed to meet the group for dinner. "Oh, I don’t see that as a problem," she said. The town is called Oberndorf and is only about a 30-minute train ride from the station here in Salzburg. My eyes widened, wondering if she had a part-time job with National Geographic. How did she know all of this?

 We took a taxi to the train station and, sure enough, Grandma was right. We could take the train to Oberndorf – a 26-minute trip – and then catch a train back after two hours in the little town. We would make it back for dinner with our group, who would be faking their concert experience excitement to appease our professors.

 The train ride to Oberndorf was memorable. There was a big snowplow on the front of the train as we journeyed through the Alps. When we arrived, we were the only two people to get off at the one-bench station. There was a cemetery, and candles were glowing through the snow. It was beautiful. We had to walk down the center of a little street as the sidewalks had not been shoveled. We saw a man removing snow from his car. He spoke English. I asked him about the location of the church, and he pointed us in the right direction.

 We found the church. It was tiny. We opened the door. There was a pot-bellied stove. Ahh! Heat. Warmth. There were no pews, just benches and an altar table. A cross was on the wall. A Bible (in German) was on one of the benches. And then Grandma motioned me to look at the side wall. There was a plaque, and in English and German, it told the story of how 'Silent Night' had been written in this church in 1818.

We sat down, side by side, and softly began to sing: “Silent Night, Holy Night, All is calm, All is bright.” Our voices—gentle, imperfect, full of memory—blended like a quiet prayer. We joined hands. My eyes welled up, and without a word, Grandma reached into her new purse and handed me a tissue, her touch as steady and knowing as ever. It was sacred. Not dramatic or showy—just the kind of moment that wraps itself around your heart and stays there. We sat for nearly an hour, mostly in silence, letting the stillness speak. The Divine wasn’t distant or abstract—it was right there between us, in the hush, the warmth, the shared breath. And we knew it.

When we got back to the hotel, our professors were practically vibrating with excitement, raving about the concerts we’d missed like they’d just discovered Mozart’s lost mixtape. The students, meanwhile, looked like survivors of a musical blizzard—eyes glazed, scarves askew, and a collective aura of frostbite-induced regret.

Even Coleeta, who had started the day with high heels and high hopes, admitted she thought her feet were going to snap off like icicles. The mood was somewhere between reverent and resentful.

Then someone turned to Grandma and asked how her day had gone. She smiled, patted my hand, and said with quiet conviction, “Robert and I needed this day.” And we did. Thank you, Grandma—for choosing warmth, joy, and Julie Andrews over hypothermia and harpsichords.

 As our European escapade wrapped up—equal parts opera, overcast skies, and overcooked schnitzel—I found myself marveling at the glorious mess of it all. From frostbitten concerts in unheated cathedrals to Grandma’s holy pilgrimage to The Sound of Music gazebo, every moment seemed to be both chaos and charm.

Looking back, this trip was the living embodiment of Empathy on the Rocks—not just messy and meaningful but built like one stone stacked on another, each moment a marker of where we’d been and what we chose to carry. It taught me that empathy isn’t just about understanding someone’s story. It’s about walking beside them, laughing through the detours, and honoring both the sacred and the absurd. And if you’re lucky, it comes with a mug of Heinekens and a grandmother who knows when to skip the concert and follow the joy— not schedules.