Friends, neighbors, esteemed townspeople of johnchen.net, I appreciate you taking a moment from your busy schedules to lend me your ears. I understand that life is full, and distractions abound, but a matter of some urgency compels me to speak to you today about a situation involving the name “John J. Jingleheimer Schmidt” and the confusion it has sown within our community.
It has come to my attention, and indeed, to the ears of everyone within the sound of the local schoolyard chant, that a certain song has taken root in the popular consciousness. This catchy little tune, celebrating the name “John J. Jingleheimer Schmidt,” while seemingly innocent, has unfortunately blurred the lines between myself and… another individual who shares a remarkably similar moniker. This needs clarification, and it needs it now, before further misunderstandings take hold and solidify into something far more troublesome.
You see, the song proclaims, “His name is my name too.” While on the surface, this might seem like a harmless repetition, it masks a critical distinction. Our family name, the true Jingleheimer Schmidt lineage, is meticulously, and historically, spelled with a hyphen: Jingleheimer-Schmidt. The other John Jacob, bless his heart, omits this vital punctuation – Jingleheimer Schmidt. Now, I know what some of you might be thinking: “A hyphen? What’s the fuss?” But I assure you, this is no mere grammatical triviality. This hyphen speaks volumes about heritage, about history, about the very fabric of our identities.
Delving into the annals of Germanic history, we find that the hyphen signifies a union, a joining of forces. Around the year 500, the Jingleheimers of the Bavarii tribe, a proud and established people, merged with the Schmidts of the Frisii, equally distinguished in their own right. This union forged a powerful family, the Jingleheimer-Schmidts, who rose to prominence under Clovis and continued to shape history for generations.
Conversely, the Jingleheimer Schmidts without the hyphen? Their origins are… less illustrious. They emerged much later, around 776, as the Kinderschmidts, a fading Chatti clan. Desperate to gain favor with Pepin the Short, they adopted our esteemed name. In their haste, or perhaps their ignorance, they overlooked the hyphen, a seemingly small omission that betrays a significant lack of understanding of the true Jingleheimer-Schmidt legacy. Therefore, the claim “His name is my name too” is, at best, a simplification, and at worst, a misleading appropriation of a history that is not rightfully theirs.
The song continues, “Whenever we go out.” This line paints a picture of camaraderie, of two John J. Jingleheimer Schmidts strolling arm in arm, inseparable companions. Nothing could be further from the truth. While it is true that we occasionally find ourselves in the same vicinity, these instances are hardly the jovial outings the song suggests. Yes, we may both be found down in the briar patch, but this shared location is solely due to the unfortunate habit of certain cows (whose owner shall remain nameless) to wander into places they shouldn’t be. Rescuing livestock is hardly a planned social excursion.
And yes, sometimes our paths converge in town as we both procure provisions. However, even these coincidental encounters are suspect. I have begun to suspect that the other John Jacob, shall we say, monitors my movements, perhaps from the shadows of his dwelling, and times his own trips to town to coincide with mine. Why else would he consistently trail five paces behind me as I commence my errands? And later, at the tavern, who is invariably a few pence short for mead and seeks a loan from his supposed “brother” John Jacob? The pattern is… telling.
This individual has long harbored an ambition to forge a closer bond than naturally exists. He once proposed the formation of a “four-initials club,” arguing that most people are limited to a mere three initials. I have, on numerous occasions, politely but firmly declined this proposition. My reasons are manifold, but suffice it to say that membership in any club with a man known for trousers with holes, a penchant for hillside fires, and a tendency to slumber through the fourth hour of Sunday service holds little appeal. Yet, despite my repeated refusals, he persists. Whenever our paths cross, he flashes “our” so-called “sign” – an elaborate hand gesture involving index fingers and thumbs contorted into the shapes of “J” and “S.” Speaking of which, should you encounter the inscription “JJJS” etched onto walls or branded onto livestock, please be aware that this was not my doing. And again, note the glaring absence of the hyphen between the final “J” and the “S.”
But let us not place the entirety of the blame at the feet of the other John Jacob. You, my fellow townspeople, also bear a degree of responsibility. The song proclaims, “The people always shout, ‘There goes John Jacob Jingleheimer-Schmidt!’” And indeed, you do. But why? What is so inherently fascinating about two individuals sharing a similar name? Such occurrences are hardly uncommon.
Why not, instead, acknowledge the nuance? Why not proclaim, “There go both John Jacob Jingleheimer-Schmidts”? Or, even better, embrace descriptive accuracy: “There goes the John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt known for errant cows, paint-splattered Town Hall steps, and the unfortunate mulberry field fire! And also the John Jacob who, commendably, rescues the aforementioned cows!”
At the very least, I implore you to halt the further spread of this… misinformation. I have learned, with considerable dismay, that the other John Jacob is attempting to capitalize on the dubious success of his song with a new verse:
John Jacob Jingleheimer-Schmidt,
His name is my name, too.
So if one should buy mead,
There really is no need,
To check which John the bar tab applies to.
This, my friends, has already resulted in tangible financial loss, and frankly, I cannot bear any more. Therefore, I beseech you, my neighbors, please, let this jaunty yet devastating song fade from memory. Strive to perceive us as distinct individuals. We manage to differentiate between the various Marys in town – acknowledging one as “quite contrary” and another as possessing “a little lamb.” I simply request the same courtesy, for the sake of my family name, and for the sake of clarity and truth. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I hear sheep bleating and smell smoke on the hillside. It seems our attention is needed elsewhere, and perhaps we should ascertain just what the other John Jacob is currently up to.
