To my esteemed neighbors, I extend my gratitude for your presence today, especially during the demanding mulberry harvest. We Jingleheimer-Schmidts hold our mulberries in high regard, just as you do. However, the matter at hand compels me to seize this opportunity, while the other John Jacob is tending to his sheep, to address the ongoing situation concerning him and his recently composed song. I feel compelled to clarify matters before further misconceptions about my reputation take root.
Until recently, the existence of two John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidts in our town was a source of amusement, perhaps more for onlookers than myself, though I, too, could appreciate the novelty. Yet, John Jacob’s new tune has swept through our community like wildfire – echoing from the schoolyards to the general store, even reaching the mulberry fields. I concede, its catchiness is undeniable (particularly that “da-da-da-da-da-da-da” refrain). Nevertheless, this song has fostered significant misunderstandings about the relationship between him and me, suggesting a camaraderie that simply does not exist. Therefore, it is imperative for me to set the record straight.
Firstly, the lyric “His name is my name, too” is a half-truth. My family’s lineage spells our surname Jingleheimer-Schmidt, distinctly hyphenated, while his omits the hyphen, rendering it Jingleheimer Schmidt. This hyphen, seemingly insignificant, denotes a profound divergence rooted in Germanic history. Our lineage traces back to circa 500 AD, a union of the Jingleheimers of the Bavarii tribe and the Schmidts of the Frisii, forging a formidable family under Clovis’s reign, and continuing thereafter. Conversely, the Jingleheimer Schmidts – or rather, Schmidts without the hyphen – were originally the Kinderschmidts, a fading Chatti clan who adopted our name around 776 AD to ingratiate themselves with Pepin the Short (conveniently overlooking the hyphen and our rich history). As you can discern, a certain…deceptiveness runs in their bloodline.
However, the most egregious misrepresentation stems from “whenever we go out.” John portrays us as inseparable companions, frequently embarking on joint excursions. This is patently false. Yes, we occasionally find ourselves in the briar patch simultaneously, but solely for the purpose of retrieving errant cows (unleashed by a certain individual I shall refrain from naming). Beyond these bovine rescue missions, our paths might coincidentally converge in town when procuring supplies. Though, even this I now question – I suspect he spies me leaving my abode and shadows me, often trailing five paces behind as I commence my stroll. And later, at the tavern, who should materialize, five pence short for mead, seeking a loan from his “brother” John Jacob?
John has persistently attempted to fabricate this camaraderie, even proposing a “four-initials club,” lamenting that most possess only three. I have repeatedly declined membership in any club involving a man whose trousers are perpetually torn, who ignites hillside fires, and who habitually dozes off by the fourth hour of Sunday service. Yet, each encounter is punctuated by his flashing “our” sign (index finger and thumb forming a “J,” waved thrice, then conjoined with the other index and thumb to create an “S”). Speaking of which, should you discover “JJJS” etched on walls or branded onto livestock, attribute it not to me. (Note again, the conspicuous absence of the hyphen between the final “J” and the “S.”).
The fault, however, does not solely lie with John; you, my fellow townspeople, bear a degree of responsibility. “The people always shout, ‘There goes John Jacob Jingleheimer-Schmidt!’ ” In this, he speaks truthfully – but what warrants such vociferous shouting? Two individuals sharing a similar name is hardly a spectacle of great interest.
Why not proclaim, “There go both John Jacob Jingleheimer-Schmidts”? Or, even more accurately, “There goes the John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt notorious for releasing cows into the briar, splattering paint across the Town Hall steps, and incinerating the old mulberry field! And also the John Jacob who bravely rescues the aforementioned cows!”
At the very least, I implore you to prevent further escalation of this mischaracterization. As you are aware, John is now attempting to capitalize on his song’s dubious success 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 has already inflicted financial repercussions upon me, and I can endure no more.
Therefore, I beseech you, my neighbors, to consign all verses of John’s jaunty yet devastating song to oblivion. And endeavor to perceive us as distinct individuals. We manage this distinction with the Marys – acknowledging one as quite contrary and the other as possessing a little lamb. I implore you to extend the same courtesy to me, for the sake of my family name and sanity.
And now, perhaps we should ascertain what John is currently engaged in, for the sheep are bleating with unusual urgency, and the hillside appears, once again, to be ablaze.
