MUENSTER, Texas — Social media attacks. Intransigent factions. An anonymous letter complaining about the harm done by some neighbors to the harmony of a bucolic Texas town.

The division that erupted in recent months in Muenster, Texas, a farming and ranching community north of Dallas, resembles the political polarization that has ripped apart many communities across the nation.

But the fight in Muenster, a town settled by German immigrants, has not been about politics. It has been about beer.

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Or rather, about how to divvy up the proceeds from selling beer at the biggest thing that happens in Muenster every year: the town’s three-day Germanfest. The dispute has bitterly divided neighbors in a town that prides itself on its Texas German heritage and spirit of volunteerism.

Suddenly, instead of one celebration on the last weekend in April, there were two — two places for the town’s 1,600 residents to partake of beer, sausages and music, each a short walk from the other, on either side of Division Street.

At stake were not only competing visions of the town’s signature event but the survival of the kinds of old-fashioned community volunteer groups that historically formed part of the backbone of American towns. In Muenster, they still do — and Germanfest has long been their biggest moneymaker.

“It put tears in my eyes,” said William Fisher, 83, as he ate breakfast at Rohmer’s, the town’s wood-paneled, schnitzel-serving diner. “All of a sudden, it seems like the town went haywire.”

For some, the split marked the culmination of rising discontent over the growth of the festival, which draws about 20,000 visitors.

That was particularly true after 2018 when the festival moved into a newly built, cavernous indoor space on sprawling grounds at the edge of town.

“It became more of an outsider thing and lost that local touch,” said Leslie Hess Eddleman, a dental hygienist and former Dallas Cowboys cheerleader. “They turned it into this big show for out-of-towners but not for us.”

But what finally brought about the split was not who attended the festival but a dispute over the beer contract, which was up for renewal.

The Jaycees, a national junior civic organization, had a long-standing practice of selling beer, utilizing its members as volunteers and pocketing nearly 80% of the profit.

The Muenster Chamber of Commerce, the entity in charge of Germanfest, aimed to renegotiate this agreement. Initially, they suggested a 50-50 split, but later proposed giving the Jaycees 70% of the profits on the condition that they helped with the decoration.

“We bear all the risk,” exclaimed Matt Sicking, the chamber president and a county commissioner. “In case of a washout, all our investment goes down the drain.”

The negotiation ended in a stalemate with neither party willing to compromise.

“You ever hear of a stubborn German? They had their minds made up,” said Wayne Klement, 74, a Jaycee senator. “That’s when we decided we’ll just have a party of our own.”

The group was encouraged when others joined. Many did: the Knights of Columbus, the Boy Scouts, a local meat seller, the family that puts on a hammer-and-nail-in-a-log game they call “nägelschlagen.”

Soon, it had turned into an all-out rebellion.

Who lays claim to Germanfest could not be more important in a town such as Muenster, which sits in the rolling farmland near Texas’ Red River boundary with Oklahoma.

German family names like Fishers and Flusches dominate the business landscape after their ancestors settled and stayed. Even local police cars reflect a German influence with “Zu Dienen und Beschützen” displaying on them, a promise to serve and protect. The local high school football team faces its rival in a grudge match called the “Kraut Bowl” every year against Lindsay, another town with strong German heritage.

In the 1800s, Texas was a popular destination for German immigrants, especially the cities of Fredricksburg and New Braunfels near Austin. Some schools in these locations were even primarily instructing in German.

According to Walter Kamphoefner, a history professor at Texas A&M University, “In Texas, the German language persisted longer and more ardently than any other place in the United States”.

Muenster’s creation stemmed from the effort of brothers who wanted to establish a distinctly German Catholic community. Though the journey was fraught with obstacles – tornadoes destroyed their first and second church — they persisted.

Life in Muenster still revolves around the church. The town has both a Catholic school and a public school. Families of six children or more are not unusual.

“It’s like in Europe,” said Chuck Bartush, one of 13 siblings and one of the town’s only lawyers. “It’s old school. Medieval almost.”

Muenster is also home to an enduring culture of volunteerism. The Jaycees, whose members are community-minded adults 40 and younger, occupy a prominent perch. Local members include city councilors, business owners and the mayor.

Like many volunteer groups across the United States, the Jaycees has dwindled. In Texas, there were once scores of chapters. Now there are just 12.

The concept of a festival to celebrate the town’s German heritage emerged as the country was gearing up for its bicentennial in 1976. The festival quickly gained traction, drawing visitors from Dallas and beyond. Activities included tug of war, arm wrestling, and on at least one occasion, a beauty pageant.

The Jaycees contributed arguably the most significant factor: the beer. This club has a refrigerated trailer that can accommodate around 200 kegs and has 32 beer taps. They have recently acquired an additional trailer of a smaller size.

“This weekend is essential for our club,” said Klement. He further noted that the Jaycees donated $165,000 last year, primarily to local families in need.

Data from the Chamber of Commerce showed that the Jaycees made roughly $120,000 from the previous Germanfest, while the Chamber profited $164,000. Sicking stated that the expenses associated with organizing the festival continue to increase.

On the inaugural day of the chamber’s festival, participants sat around tables consuming sausages on skewers to the melodious tunes of polka. Females in stylized dirndl outfits and males in lederhosen clinked their glasses together with synchronized cries of “Prost!”

A little farther, the Jaycee fiesta held in Muenster City Park vibrated with classic rock tunes, inducing feelings of nostalgia among the sizeable assembly. An enormous beer truck endowed with numerous beer taps held a prominent place on the park’s green expanse.

Shishana Barnhill, an Alaska native who married into Rohmer’s family, mentioned, “There’s no place I’ve visited across the globe that has preserved its traditions as strongly as Muenster. The sense of familial togetherness in this town is overwhelming.”

Being one among the limited count of Black inhabitants, Barnhill recounted an incident when white supremacists halted at the dinner, engendering feelings of discomfort. However, she feels reassured by the town’s response as she stated, “They were not made to feel welcome here.”

As she verbalized, spectators thronged the stands for the tug-of-war competition.

“Pull!” echoed from numerous individuals in the assemblage.

Subsequent to the struggle, the contestants crumbled onto the field. A bystander proffered a marriage proposal to his sweetheart. She acquiesced.

Ultimately, the two rival events generally managed to turn a blind eye to each other. The supply of beer had been amply sufficient.

Sicking appeared to be weary of the battle.

“We can stay here lamenting all day, but it’s not going to alter anything,” he uttered. “The outcome will pan out according to what the holy Lord desires.”

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