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| Opa en Oma |
Writing about "me" suddenly seemed rather vain, and writing a "story" seemed much too complicated. I hardly had my own story "figured out". So I simply took a deep breath and started to write down memories, beginning with my own mother. Digging deep. Many a time smiling through the tears as I remembered.
I have favourite snapshots of her in my mind – with daisies in her beach curls on a summer holiday, with tears streaming down her cheeks, clutching one hand over her mouth and with the other holding her stomach - laughing – uncontrollably. With half-closed eyes, telling me a bedtime story, much nearer to sleep than I. With her hands and fore-arms in soap-suds, singing in perfect harmony with my young voice.
She had a little transistor radio, which went just about everywhere she did. Perched next to her pea-soup green sewing machine, balancing in the kitchen window-sill. Tilting on a wire garden table, helping to break the monotony of hanging the never-ending stream of washing. It was her connection with the world out there. But safe, undemanding.
She loved things like a ballad well sung, purple violets, paisley print, dark chocolate, figure skating on TV, the early animated Walt Disney movies. She gave us peppermints in church, flat Coke when we were nauseous and hot sweetened lemon juice to prevent winter colds. She felt and loved deeply, but learnt to hold back on both, once she realised how vulnerable it made her.
There are two incidents that stand out, which in retrospect, reminded me of how easily her anger could be quenched. How much she loved being "light". I had done something naughty and she was standing with her fists on her hips, hauling me over the coals for my misdemeanor. Suddenly she gasped, grabbing her throat with a look of horror. I was frozen to the spot, unsure of what to expect."Ik heeft voorwaar een vlieg ingeslukt" (I've just swallowed a fly), she said. To which we both collapsed in a heap of giggles; the offence forgotten.
The other is of the family gathered in front of the TV on a Satuday afternoon, watching an important soccer match. The curtains were drawn. There was a serving basket filled with "droge worst" (dried wors/sausage)on the table. Pappa (my dad) had a "pilsje" (beer) in his hand. Tradition... It was a tense match and we all knew better than to break the silence. I was bored. Older siblings were occupying the couch and I was sitting at the foot of my mother's reclined "lazyboy" chair. I was pushing up against the base of the foot-rest with my back, tilting the chair ever so slightly. I must have pushed just a bit too hard. I felt the chair tilt, but it did not come back down. It tipped over backward, leaving my mother hanging precariously in midair. I cringed, waiting for the wrath of the room to come crashing down around my ears. Instead I heard a light sobbing from my upside down Mamma. She was laughing, one those overwhelming, tearful bouts of laughing, which render you utterly helpless (slappe-lag). My Dad was grumbling and mumbling something about woman and soccer and why they should be kept separate. But we were too far "gone" to be able to do anything about it.
Sadly, in many of these memories of my mother, I find her looking tired. With four children of diverse ages, demands and temperaments, a house to keep and a husband to placate, she had neither the luxury of time, nor the inclination to question her “plight”. She did what her hands found to do. She cherished and enjoyed each of her babies, kept her home immaculate and fed her family the best she could, within a limited budget. She sacrificed, but did not see it as such. Her dreams where wrapped up in her family and her inner world and desires mostly kept hidden.
Her closest friend and confidant was her own mother. A diminutive lady with kind brown eyes, nimble hands and an ample bosom. During the aftermath of the Great Depression years (Crisisjaren) in the Netherlands, their small family of five, bravely set out for South Africa, the land of opportunity. Arrived as strangers and remained that way. Like the odd stitches in a tapestry, their lives remained woven together, until Opa and Oma were called home.
Life had a predictable pattern. My parents tried to adapt, to "fit in", and the strong Dutch accent had faded somewhat. They worked hard. The speckled floored kitchen was always fragrant and busy. Mamma was not a cordon bleu cook, but her meals were sustaining and hearty. We lived simply, but well. I had the luxury of a sheltered childhood, and the emotional throes that I perceived, were most often of my own making.
It was only when I stumbled into my teen years, that I remember Mamma becoming irritable with us. Later we could understand that for all those years, multiple sclerosis had been slumbering and growing inside her, and she suffered unexplained symptoms for a long time before it was diagnosed.
I had resolved not to become like her - strung out and emotional. She threw things when angry, cried noisily when she was happy, and worst of all (in my eyes), did not stand up for herself. I saw all those things as sure signs of weakness. I had different plans for my future. Especially after my own marriage, which my parents had gently opposed, failed.
I was certainly not the first daughter, nor will I be the last, who had made up her mind to be everything but what she had witnessed her mother being.
Looking back, sometimes smarting, sometimes smiling, I realise - I am my mother’s daughter, even though I do not have an inch of the humility and gentle strength that she lived and still lives out, regardless of her circumstances.
But I have calmed and quieted myself, I am like a weaned child with its mother; like a weaned child I am content.. (Psalm 131:2)
One of my earliest memories of my mother, is of her building jigsaw puzzles. After seeing older siblings off to school and my father to work, she would shut the door softly, sigh, and sit down at the dining room table. Where our breakfast crumbs had barely been wiped away. Wrapped in a quilted pink paisley gown, her head bent low, squinting intently at the fragmented landscape. And then escape into it. It was stolen time, a secret pleasure – a place that was hers and hers alone.
One of my earliest memories of my mother, is of her building jigsaw puzzles. After seeing older siblings off to school and my father to work, she would shut the door softly, sigh, and sit down at the dining room table. Where our breakfast crumbs had barely been wiped away. Wrapped in a quilted pink paisley gown, her head bent low, squinting intently at the fragmented landscape. And then escape into it. It was stolen time, a secret pleasure – a place that was hers and hers alone.
I have favourite snapshots of her in my mind – with daisies in her beach curls on a summer holiday, with tears streaming down her cheeks, clutching one hand over her mouth and with the other holding her stomach - laughing – uncontrollably. With half-closed eyes, telling me a bedtime story, much nearer to sleep than I. With her hands and fore-arms in soap-suds, singing in perfect harmony with my young voice.
She had a little transistor radio, which went just about everywhere she did. Perched next to her pea-soup green sewing machine, balancing in the kitchen window-sill. Tilting on a wire garden table, helping to break the monotony of hanging the never-ending stream of washing. It was her connection with the world out there. But safe, undemanding.
She loved things like a ballad well sung, purple violets, paisley print, dark chocolate, figure skating on TV, the early animated Walt Disney movies. She gave us peppermints in church, flat Coke when we were nauseous and hot sweetened lemon juice to prevent winter colds. She felt and loved deeply, but learnt to hold back on both, once she realised how vulnerable it made her.
There are two incidents that stand out, which in retrospect, reminded me of how easily her anger could be quenched. How much she loved being "light". I had done something naughty and she was standing with her fists on her hips, hauling me over the coals for my misdemeanor. Suddenly she gasped, grabbing her throat with a look of horror. I was frozen to the spot, unsure of what to expect."Ik heeft voorwaar een vlieg ingeslukt" (I've just swallowed a fly), she said. To which we both collapsed in a heap of giggles; the offence forgotten.
The other is of the family gathered in front of the TV on a Satuday afternoon, watching an important soccer match. The curtains were drawn. There was a serving basket filled with "droge worst" (dried wors/sausage)on the table. Pappa (my dad) had a "pilsje" (beer) in his hand. Tradition... It was a tense match and we all knew better than to break the silence. I was bored. Older siblings were occupying the couch and I was sitting at the foot of my mother's reclined "lazyboy" chair. I was pushing up against the base of the foot-rest with my back, tilting the chair ever so slightly. I must have pushed just a bit too hard. I felt the chair tilt, but it did not come back down. It tipped over backward, leaving my mother hanging precariously in midair. I cringed, waiting for the wrath of the room to come crashing down around my ears. Instead I heard a light sobbing from my upside down Mamma. She was laughing, one those overwhelming, tearful bouts of laughing, which render you utterly helpless (slappe-lag). My Dad was grumbling and mumbling something about woman and soccer and why they should be kept separate. But we were too far "gone" to be able to do anything about it.
Sadly, in many of these memories of my mother, I find her looking tired. With four children of diverse ages, demands and temperaments, a house to keep and a husband to placate, she had neither the luxury of time, nor the inclination to question her “plight”. She did what her hands found to do. She cherished and enjoyed each of her babies, kept her home immaculate and fed her family the best she could, within a limited budget. She sacrificed, but did not see it as such. Her dreams where wrapped up in her family and her inner world and desires mostly kept hidden.
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| Mamma |
I recall the two woman talking softly over strong cups of percolated coffee, the dialect wonderfully odd to a little girl's ears. I learnt very early to become "invisible", and picked up many fragments and morsels of family history this way. Which I then embroidered on according to my own whims. They seemed fully content in each other's company. Housework and children faded away. For a while a mother and daughter could share their fears, doubts and joys. Reminisce about an even land of polders, green pastures and a rich language which lies on your tongue like salmiak. (A distinct Dutch "sweet", which could be described as salty liquorice).
Life had a predictable pattern. My parents tried to adapt, to "fit in", and the strong Dutch accent had faded somewhat. They worked hard. The speckled floored kitchen was always fragrant and busy. Mamma was not a cordon bleu cook, but her meals were sustaining and hearty. We lived simply, but well. I had the luxury of a sheltered childhood, and the emotional throes that I perceived, were most often of my own making.
It was only when I stumbled into my teen years, that I remember Mamma becoming irritable with us. Later we could understand that for all those years, multiple sclerosis had been slumbering and growing inside her, and she suffered unexplained symptoms for a long time before it was diagnosed.
I had resolved not to become like her - strung out and emotional. She threw things when angry, cried noisily when she was happy, and worst of all (in my eyes), did not stand up for herself. I saw all those things as sure signs of weakness. I had different plans for my future. Especially after my own marriage, which my parents had gently opposed, failed.
I was certainly not the first daughter, nor will I be the last, who had made up her mind to be everything but what she had witnessed her mother being.
Looking back, sometimes smarting, sometimes smiling, I realise - I am my mother’s daughter, even though I do not have an inch of the humility and gentle strength that she lived and still lives out, regardless of her circumstances.
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