Christine T's Stories
Pa's Tooth
It was in 1978 that my parents finally made up their minds to come to Australia on an extended holiday. This primarily to visit their youngest daughter (me) and to get to know their grandchildren.
On the day of their arrival, we all trooped to the airport and joined the crowd of other 'expectant' Aussies to await the coming of friends and family from overseas.
It wasn't long before a large group of arrivals came through to be welcomed by calling and laughter and tears and flashing cameras. Well; the usual hullabaloo.
A second group followed closely, then stragglers came in dribs and drabs but we still waited. Anxiously staring down the long corridor towards the Arrivals Hall I suddenly spotted my parents surrounded by a group of Customs officers. I turned to the officer with the clipboard who was standing at the exit doors with us.
"Please! Those are my parents up there. They don't speak English. Can I go and see what's holding them up?"
The officer spoke in his walkie-talkie (no mobile phones back then!).
"Jack, I've got the daughter of your elderly couple here. You want her to translate?"
The official on the other end turned abruptly and beckoned urgently. I fairly sprinted down the corridor. My mother, red-faced and practically crying, flung herself against me. I hugged and petted her.
"It's okay, it's okay!" and in an aside to my father, "Pa, stop growling at her, you're upsetting her!"
He, red-faced and angry, turned away huffily.
I looked enquiringly at the Customs officer and he immediately obliged and explained.
"The old lady tried to bring a prohibited food item into the country and did not declare it." He waved the Declaration about and glanced at my father. "The old gentleman got a bit hot under the collar too. We had to check their suitcases but it seems there was nothing else out of bounds." With that he pointed to the offending article.
I stared in disbelief and turned. "Ma, what on earth do you want with that little bit of speck?!" (Speck, for those who don't know, resembles a piece of fatty bacon.)
"N-nothing!" sniffed my mother. "I didn't really want it but it was left in the fridge and your father as usual was telling me to hurry up and, and … well, I just put it in my pocket and we went to the airport."
Well, I could just imagine how that had gone, so I nodded, translated it all, apparently quite convincingly.
The two Customs officers looked at each other and shrugged. "Well, you understand it will have to be destroyed?! We'll make a note of this and it better not happen again. It is a serious offence but we'll let the old lady off with a warning this time!"
With sighs of relief and a bit of help, clothes were stuffed back into suitcases. I took one, an officer took the largest one and Pa shouldered his little flight bag and off we went … homeward bound.
The station wagon was crowded, four adult and three children. (Wow, you could do that in those days.)
Once home, a cup of tea was quickly made. The kids quietened down. Pa was back to normal, even Ma had perked up considerably. My husband who does not speak Dutch put his hand on Ma's arm and asked, "OK, Ma?" That much she understood.
"Ja, ja," she muttered and then glared at Pa and said accusingly. "It's not fair! They took my itty bitty piece of speck and you still have your tooth."
My heart skipped a beat when I heard that. For years we had joked about Pa and his old tooth and now, surely, he would not have brought that? How could that be?
"Pa," I said in a stern voice, "what does Ma mean … you still have your tooth, at home?"
He looked somewhat shamefaced and embarrassed. "Och, well, you said you didn't want us to bring anything, but I still wanted to give you something so I thought, you'd always liked the tooth, and well …" he retrieved his flight bag and opening it up, he showed, wrapped in a towel, 'the tooth'.
Not just any other tooth, no. This was a woolly mammoth's molar, petrified, weighing seven and a half kilos on my kitchen scales and measuring roughly 20 centimetres by 18 wide and 8 centimetres thick. It resembled most of all an old piece of wood. It is dark brown in colour and at one time my father had varnished it and for years we had used it as a doorstop.
My husband and the kids were fascinated to hear what it was, a mammoth's tooth roughly 20 000 years old.
"Can I take it for show and tell?" was the first question.
Now I could see why Ma felt hard done by, her piece of speck taken and no one took any notice of Pa's tooth and if anything should have been declared this surely was it. Unwittingly Ma had acted as the perfect decoy to provide the opportunity to bring this molar into Australia unnoticed. Customs had been so busy going through the suitcases no one had even looked at the little flight bag standing forlorn on the counter.
After all the furore about the speck, the prospect of ringing Customs to tell them they had overlooked the one piece of luggage that should have been checked simply was too daunting to even be considered. My father slyly but truthfully pointed out that Customs would lose no sleep over what they did not know. And, he added cheerfully, "I don't speak English so it would be your problem!"
Yes, quite so. We gave it some thought and decided we did not need to be afraid that any strange disease could have been introduced. After all, 20 000 years of rolling round the Russian Steppes, a few centuries locked in ice and eventually centuries of being scoured by sands at the bottom of the North Sea should have cleansed it admirably. For good measure we squirted it thoroughly with fly spray and let it dry a day in full sun.
So if Customs did not lose any sleep over it, neither did we.
The Elderly
Relaxed in my chair I listened to the elderly lady telling me about her great grand children's adventures when we were interrupted by her husband's entrance.
Buttoning up his jacket he looked at his wife. "I'm off to the shop for the paper. Anything do you need?"
Turning towards the wall where a calendar was displayed Wendy asked, "What day is it today? Thursday or Friday?"
"Friday," I answered readily. "FRIDAY," I then repeated loudly. Wendy is rather deaf and if not looking at you she might not hear you.
She heard me. "Oh, it's Friday, Jo. You get the paper and you also have to pay that bill at the office. Get my handbag."
Wendy extracted a bill from a neat pile of papers on the low table next to her. Jo in the meantime had taken Wendy's bag from the bottom shelf of the linen cupboard and now passed it to her, while she gave him the bill. "How much …oh, here it is. $26.90 then."
Wendy opened the wallet asking, "How much is it for?"
"$26.90," answered Jo, but since Wendy was not looking at him, she did not hear it. She looked up impatiently. "Jo. I asked how much!"
"$26.90, I told you!" shot back Jo, walking to the door where he took his cap from the hook.
Wendy had put down some paper bills and now had a purse with small money in her hand. Looking up at Jo she said, "$26.90 wasn't it?"
Jo, with his mind elsewhere, "Eh, what? Oh, $26.90, was that what I told you? Let me check, I've already forgotten." Retrieving the bill from his pocket he glanced at it and confirmed it was $26.90. Wendy counted the coins, picked up the paper bills and gave it all to Jo, who then went to do the business.
Wendy watched him go, then confided to me, "I've always done the finances, you know. Jo's hopeless with money."
Smiling at her I could only marvel how well they managed together. Both in their mid nineties, after 72 years of marriage, still in their own home, still doing their own cooking and shopping.
The Terrorist
Once upon a time, not so long ago, in fact just after the horrific terrorist attack now known as 9/11, my elder son Paul flew from Brisbane to Perth.
He had been working in Gladstone for a while and was coming home for a holiday. Although he had not left the country and this was only an interstate flight recent events in America had rather frightened Australians everywhere and security had been tightened.
When Paul arrived at the checkpoint with his ticket, boarding pass and luggage, he was pulled to the side and was asked to cooperate. It was not surprising that Security picked out Paul. After all, he did look a typical terrorist. Too long black curly hair, large brown eyes, scruffy beard, disreputable jeans and T-shirt, black with the slogan 'The Big Chill has arrived'.
He and his luggage would be checked. Even tempered Paul readily agreed. Fair enough, and he had nothing to hide, so go ahead.
First his backpack, toiletries, changes of T-shirt and jumper, couple of books. OK.
Next his over large sports bag, clothes and some shoes. All out and checked. OK! Everything is stuffed back in.
Now, let's have that large canvas bag.
"Ah, eh, you really have to do that as well?"
Since Paul was so obviously reluctant to hand over the bag naturally Security insisted all the more.
"All right then," said Paul. "If you have to." And he moved back a few paces.
Security paused, pulled open the drawstring, upended the bag and reeled back in horror, coughing and uttering some very nasty words indeed. Paul was leaning against the wall, grinning from ear to ear. Looking, no doubt, like a demented terrorist.
The bag contained his dirty washing, including his work socks (need I say more?) being taken home for Mum to wash.
Meena
Coming up my driveway was a heavily pregnant young woman, who I presumed was the female half of a couple that Petra the hairdresser down the road had labelled 'Italian peasants'. Well, Petra should know; she was Italian herself but apparently had risen above the status of peasant.
When I opened the door, a flurry of introductions, apologies and explanations came from the very excitable visitor. I could only vaguely grasp what she was trying to tell me.
English was not my first language either and I had only been in Australia three years. So I opened the door wide and smiled, "Come in, sit down and let us talk." (You could do that safely forty years ago.)
My visitor eagerly came in and carefully lowered herself onto the settee, took a deep breath and started again. Her name was Meena, short for Domenica and Giorgio, her husband, had suggested this soup; she showed me a cut out recipe, for dinner, and she was prepared to make it, but there was something she did not understand. Everyone else in the street seemed to have left for work, so although we were strangers could I help her.
I smiled reassuringly at her. "I'll try, Meena, I'm not a great cook but let me read the recipe and we'll soon find out whether my English is better than yours."
"Oh, no, no!" said Meena. "I can read it, my English is good, I was born here in Fremantle thirty five years ago but I don't know this word." With that, she put her finger under the 'problem' word and showed me.
Well, it was hard to imagine that even the plainest cook could have had difficulty in understanding what the word meant. But there stood Meena obviously puzzled and waiting expectantly for my answer.
So I swallowed my laughter, thought for a few seconds and started, "Meena, stock is the watery part of the soup. When you simmer your vegetables or your meat in water it becomes stock. Stock is, well, stock is bouillon, stock is …"
"Aha!" interrupted Meena loudly. "Aha, you say stock is bouillon, why don't they say so! You sure stock is bouillon?! "
Yes, I was sure. Then I had a few questions for Meena. Her answers amazed me, amused me and horrified me.
Meena was thirty-five, born in Fremantle to an Italian fisherman and his Italian wife. Papa had worked with Australians since his arrival from Italy, but Mama, why, she stayed home and never learned English. Four children arrived. Meena was the eldest and at fourteen Meena left school to help Mama in the house and help with the boys. So Meena was virtually 'the maid'. Her brothers after all were future men. They never did the dishes or picked up clothes or learned to iron their shirts. That was Meena's job and when Meena was thirty-three years old and the three boys had all finished at Uni and held good jobs and became engaged and got married to smart Italian girls they met at clubs it was the boys who suggested that Papa do something about Meena. They compared her to their smart and chic fiancées and finally understood that Meena was not retarded. Meena was still fourteen years old. Her English had not improved, she had no contact with other young English-speaking persons, she'd never had a boyfriend.
She never went out except with the family. What to do with Meena now? There were no Italian fishermen interested in her, as for her brothers' friends, she just had nothing in common with them, and had she been pretty, that might have helped.
But Meena was big and bony and decidedly inelegant. In short, someone should have taken her for a 'makeover' but no one ever did.
Papa wrote to his brother in Italy who for a certain sum of money persuaded Giorgio to go to Australia and marry Meena. A mail order groom.
They were married six weeks after his introduction to Meena's family.
"Well," said Meena philosophically, "At least he's young and healthy, a real man, he's never done anything in the kitchen.
Giorgio and Meena were blessed with three children. Peter, Genaro and little Domenica. Peter, sadly, fell in with the wrong crowd and disappeared over East. Genaro, who never spoke till he was four years old, plodded along steadily, saved every cent he came by and by twenty-four had his own house paid for whilst he still lived with his parents.
And Domenica, Meena made sure she stayed at school and now Meena is so proud of her school-teacher daughter.
"See," she smiles happily. "It was all worth it!"
The Island
We moved to the island Vlieland just after the war (WWll) was over. I had turned seven and was now in grade ll at school. The reason for the move was my father's need to 'get away from it all'. He was badly in need of some peace and quiet. We all did. We needed some time together to become a family again. Vlieland is the second Wadden isle above the Dutch mainland if you look at the map. Two and a half to three hours by boat will get you there.
A small island about three kilometres long and from one to one and a half km across. That's all. Pure sand. The Nordsea on one side, the Wadden Sea on the other more sheltered side. This is where the village of some 570 inhabitants crouched in the lee of a row of sand dunes and protected by a dike from the waters of the Wadden Sea.
Basically one street. Roughly in the middle a square where the church and school were positioned. It did not take long at all, and I can still recall now, every single house and who was living there.
In 1946 there was one car on the island. (But soon after that the doctor, butcher, resort manager had cars.)
We did not divide the year as spring, summer, autumn and winter. We only had 'Summer' and the 'Off-Season'. Summer started roughly in May and was finished by October. By then all holidaymakers were gone. The beach once again was deserted. The hundreds of beach goers had left little but chocolate wrappers behind.
In the Off-season there was just the one boat arriving daily at 4.30 pm. If you went for a walk to the jetty you could tell your parents who came off the boat. Jan from Johannes came home with his new girlfriend. The baker picked up his new helper, he got a big belly and red hair. Annamaria had been to the hairdresser and got a new perm. Etc etc …
If you wanted to leave the island you had to be at the jetty at 7 am. Frequently when the winter storms were raging there was no boat coming or going. It can get pretty rough where the Nord and Wadden Seas meet.
Other times bad fog would prevent departure. I hated those days because the foghorn would mourn all day. There was a lighthouse of course but with the fog so bad the light was not enough.
The third reason why traffic was suspended was ice. Hard to believe but sometimes the Wadden Sea would freeze and if the wind was our way the ice would drift against the dike and we would play on the pack ice as we called it. Saltwater ice is impossible to skate on. It is uneven, pieces of wood and other flotsam are caught up in it. And it could last for weeks.
When a real cold snap was forecast, you stocked up on food. We had a local baker, butcher and milkman. Flour was easy enough for the baker to stockpile, the milkman had his own cows, but the butcher relied on frozen carcasses from the mainland and of course the green grocers suffered the most. No green, well, maybe the odd cabbage but even if her had stock carrots, potatoes, cabbage, kale, Swedes, onions, everything would freeze. We had a large bin lined with hay in the cellar where potatoes, carrots, onions and apples were kept, lovingly covered with an old blanket. This was before frozen vegetables (supermarket variety) were in vogue. We had tinned vegies to tide us over in winter. Peas, corn and carrots and beans came in tins, beetroot, red cabbage and apple sauce in glass bottles, sauerkraut in small wooden casks.
TV did not exist, radio reception was often not the best and papers did not arrive. However life was far from boring.
We had clubs. You never had to spend an evening at home unless you wanted to.
With so few people you were pressed to join the choir whether you could sing or not. We had sewing classes; people used to sew their own clothes, remember?
During summer there were plays, so yes, in the off-season there were rehearsals. Bridge club, chess club, gymnastics, flower arranging, knitting circles, cooking classes, painting classes, handicrafts for men and women, dance classes and musical evenings and singalongs.
My father was never a member of any club but every year he was commandeered to help out with the scenery of the Dramatic Society. My mother was frequently called upon to make up a fourth in a game of bridge and she was roped in to be the sewing class teacher. This was not done voluntary. It was a case of 'If you don't do it there won't be a sewing class.'
As for me, in my late teens I was in the choir, did gymnastics, went to cooking classes, dance classes and accompanied my mother to sewing classes. I was never bored. It was not often we had a free evening to do jigsaws or read.
In 1946 there was no dentist, no ladies' hairdresser, no shop where one could buy clothes or material or furniture. You either went to the mainland and chose it and had it delivered or you ordered from a catalogue and hoped for the best.
Not much different from living in the outback really; fog instead of red dust. We never felt 'trapped' on the island, we kids could go wherever we wanted; it was a virtual 'safe haven'.
The War
Born in Europe in 1939 it is obvious that for me 'the war' is the Second World War. Since I was only one year old when in 1940 Holland was overrun by Germany I don't remember the beginning of the war.
It was mid 1940 that 'war' became reality for me. I was playing in my sandpit when a strange man cycled up the drive shouting for my mother. After a quick exchange my mother rushed around, packed an overnight bag, cut a cauliflower and gave it to me to hold. She then put me in the cane basket attached to the back of her bike and cycled off. I fell asleep during the two-hour ride to a 'safe house' in the next village.
During the afternoon my five year older sister arrived, she had been whisked away from her school by the strange man. As I was told later we were given false papers and history but at my age I was not aware of all that.
We were relocated to an isolated farm and spent the rest of the war masquerading as evacuees from Anaheim.
It was a large farm with many people, in fact it was overstaffed. There were three maids, five farm workers, two gardeners as well as the farmer's own family and my so-called widowed mother with two children. I was the youngest. The adults might have been stressed, German inspections came at the most unexpected times, and farm workers changed very frequently. Everyone was tense when IDs were inspected since most were falsified.
But these things barely concerned me. I was flitting around happily, 'helping' the maids dusting and cleaning, sorting out the pegs on the washing line, holding up the skeins of wool for my mum, pick some flowers for the vases. When I became too much for the inside workers it was suggested I'd go and see if all the cows were okay. In winter the cows were in a long line in the stables on either side of a central path. Their broad behinds were facing the middle path and deep trenches caught and slowly transported the resulting slurry. Let me tell you cowpats do not emerge as cowpats from the cows' behind. The bull was there as well. He had a cubicle to himself next to the toilet cubicle for the workers and oh boy, it was scary if you sat in there and the bad tempered bull would kick the wooden divide repeatedly.
After I'd checked the lower haystacks for eggs and played with the kittens that always seemed to be around in the sheds, someone would suggest to go and pick some strawberries or apples or whatever was in season. The gardeners let me pick whatever I fancied as long as I ate it. Strawberries, red and black currants and crossberries were my favourites, but radishes and young carrots were welcome too.
There was an orchard, even peaches were grown against a sunny wall. The large surplus of fruit and vegetables was naturally 'bottled'. My little fingers were quite nimble at shelling peapods and I was allowed to string the beans with a blunt knife.
Whilst in the big cities people starved to death, we lived well. Fish and eels from the canal, ducks, chickens and rabbits. City people came on their bikes and begged for food. Some cried when they were given a parcel of food. The farmer always got something in exchange. He was a fair man but he did not suffer fools gladly.
Then one day, I was helping in the outhouse churning butter, a young man on a black horse came galloping up the lane, yelling and whooping and waving a Dutch flag!
Overnight the Germans had quietly packed their bags and disappeared.
A company of Canadians was only fifty kilometres away, carrying not only their weapons but also cigarettes, chewing gum and nylons.
And the planes suddenly appeared overhead and dropped clean white Swedish bread. I'd never seen white bread. My mother was not the only one who cried. It was a bewildering time, not just for me. Every adult was excited and most were upset by news they learned of friends and family not heard of for a long time. Uncle Ganus, mother's elder brother, had been shot by the Germans; he left a wife and ten children.
My father was still alive; I did not recognise him at first. It was a great adjustment for the whole family but our war was over.
Collecting
Travelling around and not wanting to collect too much luggage along the way, a teaspoon of a place visited is always a very handy memento. Not too dear and not too bulky. Unbreakable and easy to pack.
After years of collecting I had quite a number of spoons on racks on display. Alas, the older spoons were all silver and silver as we know will tarnish. Polishing the spoons became a chore I did not fancy any more.
Grand children were asked for help and some enjoyed doing it for a few years but even for them the glow of satisfaction after polishing Nanny's spoons had vanished.
So I gave the bulk of my collection to a lady who lost all her spoons in a fire. Some of the spoons from more recent trips I have kept as now they are made of stainless steel and don't require any upkeep.
Maybe a granddaughter; I have three of them, will take an interest later. If not I can see them ending up in the bric-a-brac at the Salvoes and St Vinnie's.
And that's okay.
Winter Weather
This is the worst winter, the coldest that is, for quite a while. TV, radio, doctors, all are dispensing good advice to seniors. Keep warm, they say, and then you get advice on how to do that. Now I have always been a cold fish (my husband will verify this) and I have learned how to keep warm. At home, living on my won it is no problem.
Alas, it is school holidays. When I put the gas heater on early in the morning to take the chill out of the air, usually after I've had breakfast and done the dishes, the place is warm enough to turn the heater off provided you keep unused room doors closed. Not so during school holidays; no sooner have you turned off the heater, someone will leave the kitchen door to the patio wide open while arguing with someone at the washing line. And a room that's taken an hour to heat can go back to freezing in five minutes easily. Since my gas is bottle gas and a gas bottle only lasts approximately ninety hours I am not pleased with open doors in this weather, hence I'm Grumpy Granny. Mind you, that's not my only gripe.
Shut the door please.
Keep out of the fridge.
You had a shower this morning!
Turn off the heater if you've finished in the bathroom or turn on the fan to get rid of the steam.
Mop the floor if you've flooded it and hang up the bathmat.
Do not use a clean glass for every mouthful of orange juice, lemonade, choc milk you take unless you want to do the dishes.
Boots are for wearing, not for throwing!
Do not leave wet towels on the bedroom carpet.
I hate winter holidays like these when you cannot go to a playground or the beach or the bush.
Roll on summer.
Exaggeration
How often do we say to a friend I just love it when … and also the reverse, how often do we say, oh, I hate it when … mostly, I think these expressions of love or hate are exaggerated.
Surely when I say I hate beans, I don't mean that. I do not hate beans, in fact I admire the way climbing beans grow and their flowers are very pretty. No, I do not hate beans, but I have no wish to see them on my plate as food.
When my daughter says I love a Hummer, I immediately know that that is not true. She may desire to have a Hummer but she does not love one.
Why do we exaggerate so much? Listen to schoolkids threatening each other: "I'll kill you for that, Jack!" shouts out one little boy to another who stepped accidentally on his toy train track.
The world would be a better place if we all practised moderation and tolerance somewhat more. We should all read the Desiderata, a piece of prose that gives good advice for a peaceful life.
The Birth
In April 1939 elections were to be held in the Netherlands. With Adolf Hitler reigning next door in Germany, these elections were considered crucial. My mother, in the last week of her pregnancy, did not want to go. She was persuaded by my father and a neighbour to reconsider.
"This is IMPORTANT, Nell," argued my naturalised father. He was born in Elberfeld-Barnen and his family had left Germany after Hitler came to power. "It's important and the walk will do you good, it might bring the baby on."
So my mother waddled down to the Electoral Office, an old school in the next street, put her ticks on the ballot papers then turned and shot her husband a dirty look.
"My waters just broke," she hissed. She was standing in a puddle, hanging onto the wall and willing herself not to yell in pain and anger.
My father, surprised but in control, bellowed, "Is there a doctor in the house?!"
No such luck but not to worry, a midwife was waiting to vote and she immediately came forward and took charge. In no time at all my mother was confined to an empty room, a mattress was borrowed from somewhere. Volunteers in the Electoral Office were boiling water and collecting necessary items from wherever they could. It was clear this baby was not going to waste any more time inside.
Twenty minutes later there I was. Black haired, red faced, weighing ten pounds two ounces and bawling lustily.
A round of cheers resounded and congratulations were offered along with a nip of Dutch Genever but just a cup of tea for my mother.
"Oh!" yelled the midwife, "We nearly forgot it's the Fuhrer's birthday, too. You must call her Adolfina!"
At that my father nearly throttled her as he roared in some very salty language, clearly not Dutch, as my embarrassed Mum always added when this story was told.
Had I been a boy I would have been Jelle Johannes. Since I was, still am (of course) a girl I became Trientje Christine after both my grandmothers.