A Witch on a Broom?

A fairy tale. Or is it? 

Donkerbroeken Heather Fields

My father never told us ghost stories; after all he was part of the church-counsel most of his adult life and the church would have nothing to do with the occult of course, therefore he had to be an example not only for the congregation, but also for his own household. Still, the characters in his stories, which were ordinary people, were able to do some strange things. For instance, one of his characters, whom he called little Danish, was able to walk outside over the telephone wires from pole to pole. An other one of his characters, who was big and tall, (and clumsy,) he called big Danish, could not do these things. How little Danish got onto these wires? Well, easy, he walked straight up the the telephone pole, 'how else was he getting there', he would say, murmuring to himself, 'what a dumb question.' Big Danish, could not walk up on the telephone poles either of course.

My father was a short person.

If after one of his stories you would ask him if everything he had told us was true, he would chew that over and say, 'now - everything?'

All of my stories are true of course, yet sometimes something unexpected happens ...

While vacationing with my grandparents, who lived on the heather, purple heather, as far as the eye could see, right up to the horizon, where it blended with the blue of the sky, so one was never sure where the heather ended and sky took over. On this sunny summer-day I wandered over a sandy rabbit path in the heather field where I came face to face with a girl about my age sitting on a large rock. As I was living in the north where we covered our entire body including arms and legs, here I was eyeing a girl without shoes or clogs, even without leg covering. I noticed that her legs were a nice tan as were her naked arms and face. Too late to turn about, I stopped momentarily, when the girl said

“Are you the one on holidays with the old people in the heather?” and when I hesitated she moved a little.

“Come sit with me, I have nobody to play with either.” Her voice, friendly yet commanding, made me wonder how she knew that I had nobody to play with? She had nice springy hair I noticed as I approached her. Her tone of voice changed when when she asked

“Where do you come from” she started again, “the north pole, with those long black hoses on your legs, take them off, and kick off those dumb clogs as well, it is summer you know.” In spite of my misgivings I did as she demanded, kicking off my clogs but taking of my hoses was more difficult as they were fastened to my under-shirt with an elastic band. To undo this band I had to reach into the short pant-legs, then up through the shorts, all the way to the top to unhook them from the the button on the undershirt. As I was sitting with the girl on the confined space of the rock, with the girl watching me struggling in my shorts, was quite unsettling. I did succeed though, stripped the long hoses off my feet and jumped off the rock into the warm sand and the rabbit-droppings, and got immediately my reward because it felt sooo good!

The girl snuggled up to me as the place to sit on the rock was very small, and she nearly fell off it, she said. We talked about everything under the sun. Where does the wind come from, and when the wind has gone from someplace does it leave a hole? Deep questions, and others, just as mysterious, how come some people are brown and we are white, and how berries get sweet when no one seems to fertilize them with sugar? Also, is there a treasure buried under this rock? What is the treasure? We talked and talked, and the more we talked the more I liked the girl with the tanned legs. I didn't mind her sitting close to me.

She asked if I had ever been at Gallows mountain. I had not and she said that she would show me. She seemed to like me and I did not miss a boy to play with. She ran fast too, for a girl anyways. She led the way, hair dancing with every step. I barely could keep up. It felt like I was flying and my bare feet on the warm sand was exhilarating. She finally stopped at what looked like a a house sunk into the ground, only the roof was visible, and called on a man, asking for a kind of broom. The man appeared at a gable window to hand her a broom like grandfather used in the barn. The girl deftly stepped over the broom holding it firmly with both hands. She looked... o, no, she looked like a witch on a broom! I turned to run, for I had definitely landed in a loony bin.

“Hop on,” the girl said, as the man cackled a funny laugh, like water boiling in a kettle 'cobele cobele.' I wheezed

“I have to go,” with a dry throat “grandmother does not know where I am.” I promised never to play with a girl again.

“Come on, chicken, am I better than you?” the girl taunted and that did it. No girl was going to call me a chicken. My teeth chattering, I stepped over the broom behind her; I'd show her. Show her what? I hoped it might still be a dare of the girl. It was not. All she told me was not to fall sideways while we were still on the ground.

“You know how to bike?” Courage had totally left me. “Sure I know how to bike, but this ain't biking” I cried.

“Once you get speed on a bike you can't fall, right? Flying is exactly the same, once you're air born you can't fall.” That is all the instruction I got. We counted 'one two three,' hopped, and away we sailed, over the sunken house and the birch trees, with me squeezing on to the girl, as this was for dear life sake.

We did land at Gallows mount and saw the hanging tree where centuries ago criminals were hanged. And it was exiting, this flying, but when the girl asked me to get up front on the return trip I refused. For me to drive a broom couldn't be any nicer than me holding on to my newly found friend. Even if she was a girl.

Now, is everything in this story true?

All of my stories are true, yet sometimes something unexpected happens...

The Day the Trees Came Down

Once there were two crows. They were black. Very black. Both of them

Looking at them you could not tell them apart. Still, there was a difference, because one of the crows was a female, and the other was a male. Of course, the crows knew not only who they were but also what they were. They made not a big deal about it, but still there were certain customs they followed.

Kawika and Kawka                                 

The she-crow, whose name was Kawika, would never be the first to fly away from the tree, but wait for the he-crow, whose name was Kawka, to alight and then follow him and if she was in the mood to race she might even pass him. However, if she was nesting, she would remain on her eggs. Kawika was the one to find a place where to sun for both of them and she also carefully would choose the nesting site, and direct her mate to provide building materials for her nest when she wanted to start a family, and that day would soon arrive. The weather was spring-like and urges told them that the time for procreating was near. They were happy with each other and contend with nature and were sunning themselves on top of the the highest tree.

From their elevated location they were able to see the quiet water of Mill Lake and the entire city with scores of streets crisscrossing the township. They were able to see the busy highway with a steady stream of cars and trucks navigating east and west with many accesses leading into the various parts of the city. However, they missed the small caravan of trucks as it drove rapidly towards the entrance to Menno Place, where it stopped right alongside the tall Douglas fir-trees, with the sunning spot of the crow family on top of the highest one of them. Kawka sensed danger and alerted his mate. He quit the sunning and frantically moved his upper body up and down, loudly voicing his frustration, and when he saw a man in a tub at the end of a movable pole swaying his way up along the tree, he panicked and took off with Kawika closely following him.

The man in the tub at the end of the pole carried a loud sputtering chainsaw in his hand with which he cut the limbs off the more than hundred year-old tree. After that he revved up the chainsaw till it screamed as he cut across the trunk of the centenarian tree and in less than a minute the top of the big tree, including the sunning spot, waved momentarily like a drunk and then flopped down, making the earth tremble.

Six of the eight trees graced the hospital for as long as the building had existed. They were all between fifty and sixty years old, but the two end trees were well over a hundred. One by one the man stripped the trees of their limbs, and when the old trees were denuded he cut off the top parts of all them. The once proud Douglas firs, who lived to such a mature age were reduced to stumps, resembling dead totem poles. The final humiliating act happened when the trunks also were cut and fell, one over the other, never to rise again. A flock of geese did a fly by, loudly protesting as they went. The old man leaning on a cane wearily witnessed the last tree coming down. He had tears in his eyes.

Chief Executive Officer of Menno Place, Karen L. Baillie; Menno Place

A lady with a position at the estate walked by. She talked to the old man. All this had to happen she said. City officials had strongly recommended them to remove the trees, on account of some underground lines being disturbed by the trees’ roots. She told him that she believed that god had protected them from an impending disaster.

The old man took a deep breath and began to see their point among the other points, but his own point, which was, that an effort could have been made to relocate the gas lines. Then more good-looking women arrived as if from nowhere. One of them carried a large camera. She took pictures of all that was going on, they actually turned out to be beautiful photographs. She even made the old man look good as she took his picture together with the lady with the position. It did create more spots for parking, the old man conceded, but Kawka and Kawika made made their home at the competition. Also with fir trees. Some say higher trees, but then, people just talk.

The Strength of a Woman

Brenda Beaton and Durk Smid, my brother, are married and live in Williams Lake. For both of them it is their second marriage, as their first partners have passed. They communicate mostly by written words as Brenda has a rare form of Alzheimer, which make it very difficult for her to speak and her hearing has equally deteriorated. They are deeply in love with each other and face not only their hardships together but with optimism and faith in God.

Brenda, whose mind is not affected, has written some moving stories about her eventful life, in which she for forty years took care of two severely mentally handicapped sons as well. She was kind enough to let me read some of her stories in which she writes about her hardships and her victories. Her stories, coming right from her heart have moved me deeply. I wanted to share them with you. Here is the first one. (Lex)

Brenda, the author of THE STRENGTH OF A WOMAN reading my stories

The Strength of a Woman by Brenda Beaton Smid

AS I GAZED THROUGH THE WINDOW of the jewelry store, my eyes settled on the little vase in front of the display. With its gold trim on top and shades of teal, royal and navy blues, and gold in the pattern, it was beautiful. Strong and delicate all at the same time. It instantly reminded me of my Grandmother.

Elizabeth Matlock died several years ago. Named for me, I had, from my earliest memory a special love for the woman. Grandma had the soft, warm arms and bosom that I curled up into many times over the years.

I remember asking my Mom that I want to write a letter to Grandma. I was four years old, my letter was contained with E's and O's. A few weeks later I received my first letter from Grandma!

When I was nine, I was lucky to go to Grandmas'. I stayed for a week, just her and Grandpa.

No two brothers, or my other three sisters, just me.

We played scrabble.

Grandma had been crippled with a very rare disease in the late forties after her last child was born.

The doctors didn't know much about this disease called Myasthenia Gravis. My Grandma was the only one in Western Canada. Her leg muscles were very weak, voice was gravelly and with drooping eyelids. She was the doctors guinea pig,many times she felt worse, with hives all over her body.

Elizabeth was bedridden many times. My Grandpa took over the jobs from her. After of many years and much experimenting and new medicines, Elizabeth was able to stand and walk, using a cane.

I remember how Grandmas' steps were taken so tenderly, slowly, and with thought behind each one. Though Elizabeth looked delicate, she had a very strong will. I loved to listen to Grandmas' weak voice because there was always something to learn,and I didn't want to miss anything that Grandma had to say.

Years later, my Grandma had to be strong again when she she learned she had breast cancer in 1970. She did what she had to do. She passed away peacefully, in 1997.

I took my eyes away from the vase and smiled softly, then continued on my way.

By: Brenda Beaton Smid

The Reason

The hot missionary, thrown in the native’s cooking pot, felt quite comfortable in the cool water, not realizing that there was a fire under the pot, slowly raising the warmth of the water. It did not alarm him as he did not notice the gradual rise in temperature until he noticed heat bubbles coming to the surface and the water started to boil, but by then it was too late, for by then he was cooked.

It was not the water in the pot creeping up to me, but old age. It was obvious to me when I passed my eightieth birthday that I was on my last legs, the thought of ‘the end ‘which had in my middle years troubled me did not terrify me now as I thought more composed about it; so, the inevitable end was now closer than it ever had been, but I had no deadly illness I was aware of, and with the help of a great doctor I felt I was doing quite well. Perhaps I was given time to leave something behind for my offspring, and for some friends, though most of them have passed already.

The children felt that the time had arrived for me to sell my home and find myself a home to retire in. Amazing how great minds think alike sometimes. I had arrived at that conclusion as well but via a different route, especially since my dear wife had passed away five years before.

I lived in a comfortable house which we built twenty-five years ago, halfway up on the south slide of Sumas Mountain, overlooking the great Sumas valley dotted with numerous dairy and chicken farms, divided by green grass meadows and yellow cornfields, as far as the eye can see, right into the somber American mountains at the horizon. Under an often blue sky it was a picture never to be erased from your mind.

My wife Anne designed our ‘retirement home,’ which turned out to be a house with a lot of ‘firsts’ and ‘only's.’ It was one of the very few houses on the mountain where you could ride a wheelchair from the street, through the front door into the living room, without the obstruction of even one step. The reason that I built it like that was that I saw three of our friends eventually winding up in a wheelchair and even one step would hinder them from entering our house. One friend had lost a leg in a car accident, the other had both legs frozen off when his airplane crashed into a lake up in northern BC, and the third one had a clubfoot. All three of them are dead by now.

Every room except one of the bedrooms had a view of the valley, including the majestic Mount Baker of the United States. The west side of the house had no windows in order to retain privacy from the neighbors and therefore we needed no curtains. The house featured a large sundeck off the living room, and the generous sitting room was built circular shaped, with its ceiling three feet higher than the rest of the rooms, giving it an appearance of a merry-go-round.

The part I liked the best was the round living room jutting out from the rest of the house into the south-west corner of the irregular building lot. Standing inside at its farthest protrusion, it gave me a feeling of standing like a captain on the top deck of an ocean liner, cruising down the mountain.

The site was beautifully landscaped, and anchored by a towering ponderosa pine tree, higher than our multy story home. It was also the only ponderosa tree in Abbotsford, as far as I know. I loved the house and the site it was built on, which was selected by my wife Anne, and I never tired of it. The family feasts and gatherings were held in this house, which the grandchildren knew as grandma’s house.

Why then, in spite of all these happy family times, did I so willingly agree with my daughters to leave it? I’ll tell you why. Both Anne and I had lost a lot of money by investing it in the wrong place, shortly after we started to live permanently in Abbotsford. We did not have our eyes open when we should have, though in our defense, the perpetrators who took us to the cleaners belonged to a very well-known Christian Church. Anyways, the upswing was that we lost our financial backup and for that reason I did not wind up in Menno Home by design but as a result of careless investing.

The house needed repairs inside and out, including a new roof, a new sundeck, and extensive landscaping, estimated at a cost of one hundred-thousand dollars – which I did not have.

However, I was sitting on a lot of money in the form of a mortgage-free house. Selling that house meant that I had to rent another place to live, and for me there was no other place to do just that than Menno Home. There is a story as to why.

When I sixty years ago as an immigrant landed right in the middle of our great country, in Winnipeg, I started working for a precast concrete company. My working partner there was a French-Canadian who was good enough to teach me English, which was great because I hardly knew one word in that language. What I did not know was, that he taught me the basest and vilest words in that great tongue, and he proved to be very knowledgeable in that specialty, but he also told me something that, after sixty years, I still remember. He said, ‘if you have a Mennonite as your neighbor, you will never be hungry.’ I have never forgotten these words.

I promised myself that the time at my new Home would not be spent by inactivity, neither by going out with ‘guns ablaze in both hands', but using only my right-hand index-finger steadfastly pressing the keys of a computer, I will do my best to produce some stories about people around me, and at the same time share some of my own thoughts and beliefs.

I hope my finger will hold out.

Goodbye red KIA

I always wanted a red car and when, after a slight accident, I totaled my Ford Suburban, Janice, (my daughter) and I set out to look for one. We found this cute red KIA Sportage, easy to get in and out,

lex and car.JPG

in the KIA sales room, just what I was looking for and fell hopelessly in love with, but it was over my budget and we marched from there to the used car lot to find everything going our way again - a brand new looking seven year old duplicate of the one in the showroom. We looked at each other and said without hesitation, this is it! and purchased it. Janice took a picture of the beauty and the proud owner,me, beside it, and sent that image directly to her sisters. Later I called daughter Jacki telling her of my happy purchase of the red Sportage when she said after a slight pause

"Have a look again at your car, dad,” which I did and to my horror saw that my red car was blue! And had been blue all along, according to Janice, who never prevaricates, like all the sisters.

One early morning on my way to Tim Hortons for breakfast I had an accident with my blue KIA. One front wheel dangled off the axle, and the passenger side looked as if a steam roller had gone over it. My thoughts went to what the thoughts of my son Len might have been, who died in a car accident thirty-seven years ago. Perhaps he had been unafraid as I was not afraid, only bewildered, but Len, our only son was dead and I stayed alive. I wondered about that, but my friend said 'your work has not been completed yet' which makes me think 'was my eighteen year old son's work finished?'

Janice and Erwin and their sons will check the car out and sell it, distributing whatever they get for it among the grandchildren.

Shortly after John and I as immigrants landed in Transcona Manitoba, we purchased a one or two-year old pale green, two-door Chevy for about two thousand dollars. We lend the largest part of that amount from Germ Veenstra, a bachelor, who offered us a loan at 6% interest of what we were short. Germ had purchased a house which he rented out to a dutch immigrant family, while he himself lived in the free standing garage. He looked after himself, including cooking and washing clothes, however in bachelor style. He took a fresh afternoon for for ironing his clothes for instance by firing up the potbellied wood-stove in the middle of the garage with two small irons on top. When the irons were hot enough he might start with ironing his Sunday shirt, of which he ironed only the collar, not even the shirt sleeves since they were hidden under his jacket sleeves anyways, which he took of just before he went to bed.

We were allowed to take the car immediately home, since we had paid cash with the help of Germ's loan, but how to get our prize home? I was 22 and John 18, both virgins in the art driving a car, and to make matters worse the vehicle, like most cars in the early fifties, was not automatic but a standard.

We managed to get it off the lot and from thereon trouble started. Both of us were very eager to take the reins of our new horse but their was only place for one in the drivers seat. I argued that I, as the oldest, should have that privilege, which John countered that the youngest should have an equal chance. We finally agreed to each drive the length of five telephone poles on the side of the road, after which we'd stop, not to switch horses but drivers.

With the privilege of driving comes an obligation to have a valid drivers license. We were not that good drivers yet and I was not at all sure of my motoring skill, so like in the beginning of the 1800ths under Bonaparte Napoleon, when young men were called to serve in the army, some of them, special the well-off, would take a ramplesant, one to replace him, usually a poor young man, whom they

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would royally pay for that service. So I took a ramplesant to the country side where licenses were easier to obtain and have the ramplesant do the drivers test for me. That cost me a cup of coffee and a piece of pie, fifteen cents. Was that cheating? It sure was, but justice prevailed in the end, since we lived on the fringe of the city of Winnipeg we had to do the tests all over again. I got mine but my brother failed.

The government buildings in Winnipeg have two sets of very wide concrete stairs in front, totaling some thirty steps. When John and the driver examiner were poised to go down those steps, and the steps were icy, (it was in the winter) the examiner slipped and fell down the steps, probably hurting himself. John could not contain himself and had to laugh. Which the examiner saw. Luckily he had not broken any bones and took the exam anyways. It did not come as a surprise to us that John failed.

Georgia Mae

… and then there was Georgia Mae...

My wife Anne and I raised one stalwart son and three wonderful daughters.

Those three daughters, together with their spouses, made us grateful and happy with nine grandchildren - three beautiful young women and six healthy young men, whom together with their spouses or partners made us still richer with eleven great-grandchildren - ten healthy boys and three adorable girls. The youngest one of the girls, who is not that little anymore as she tries, like any woman would, to make herself even more beautiful, ta-rah, roll the drums!! – meet my great-grant-daughter Georgia Mae!!!

Megan, the mother of Georgia Mae, and I were having a coffee in the Menno Home bistro about a year ago when her baby was just short enough by only half a centimeter to walk under the cafe tables instead of going around them, without hitting her little head. It pained me to see her not missing a beat as she walked under the table on one side, and appeared on the other, without any discomfort as if it was the most normal thing to do.

On a table in the corner sat an older woman in a wheelchair trying to get the attention of the little adventurer who did as if she was not aware of her. But in time she ventured under the table to the old woman and was well rewarded with sweet talk and hugs after she landed on her knee. The lady was ecstatic with the little one on her lap. The man accompanying her told us that his mother was 103 years old, and blind.

“She will remember this as long as she lives,” he said.

Meanwhile Georgia May just goes on, leaving sunshine in her wake where ever she goes.

When she was of elementary-school age, Megan Williams, little Georgia Mae's mother, and I sometimes walked a trail along the Sumas canal. We passed a bridge over a small stream which was dry in summertime. One spring-time we watched salmon fingerlings swim down the stream on their journey to the Atlantic ocean via the mighty Fraser river, only to return after four years to exactly the same spot where they were spawned, which is still a great mystery and wonder of nature.

We wondered about how these beautiful sleek fish, without an older leader to guide them, or a map to consult, never having gone to school, could find their way back to Abbotsford from across the immense ocean.

Megan and I were there also when a remnant, (only about 5% make back) who had started four years previous, were returning in the fall, but now had to climb the mountain in a creek bed which was in places totally without water. When they hit a water-less spot they literally fishtailed on their bellies to get from one little water pool to the next one, where they rested, sometimes for days before proceeding again to the final small gravel-bed where the female fish in a last heroic move fishtailed once more to make a slight depression into the gravel in which to lay her eggs, after which the mail salmon immediately fertilized them.

After fulfilling their last duty to nature of procreation, they died, their bodies carried down as far as there was water to carry them, and than the eagles would come and have a feast.

One time we climbed right down to the waterline of the canal where the wary salmon, on their up to mountain, were only inches away from our feet. It was easy to touch them. We witnessed all of that on several trips together down that trail so close to our house.

Megan has since grown up into an intelligent and beautiful young woman and mother, a person I love dearly, who is now showing Georgia Mae the trail we used to walk, she tells me.

She, together with the father of Georgia Mae, Justin Nodecker, decided that Megan would be a stay at home mother, to give their baby all the time she needs. As Justin works very long days, the weekends are exclusively for the three of them to enjoy, a lot of times which they spend with Megan's sister Katie – Anne, and Justin's family.

Justin and Megan are getting married Saturday , September 17, 2016 in Hope BC.

My congratulations to all three!

The Second One

Since august 2016 has passed and I am still alive, I am now older than my father was when he passed away.

But – WHAT NOW?

Like my father would, I try to answer with a story

Jonathan Klassen, (not his right name)

I met Jonathan at the fish and chip place where you can find him every Wednesday- evening at 5pm with some of his relatives, eating the more expensive halibut, because it's not as fishy tasting as the cheaper cod, he tells me.

Jonathan is five weeks shy of 100 years old. He does not use a walker or a cane when he is on the move, and his pace is more like a jog than a walk since he is always in a hurry. Every day he drives his wife on a wheel- bed from the hospital to his room to entertain her. A bad fall broke her hip which could not be repaired because her bones were too brittle. Mrs Klassen, who is mentally as good as anybody, is 97.

Jonathan - “My father, who lived in the Ukraine, refused to go into the Russian army, because he was a conscientious objector, so they send him as far away as they could in the bush in northern Siberia. My mother found a shed about a mile away from where my father was put to work. I was born with the help of a neighbor's wife acting as a wet-nurse in that shed because there were no doctors or hospitals. I could not breath very good they tell me, actually I was a weakling. The wet-nurse said to my mother 'I don't know if we can keep this one alive, but I will stay with you as long as it takes,' he smiles weakly. She stayed a month with my mother to keep me alive.

Now I take care of my wife, I walk her from the hospital uphill, to my room every day. It's getting more difficult every day, but she is a good wife, I enjoyed her, for more years than many others. I enjoyed life very much, still do. You do what you can - as long as you can,” he smiles.“O, my goodness, it's time to get my wife, the church starts at 2 o'clock.” He breaks into a trot, without cane or walker to take his wife to church.

THE BEAUTIFUL WOMAN AT THE BUSS STOP an addition to the story SO WHAT NOW

a very short but important story by Fertile (Lex) Smid

In between my front window and the hospital across the street is a bus stop located equipped with a comfortable bench under a glass roof for the convenience of bus travelers. There is most of the time seating available since the traffic to and from the hospital and our old folks home is a lot less than that of a department store or a restaurant. And even though I live on the second floor of my apartment my living room floor and the street are on the same level, because the road makes a one story deep dip eastward, which results that the living room floor of the first story at the east end of our building is also at the level of the street.

The foregoing has little or nothing to do with the story of which I have a hard time to find a beginning with, other than that the reader considers pleasing me with a visit, in which case you are heartily welcome. I haven't even begun to tell you that this story is about an attractive young woman sitting on a bench, waiting impatiently for a city bus to come by. The bus didn't come, but I did.

When I, behind my walker, arrived at the bus stop I noticed two things, one – that the young woman sitting on the bench was very beautiful, and two – she was jumpy, nervously looking eastward for, what I guessed, was the city bus. Which bus did not show up, no matter how far she stretched her neck to the east. I greet everybody, including beautiful women. She glanced me over and then I saw a third thing – a pair of eyes so beautiful I had ever seen before. Jumpily turning to the east again she said in a voice sounding of silver bells

“You have arthritis.” I was flabbergasted, how did she know? But there was more to come.

“You don't have to have arthritis,” her voice still pealing, while twitching her head hunting for the bus again.

“Drink a gallon of water every day and your arthritis will be a thing of the past.” The musical melody of her voice was definitely comforting. Then the bus arrived, she lightly jumped into it and out of my life for all I know, leaving me behind, alone with my painful rheumatoid arthritis.

Her advise to drink water I found too easy to even try, but after some serious pain I gave it a try. Not a whole gallon, but a few cups. I have not drank a full gallon a day of the cheap drink yet but made a start anyways and you know? the pain has gone enough that I can sleep.

Jonathan of the story SO WHAT NOW? and THE BEAUTIFUL WOMAN AT THE BUSS STOP together furnaced the answer to the question So what now? Not only to do what I can as long as I can, but together with that – listen to everyone so that I may learn as long as I can.

Father, I think I got it. Now if I could only outsmart that computer.

That is the lesson for me today, and for the future, as long as I will be given – to do what I can as long as I can.

I did it!

Note to my father -

Dad, I remember clearly that we lived in the small grocery store in Hijum. I have several memories of the time we left that house, in which I was born in 1931, for another home in the same town four years later. I remember fishing in the canal with uncle Lolke, and in my eagerness to warn the fish not to bite in the worm because there was a sharp hook inside of it, fell headfirst into the canal. I remember clearly how I saw the clouds in the sky and three cows on the other side of the canal looking at me while I was lying on my back under the water and everything being so peaceful and warm. I also remember stopping a truck coming at me by standing in the middle of the road with my hands up high. I could easily have drowned, or killed by that truck, but here I am, alive and well, living at this home, where I feel safe and comfortable, where I found people who care, also about me.

So dad, do not worry about me. Do you know that in this year, in July or august, I will be just as old as you were when you passed away, being eighty-five years and three months? You know father, I will put in a good effort to beat you – just because I enjoy it here.

You know, I did it!

I am now the patriarch of the Hendrik Smid and Jacobje Roelevink line.

With the help of of my granddaughter Megan I am starting a blog and tell you something about our family history.