How I Met Anne

The tranquil evening, allowing only the melancholic call of a distant cuckoo, slipped noiseless into the dark of the summer night. The moon, hidden behind the clouds, giving the young couple laying on the sloping grass surrounded by tall reeds near the water’s edge the benefit of privacy, but soon the moon removed the curtain of cloud to expose their isolation …

Who am I kidding? We are not nearly that far in the story. Besides, it was not in the summer, not a romantic evening, well, at the beginning maybe it was, but there definitely were no stars, nor lying on grassy slopes, none of that, the real beginning of the story happened in the recently created polder in the Dutch lowlands, wrestled away from the former North Sea, in which several towns were already in a state of development and populating it was in full swing.

The real place of kickoff was in that still wet behind the ears polder where I entered the bus at the same time that a good looking teenager left it. Our eyes met for a split second which was enough for me to see her face coloring a blood red. Never before had a girl so openly shown discomfort on account of me, and I wasn’t quite sure how to handle it. Though it surprised me, the girl’s apparent unease made me not feeling badly, rather the opposite I thought. In any case, that was truly the kickoff, I’d say.

The evening was cold and typically polder-dark for there were no outdoor lights as yet.

It was also catechism evening. The minister about to teach the teenagers hankering outside in spite of the wintery discomforts, was waiting inside. And, it was a white winter wonderland as well, for it had been snowing the previous day.

Most of the dozen teenagers eyeing each other did not yet know each other, as they had only recently migrated from various parts of the country. They were also eyeing the snow.

One brave boy threw a missing snowball, followed by another one that didn’t miss the girl he aimed for, and then the entire group joined in, some took a hand-full of snow with which they lathered a girl’s face, making her squeal and fight him off as hard as she was able to. Everybody was snow fighting now, the boys trying to push the snow not only in the neck of the girls but inside their blouse as well. It was a novel way to get to know one-another and everybody loved it.

I had my hands full with the girl who I gave the snow treatment as she was stronger than I had imagined. Yes, yes, she was the one with the blushing face I saw at the bus stop and her cheeks were even more red now. Her name was Anne ‘with two n’s’ she said, and I decided to take bike her home which was a few KM outside of the town.

When Anne after our catechism instruction went for her bike I was right there to join her.

Sometimes, seldom, in fact very seldom, a man can’t loose for winning, and this was my night.

The polder was quiet now, not a thing was breaking the silence, and it was dark, pitch dark, but our head lights were sufficient to see where we were going, and the wind was at our back, when we side by side drove into the dark of the of the light-less rural road.

To make our journey a complete blessing, it started to snow again. A few tiny snow flakes at first, soon followed by a rain of millions tiny snow parachutes softly landing all around and on us. I turned my headlamp into the sky, turning the snowflakes into a stream of mini lights heading straight for us. For us?

I was alone. The girl who in my mind I had already claimed to be mine, had swung off the road into her driveway. I was unable to see her through the snow but clearly heard ‘klink’ of a door handle, and after that a door close. And then – nothing.

Nothing, but snow coming down, lots of snow, quickly coating the road snow-white, and back home I had to bike against the wind. And the snow.

It was then and there and because, that I solemnly a-vowed to not ever accord, consort, concord or any other cord or sort, nor even look at that young woman again.

My Grand Daughter

A poem by Alexis Toews and shared by her at the 50th wedding anniversary of Anne and Lex Smid.

For fifty years those
two people have been friends,
lovers,
spiritual confidants.
In a time when the divorce rate is 50 – 50,
they are still together.

Now,
from my point of view,
getting married is a gamble,
50% of sticking it out, or
a 50% chance of not.

To see and know a couple who has defied the odds
is something
of an inspiration
to me. And,
to see
and know this couple well enough

to know
they have been
through many hardships and troubles
and then
to see them still stick it out
means even more to me.

Anne and Lex, Pake and Grandma,
You’re an inspiration to all.

I’m happy to promote this very touching poem to the First Family Brag (FFB) status of 2017.

Alexis Anne Toews is the only daughter of Erwin and Janice van Diermen. She is married to Aaron Toews and have one son Magnus, with a baby-brother on the way.

Alexis is partly named after me, and her second child will be named Hendrik.

She is a successful real estate agent in B.C.

Carnival

John got a call from his brother in Holland that his father was dying and wanted to see him “You got to help me because I need someone to travel with me.” I sympathized with the big man’s artificial leg, but was running a business.

“When were you planning to go?”

“Tuesday.”

“Are you bonkers John? I cannot takeoff in … what about next week?”

“Can’t do, I got airline tickets already for Tuesday. You can pick up yours at the travel agency. All you have to do is pay for them.”(!)

Our arrival in Holland coincided with the annual extravagance of carnival, which is the greatest communal highlight in the southern part of the country. The entire adult population of the town participated in the revelry of three days boisterous dancing, drinking and singing. The annual extravaganza was held in three inter connecting-buildings packed so tightly that the river of humanity trying to dance from one end to the other barely moved but what they did, was drinking and singing, and everyone had the time of their life.

John was immediately recognized by some of the towns people and for his own safety propped up on a chair into a corner, behind a table filled with beer and dutch cognac, donated by newly found again friends, while I was pulled into the crowd and half carried, half tiptoeing made the trip back and forth through the buildings, inside a feasting frenzy of party goers. My feet had barely touched the floor and I was thankful to join John again who flashed a grin as wide as his mouth allowed.

“I got an invite,” John said as he steered me to a car dealership, where he readily was let in by a woman I immediately felt at ease with. My big friend and her seemed to know each other more than casual.

“I used to date her when we were teenagers,” John whispered as we walked in. The woman was visibly happy to see him and in no time she and John were reminiscing about that time.

“Remember Yohn, what caution we used to foo-al meneer Pastoor?” the priest. And to me, ”The tricks we invented when Yohn and I saw each other on a Sunday night, but who stands in the doorway on Monday morning? meneer Pastoor.” I liked the way she looked but even more the way she talked in her lilting local tongue. “Meneer Pastoor just couldn’t be fooa-led.” John’s family were protestant. ‘proatestant’ she lilted. It was more than frowned upon for an catholic girl to hang out with a boy of another faith.

“What was the reason for him visiting your parents when he got you already?” I asked.

“To let my parents know that he kept ‘n gooa-d eye on me, woar? and to tell me to see him at confession.” I asked what went on there.

“I confessed that I had gone out with ‘n proatestant boy and was sorry about that, woar? And then meneer Pastoor gave me my punishment,” she tilted her head askew and smiled mischievously. John grinned when he saw that I liked the woman, who continued.

“I had to recite so many our Father’s and hail Mary’s woar? And, paid him ‘n kwartje.” A quarter.

“And where you sorry then,” I said, promptly realizing what a foolish question I asked.

“Were we sorry Yohn”? Darn, there went her head again. “I was not sorry, where you sorry, Yohn?” John’s head nodded no.

“I only felt sorry for my quarter, but quickly started saving for ‘n another one woar?”

It was a strange week in which sorrowful emotions of John’s parents death and dying contrasted with joys of renewing old and making fresh friendships, the exuberance of carnival, and for me – a lovely woman with a playful tilted head, speaking a pleasing lilting tongue, who’s image just didn’t want to leave me.

Forever Friends

My big friend John struggled also, like my son Len, with dyslexia, probably even more so because he lived a generation earlier than my son, but the principle of the christian school, who was at the end of his wits as what to do with John, got him some tools and started him out repairing bikes for the students. It proved to be a marvelous idea helping not only him getting rid of a student hindering others in their progress, but John loved his new jobs which he could manage, and the students had no worries about flat tires or broken chains anymore.

Meanwhile John’s fame of bicycle repairman went all over the town and students of the public as well as the catholic schools searched him out in the coal shed of his own school where he operated what he called John’s bicycle shop. When he liked a girl client he greased and oiled her bike and cleaned it so she picked up a what looked and operated like a brand new one. All for free, with the compliments of John’s bicycle shop. While John’s reading and writing did not improve, neither did hid his self worth suffer.

My big friend wrote two letters during his life, one from Canada to a friend in his hometown and one to me. The first letter circulated all over the town where people he once called his friends had a good laugh about his ‘stupid writing.’ Deeply humiliated and extremely angry John swore not ever to write a letter again. However years later he did. To me.

He collected stamps, and one time had his eyes set on a particular beautiful but also very expensive stamp. Besides it had to be stamped by the town it originated from and chances he would get one like that were very slim. Anyways, I went to the local post office and purchased the stamp, had the postmaster stamp ABBOTSFORD across it, and send it to my friend. Not long after I received a return letter starting out with – You are my friend. You saved my day,

I found one more letter from John addressed to me that I had forgotten. It also had to do with stamps, but I forgot the circumstances. I will have the letter posted with the story, including a translation into English, but without the spelling mistakes.

Dear Lex Smid

I have found your paper. And now I will send it to you before I loose it again. I hope that you can do something with it. And I would like it very much that you save the stamps for me. And bring them with you when you come over here again.

Have a nice day,
your friend
John

Many people don’t know John as I did. For instance, they do not know that when John was made ready to have his leg amputated, that he grabbed the hands of the doctors on each side of the operation table and said ‘Stop, before you gonna cut my leg off, I wanna pray.’

It was very quiet in the operation room when John asked God to strengthen the grips of the doctors on the knives so they would not slip.

“I’m ready if you are,” he said, and they were.

And then they proceeded.

...As We Forgive...

… and forgive us our sins as we forgive who sinned against us … – the Lord’s prayer

Lately I have been saying goodbye to a lot of stuff that once was worthy to be saved, because sooner or later someone not emotionally attached to it, will dump it in the garbage.

I found some elementary school papers of my children, and among it an English note book of the third grade belonging to my son Len. He had obviously been struggling with the correct spelling of some words, which did not surprise me since he was diagnosed with dyslexia, (a condition affecting reading and writing) but other than being diagnosed with the condition there was no remedy or help for him, simply because very little was known about dyslexia forty years ago.

I read my son’s work over from cover to cover and found some interesting things about him and of myself as well. From an early age on Len had thrilled us with his artistic ability, especially drawing. On this particular page he drew a family of cats – Father and Mother cat and five kittens, all according to size, the father being the tallest, the mother (in contrast with our own family) being the heaviest.

He had named them as well – the Father cat was Tim, and he named the Mother cat Thinker, Angel cat was imitating Mother’s pose, while baby Blue Eyes was laying against Mother; Stub was playing with Mother’s tail. Odd Cat stood in front of Father with head down and rear up, and Tip was playing with a ball of yarn. They all looked straight at you, an effect which is hard to achieve, even for professionals, I’m told.

Len adorned most all his work with drawings. A next page features storm clouds, a tree bend over by the wind, and a boy watching it all from underneath a haystack. A poem explains it all.

On stormy days
when the wind is high
tall trees are brooms
sweeping the sky
they swish their branches
in (a) buck(et) of rain
and swash and sweep it
blue again

His sisters think that he copied the poem, and likely he did, but still it inspired him to interpret the verse-form into his drawing-form.

He did not get a star for his effort; Len received very few stars, that is why he drew his own stars sometimes. I still hope that it was his poem. A person leaves so little behind in life.

The next page shows a man. On top of it he wrote ‘daddy Smid.’ My hair is longer there than it is now, my beard is too, and full. I had a paunch then as well.

Coming to the last pages his printing becomes sloppy and the spelling mistakes more frequent – ‘Janet was skaired because she thoot the calf was the bol.’

He had changed teachers.

This teacher made him read an essay, of which questions he had answered only with ‘yes’ and ‘no,’ and ‘see page 163,’ before the class. While Len struggled with it, the class and the teacher were snickering, humiliating him deeply. .

I only heard that story from his friends after Len had died, also that he had gotten the strap from that teacher for throwing his notebook into the teacher’s face. We did not know this because our son did not tell us, an neither did the teacher inform us. Did Len keep quiet because my wife and I were friends with that teacher and his wife? We’ll never know.

When I had finished that notebook from cover to cover, all sorts of feelings wrestled whit-in me – feelings of hurt and pain, of resentment, and of love, yes, a fast amount of love and compassion for our son. Feelings of long ago – almost, but never quite, forgotten.

Len with two of his sisters, Debbie and Janice

Len's grandfather

I have always been immensely proud of our son Len, who was so like his grandfather, a great marksman and horseman, a friend of dogs and people, and also, in common with his sisters, a love of art, which they received from their mother.

Still, I have to forgive, all over again.

Friends

John was big and strong enough to intimidate, especially, well, OK, short people like me, though I saw him never enraged. I had noticed him working as a drywaller helper, where he was much appreciated, since he could apply drywall-mortar on eight foot high ceilings without using leg extensions, or stilts as he called them, because he was that tall. My brothers John, Sidney and I worked for Well’s construction, the same company John worked for. The big drywaller was a happy man who often sang at the job, current hits he learned from his beat-up radio, but also hymns and religious songs which he boomed out over the entire workplace, snapping his fingers for rhythm.

I met John and his wife in 1960 in the parking lot of the our church in Richmond, where he carried a toddler on one arm while holding a baby bassinet, with an adorable baby girl tucked into it, on the other.

“You the guy I seen at Wells?” he said. Nodding affirmatively, he put the basket down.

“I need your help, I forgot my collection money and I wondered…” I put the basket with my baby son next to his, let my hand sink deep in the pant pocket and with a flourish produced two silver coins, a uarter and a fifty-cent piece, which I handed him with an allure of ‘where are friends for anyways.’ John probably never realized that those coins represented my own collection money making me now the one forced to put an empty hand onto the offer plate. John’s wife Rita invited us for coffee after the service and from thereon in we became good friends and stayed friends until both he and his wife, and also my wife, passed away.

John and his family joined our church, even though their home-church was State Reformed, and our members were practically all from the Christian-reformed church of the Netherlands. Don’t ask me about the difference of those denominations, I only knew that ‘they’ could swim and skate on Sundays, and we could not.

There was one more difference though, John and Rita were accomplished dancers, which was abhorred by our church leaders – imagine, especially young males and females touching one another while making ‘sensuous dance moves’ would surely incite evilness – and therefore strictly forbidden for the Christian Reformed youth.

Then, during a birthday party, John and his wife started to waltz in the confines of their home, our wide open eyes following them as they were graciously sliding through the living room. We were impressed and jealous of the exhibition and at a next party clumsily tried our hands at this forbidden excersize, and fell in love with it.

Then, one snowy night right before Christmas, as John with his family in their car were returning home from visiting Rita’s parents, they got broad sided by a truck, injuring every one of their family, but John was wounded the most. When he after a three month stay in the hospital came home had his right leg been amputated above the knee. We knew then he would never tape ceilings again even though the was fitted with an artificial leg, but he was alive!

The party to celebrate John’s homecoming from the hospital was subdued to say the least. All eyes were on him, yet trying not to be obvious. John refused to use crutches but carried a cane and made it a point to walk near walls for extra support. Singing, always a big part of our parties, was this evening not heard, talk was sparse and hushed as all eyes were pointed ,like a compass needle is to the north, to John’s artificial leg. To have something to do we just took another drink, and perhaps another one. Everyone was ill at ease, including John.

All of a sudden he grabbed his cane while wrestling himself up from the chair.

“Come here woman” he shouted to Rita, “I want to dance with you!”

The two of them improvised a dance right for the situation. One arm around his wife to steady himself the big man remained stationary while with the other hand he held the cane, using it to beat the rhythm. Then he started singing. He opened up all the registers of his strong voice to render the popular hit of the time, Big Bad John, while we backed up the beat by clapping hands and stomping feet.

And I think, there was not a dry eye in the room.

Going to the Dogs

In the poor olden days dogs used to earn their keeps by being a watchdog on an often lonely farm, and were rewarded by leftovers from the family diner table. Up in northern Canada, Eskimo's used Husky sled dogs to pull fully loaded sleds, and when I was a kid, there were still four big dogs in our village harnessed in front of a bakfiets, (bike wagon) one pair were pulling a loaded bakfiets with bakery goods and driver, the other with fuel, coal and anthracite, also plus a burly driver sitting on the rear of the wagon. 

My father-in-law had light-blue eyes similar to that of huskies and wolves. He was not scared of even the wildest dog. My son Leonard was the same. One day he came home with a small version of a German Shepherd in tow, which he already had given the name Hobo.

'He followed me,' he said and I believed him. Both had this rare magnetism which, I think, is understood and respected by animals.

Once I witnessed my father in law approach an angry dog watching the auto garage in which his car was being repaired. He calmly walked towards the open garage doors while talking softly to the furiously barking animal. As he got closer the dog doubled his violent howling while stretching the steel chain containing him, to the limit. My in-law did not miss a step while he kept on talking softly, and by the time he was in reach of the vicious animal the dog's tail was wagging and he was licking my father-in-law,s fingers.

Something similar happened with my son.

His dog Hobo was surrounded in the next lot by four or five large dogs with one Rottweiler among them as well as a Pit-bull. It was a certainty that they were intend to kill him.

Then, out of nowhere somebody rushed by me, jumped over the small ditch between our properties right into the middle of the vicious killer dogs, grabbed Hobo into his arms and walked over to the safety of our yard. Not one of the intended killer-dogs had a chance to follow the condemned or the rescuer. Or was it that they did not take the chance?

The rescuer was of course my son Len, who even as a small child pandered up to a chained Husky without any concern and started wrestling! with him. The owner of the dog seeing what happened could not believe his eyes.

Yesterday I found a letter of my wife Anne written in 1974 to her father in which she answered his letter to us. The topic must have been 'being the boss,' accompanied by some stories.

Len, who was 13 years then, understood what his grandfather meant when Anne read that letter, which was written in Dutch, and added something of his own as Anne writes him back – 'Len loved your stories, his eyes 'straalden,' were shining, and he nodded his head repeatedly. He knew exactly what you meant. He added to it 'If you want to go horse riding the horse has to know who is the boss, otherwise he will throw you. Same goes for dogs.'

Hobo was known by most all in Ladner, where we then lived. He was free to roam all over town, even though he carried no collar with a dog token. Then in the winter of 1978 - '79 he did not show up. There were rumours aplenty - he was seen here, then there, even as  far away as Tswassen and Richmond.

We never saw Hobo again. We all felt as if we had lost a little Brother, but still hoped and hoped for months that he would show up as he always had shown up – but he never did.

In the middle of summer of that same year, 1979, the rescuer of Hobo from a violent death by overpowering predators, our son and brother Len, who was 18 then and on his way home from Forth Mac-Murray, Alberta, where he was going to work, was killed instantly in a road accident.

Make Me as Quick as an 18 - 38 Year Old

If I could change anything at all it would be this - to be as quick as today's young (18 – 38.) It disgusts me to come waddling in like a crippled duck, when at long last I finally do have a smart idea that someone else uses because she or he snaps it away from me, just before I am going to use it.

My first brag picture - Dusin Van Dierman, son of my daughter Janice and her husband Erwin Van Dierman, and the four sons of Dustin and Denee Van Dierman. Find a total of 1/2 of my genes in this Canadiana picture of my grandchild Dustin (in red shirt) 1/4 of my genes and his four sons (4X1/16 = 1/4) total 1/2 genes). The mother took this photograph and is therefore temporarily out of the picture, which does not alter the total of genes represented here!

Case 1 – I asked one of my brothers for a very nice picture which I planned to use with a story. He obliged with a great photograph on Facebook doing perfect justice to the subject, when Friends and Public swarmed in with their oohs and aah's, taking the thunder away from me. I was too late, or They were faster.

Case 2 – my Daughter showed me a video of two of My grandchildren performing an Act so cute, I was sure to have a hit this time; I was so proud of them. And of Myself, for being the Provider of an eight of their genes, but – again, I was too late. All the laud and glory, all the 'Cuute's!!' passed me by again.

It was then that a plan to outsmart all the lightning fast Likes and Comments robbing me from deserved glory formed into my head – the only way to be the first one in my own story was, (and is,) to work in dead secret, in utter darkness. So watch. In cooperation with my esteemed, and lovely, Computer Wizard Megan, who herself is also a fourth of My genes, We will patiently wait till the very last moment to Summit Story and Picture – Ping! And then sit down awaiting the rewards of the fruit of our labors - Like likes.

For those interested, I am declared as healthy as one can be at my age by my Esteemed Doctor and therefore roaring to go, still minding the disadvantages of old-age. This is a true statement and is witnessed as such by my Daughter Janice, who was present at the interview and for the most part of the examination.

To My Three Oldest Friends

We've laughed together, cried together and shared our hopes and fears We've been silly, serious, fanciful, shared our secrets over the years

Three very close friends in my life, each one unique and very different To one, shared childhood woes, to the others, children, husband and present

Though distance keeps me from my childhood friend A quick visit after thirty years renews our connection again

She tells me, at first, it felt like we would be strangers But a few hours together and we're acting like teenagers

We're fifty now, all grown up, but never serious Though hard times when we were children, we can now just be us

My two other friends, in the same town as I Seeing each other often, letting me know I can, on them, rely

To comfort me in sorrow, to joke and laugh over coffee For me to lend an ear, whenever they need to talk to me

I love my friends, each one in a very special way I rest knowing the friendship will grow day by day

Though we may sometime be separated Our hearts will always be integrated

Wherever we go, whatever we do This friendship won't change, because you are you

by Brenda Beaton, Nov. 8, 2007

A Thank You to Everyone

"...making others happy makes us happy ...we are loved human beings"
— Shawn Hooey

With the swiftness of a galloping horse, racing the speedway, this new year is already flying by. As I get older, time is even more in a hurry. Today, the ninth of Jan. 2017 has voided already eight of its three hundred and sixty five days. "En wij vliegen daarhenen," and we fly thereto, my father would say, probably quoting the bible, but whereto do we fly? And why be in such a hurry to get there?

Living in a home like I am, I see enough of where my friends wind up after a fast and exciting ride in an ambulance with lights ablaze and sirens screaming.

Perhaps the discomfort of rheumatic arthritis plaguing me the last few weeks preventing me to sleep or type, made me feel powerless to enjoy the 'freshness of the new.'

I feel better now, after straining my potholed brain for something pleasant and uplifting to think about, and it did not take me long.

My daughter Janice drove me for my appointment with the doctor, and did most of the conversion with him as well, asking intelligent questions, which I was not able to do as eloquently as she did, besides, I would have forgotten the questions I was going to ask him anyways. What a pleasure to have someone with a business brain in my corner.

On the advice of Janice I received permission from the doctor to use a heavier dose of prednisone, which makes that I am able to sleep now, and type with my one finger as well. A word of thanks to the doctor. And to Janice.

Instead of taking me straight home, my daughter drove me around familiar and unfamiliar places in Abbotsford; she even drove me right over the mountain. The valley was just as breathtaking beautiful as I remembered it. Thanks again, Janice.

A few days before this she and her husband Erwin took me along to the funeral of Gerry van Rijk with whom I worked on and off twenty years ago. He was one of my best friends. He died of Alzheimer at Menno Place, where I live also, but my home is in one of the an 'independent living' buildings called The Pavilion, while Gerry lived at the residential care unit of Menno Home. Gerry's wife was called Anne just like my wife Anne, both were born on April 20. They were more than friends, as Anne van Rijk said : "We are just like sisters." She passed away shortly after my Anne, who was only 72 when she died.

Gerry's family welcomed me warmly. For that I too am thankful, and for their friendship. Have a good one Gerry. Or, 'until we meet again.'

Several good friends in Delta, Abbotsford, Vancouver Island and Holland have died last year but I escaped thus far, which makes for a curious feeling - sad for the loss and thankful for being bypassed. I made many friends at Menno Place, young and old, and made some very dear friends as well, one of whom encouraged me when I was ready to threw the computer through the window, she is mainly responsible for me keeping the course in writing and for that I am her genuinely thankful.

On the way to my unit I meet two cooks coming in for their shift, one is short, the other tall, both lively and lovely. They are good cooks making the saying true: "Mennonite girls can cook!' They stride with the same gait, which is fast and long but not hasty or over done, controlled fast would better describe it, I like to call it the Menno walk. I don't think they are of the Mennonite faith, even so, everybody receives the same respect, and a warm and friendly 'thank you.'

When I open the door to my room a pleasant surprise awaits me - standing on my desk I find a cup of Tim Hortons coffee and a special cup of oatmeal porridge, with fresh berries on top, which has been my breakfast fare for years. There is no name of a giver though, who is the generous giver?

My neighbor Herman Veeneman turns out to be my well doer, but his story gets even better. The real giver is one of several young women, originally from India, working for Tim Hortons who both Herman and I like. It is sure comforting to know that I'm not forgotten there either. A note of thanks to be delivered by Herman V. is on the way.

In a prior story, which I consider one of my best, I wrote about the tradition in our church of singing Ere Zij God at Christmas morning and since I don't go to church anymore because I gave away my beautiful red KIA Sportage, (which happened not to be red,) the one thing I would really miss, was singing that song, since I had sung it for more than eighty times among several congregations.

Well, one of our activities was decorating cookies, which we were allowed to eat as well. There were only about a dozen of us 'kliederen' messing with the decoration, when the recreational instructor, who stands six feet - two inches tall, (1.85?) in stocking feet, rounded up a dozen and a half female students of the local University, who were volunteering at Menno Place, to join us. They were interested in stories about our youth in the Netherlands, when one of them asked me if I knew a dutch Christmas song and would I sing it for them? A light went up in my mind and I said if Maaike would sing it with me I would.

Maaike Kooistra was game and together we sang that old Christmas song Ere Zij God a Capella.

"Now we were evangelizing too yet," said Maaike, a widow who recently joined us at Menno place and was born in Berlicum, Beltsum, as we called it, which is only a stone's throw away from Hijum were I was born! In that way I was ahead of the church because it was a few weeks before the 25th of December when this happened. And so the tradition I thought was in jeopardy, with a little kink continued. Several thank you's here.

I am proud that this year I called my brothers Anne and Frank in Barneveld and Ede before the feast days and also John in Delta and Durk in Williams Lake. I think it is a first of several years because I am forgetful in the second degree. I did apply for for a new head but so far no luck. I give myself a pat on the back.

The greatest surprise and joy to me was ha ha! Ester, from Drachten? Anyways from Fryslân. She burned my computer out with more than forty comments after I posted a photo of my Pake and Beppe from the heather-fields under Donkerbroek. Your great-Beppe Aukje would have been proud of you, Ester.

Many years ago in the very beginning of the 1950's she asked your pake Bertus' brother Bernardus, to make a family register, 'to keep the family together,' as she put it, which Bernardus did, but you shook the sleeping great-great-grandchildren of her up with your additional info and enthusiasm!

Thank you Ester, and everybody joining what pake and beppe began when they got married in 1897 - the SMID FAMILY as we know it. Thank you all for showing so much interest! Happy 2017! It surprises me that all of you in our 'old country' are so good in the English language.

Note 1: The three sons of my uncle Bernardus, (brother of your Pake, Ester,) Fokke, Auke, and Jan are also very interested in the Smid generations. One of them had us related with it "Koninklijk Huis,'' you could get a lot more information from them. Fokke has sadly shortly ago passed away, but one of the others, Jan, lives in Delfzijl I understand, he is the twin brother of Auke.

Note 2: I think they will hold another 'neven en nichten' day nephews and nieces day this summer, according to my brother Anne from Barneveld. Might be good to look into this. They are very nice people!!!

And for now we have come to THE END as my daughter Jacki would say at the end of her stories, when she was in grade school. Love you!

A Christmas in the Summer

As young teens our 'top hits' were Jeruzalem and 'Ere zij God.' Glory to God

We sang Jeruzalem everywhere -in school, at work, or in our minds while biking, but never in church.

Little church of Schokland

'Ere zij God,' Glory to God, on the other hand we sang in church exclusively, however, only once a year, on Christmas morning. After the service, the congregation as one stood up, making a noisy clatter as some two-hundred pairs of wooden clogs hit the floor as a prelude to the long awaited song.

The organist presented the tone height, held it for two long seconds, (in which he threw open a few more registers) and then the congregation broke forth like an held-back arrow at last being released by the marksman, shooting for its target.

On top of our lungs, with one voice, we joyfully shouted 'Ere zij God, Ere zij God, In de hoge.'

Glory to God, Glory to God, In the highest! Followed by a prayerful 'Vrede op aarde,' Peace on earth, Moving onto 'In the mensen, Een welbehagen.' Into people, a delight. Closing with a solemn Amen.

'Ere zij God'is taken from Lucas 2:14, when a multitude of angels praise God with the words of this song after one of the angels announces the birth of the Savior.

The tradition of singing Ere zij God at Christmas went with us when we immigrated to Canada, but after a few generations our offspring wanted to quit the tradition, not because of the song but of the language it was written in - Dutch. Some preachers, without roots in the old country were not so secretly supporting that idea and sometimes tried helping it along by forgetting to mention it on the bulletin. That happened to a former minister of us who, after delivering his Christmas sermon tramped, as was his tradition, straight for the outside entrance to shake hands with his flock as they filed past him.

Except, not a soul moved. After a few anxious moments one brave woman started to sing the first chant of the disputed song 'Ere zij God.' The congregation and the organ joined immediately the brave woman, and according to the the first ones out of the door, so did the preacher. Yes, in Dutch.

Some years later we met a baker in the city we were then living. He was a large man with hands as big as shovels. When he shook hands with you, which he liked to do with a grin on his face, you felt it. That was the reason I tried avoiding him on Sunday mornings.

There were still several things too Dutch for some to have a place, or were taking place in the church, for instance the church-organ. That grand musical instrument had to make place for a piano, which after some time got replaced by a fellow playing a guitar. The psalms of David were replaced by chants on an overhead screen. The worship committee deemed it necessary to get a small version of house organ to accompany the piano. Our baker, retired now, had become an elder, and during a consistory-meeting told the preacher in no uncertain words to get rid of it 'because I hate it.'

“It's not an organ, it's not an piano,” he said, “all it is, is some sort of a tingle-tangle, only good for the scrapheap,” but the tingle-tangle stayed.

Then one sunny summer day the old baker passed away.

“Even the strong ones fall,” the liberal preacher said in his funeral sermon. The church was packed, heating the church building considerable. The fans were whirling at top speed while doors and windows were opened wide, still the heat was scarcely bearable, however, according to some conservative members the message of the preacher had been a good one, that was at least something positive on this hot day, one of them remarked.

When after the service the baker was carried to the open front door by members of his large family, a peculiar sound drifted over the congregation, who were already following the family on the way out but thus far no one paid heed to the unfamiliar sound, as all were anxious for some cool air, but when gradually the sound did penetrate they realized that it was the sound of someone playing - the tingle-tangle? Without the support of the piano? But they were stunned when they recognized what was being played on the little tingle-tangle. Ere zij God? On a funeral? And in the middle of summer?

The congregation, after some bewildering moments, caught on fast, and sang their hearts out, being led by the granddaughter of the departed baker doing the playing. After the last Amen all were united in thinking how appropriate it was to honor the departed baker by singing Ere zij God.

Had the baker himself been able to hear his granddaughter play that day, he likely would have said

"Well, I'll be darned, that girl is going places yet. On the tingle-tangle. I would've never guessed."

He was that way.

Merry Christmas to all of you and happy new year from Menno Place!

The Picture from Ester

My heart started ticking normal again after the contact with Ester, for as much as I can speak of normal, since mine is called a failing heart. What a pleasant surprise to hear from her and that just after Sinterklaas. for the one's that don't know Ester, she is the daughter of one of the four girls of which aunt Lum (tante Lumke) said that they were extraordinarily beautiful. The names of these lovely women are Sjoerdje, Aukje, Rinskje,and Lumke. Aukje Smid married Tjipke Lammert de Wit in 1968.

They got Tineke in 1969; Eduard in 1971, and Ester in1978. ester is the one who sent this photo of pake Fokke and beppe Aukje with all their children and spouses. The photo was taken in the fall of 1930. Ester married an Eijzinga, and that name brought right away memories into my mind.

My daughters were friends with a fella of that name, I think his first name was Pete. He dated a friend of my daughters Janice 1957, and Debbie 1959, but as relations go sometimes, they became stale, so, Pete and his girlfriend decided to part for a few month and see from there. He drove a fast muscle car and decided to take off to see something of this immense country Canada. My son Len, 1961, went with him as they drove alternately, making it all the way to Quebec and back, but the lovers were not able to re-candle the flame again and went each their own ways. I have three daughters, as Jacki 1965, was the last one. Len died in a car accident in 1979.

Starting at the very top, the baby is Fokke Smid, held by my uncle Jan next to his wife Roelfje, and next to her my uncle Roelof.

Next row down I take everyone except my pake and beppe and three children

From left to right uncle Daniel,uncle Sipke and Annigje,in front of them uncle Bertus, next to Annigje Geertje and uncle Anne, Jan Houtstra somewhat in front with tante Lumke, behind and between Lumke and Jan my heit Hendrik and mem Jacobje Roelevink with the white color, to the left of my mem tante Elske and uncle Bernardus.

In front of pake the youngest child of tante Lumke Fokke, with Johannes in front, Riek leans against beppe. The last three are children of tante Lumke.

So far you have missed one and that is me. my mother was pregnant with me, seeing that it is past harvest time (leaves are gone of the trees) say October, than mem is two months 'in blijde verwaching' of me.

Again Schokland

Short story by Lex Smid Some pioneers, mostly farmers sons, eventually did obtain a farm, but it was the pioneer worker who really made the mucky polder dry with what onderduikers called the 'sweat spoon', the shovel, to cultivate the sopping sea bottom into arable land, ready for planting and growing food crops for the rest of the country and - of course, for the German Wehrmacht.

Like Schokland a hundred years ago

After the thousands of pioneers, onderduikers were flooding the polder. Onderduikers were young men, eighteen to twenty-three years old who had either served in the Dutch army or a semi-military service - the Arbeidsdienst.

The Arbeidsdienst was copied after the military, they marched with shovels instead of rifles slung over the shoulder, imitating Nazi soldiers with their killer-rifles. Though Dutch in name was the service was operated by the German Occupiers who taught the young men to work, with - the shovel. They were taught to dig trenches, ramparts, and tank traps. They were making the young men, hardly dry behind the ears, believe they were being trained for the benefit of their own country, the Netherlands, therefore they showed them also how to plant tree, engaged them in sports, even taught them to sing a Capella while marching, like real (German) soldiers.

The real purpose was to teach them the Nazi doctrine so that in a few months they were ready to put in practice what they had been taught - at the Eastern Front (against the Russians). Of the 60,000 men so trained only a handful took that challenge and the rest went instead in hiding. Many young men were scared to death to go into hiding, and should be, because it was no fun to leave their disciplined pre-war home without a job, support and without rationing coupons.

Going underground was definitely an easy thing to do as firstly everything was rationed, from food to clothes, practically everything could only be obtained with coupons, and onderduikers, now without a valid address, were outlaws and were not issued rationing coupons.

Being money-less, with no income on top of not having rationing coupons and not being able to return to their parents' house, they had to find a place where people were not welcoming them with open arms. They were viewed as today people might view the homeless, which in fact they were. They were hunted by a special branch of the German army, the Green police (the Ordnungspolizei (ORPA)). If caught, they were seldom shot, but the likely-hood did exist, or deported to Germany. Their benefactors were severely punished as well. Strange as it may seem there were still people who, perhaps begrudgingly, took the poor souls in, often for as long as the duration of the war.

Many found their way to the polder, so many that the polder got the name 'onderduiker paradise'. However, many of the young newcomers were not used to the hard spade work and started to hate the polder, they would gladly escaped from it. The regulars, including the pioneer-brothers Jan and Hendrik, would have liked to see them go because onderduikers were not known to be hard workers. The pioneers were working hard because their work was paid by the meter in contract which was established by the 'golden-gang'. The golden-gang was made up by young, and strong married men working at top speed digging trenched and ditches, and from their physical achievements the price per meter was calculated. Most onderduikers were single.

My father belonged in such a gold-gang, at least for awhile.

The gangs with older (slower) workers did, of course, never reach the top wages that the gold-gang received, and the gangs that were blessed with a few onderduikers among them, who were in the polder only because they were quite safe from the Nazis, receiving good food and a bed, did not care (or were not able to) work hard, saw their wages drop as well.

Protesting? No one, and certainly not the onderduikers wanted to rock the boat for fear of a raid by the Nazis, which was not uncommon. Those raids were called razzia's!

Secrets of Schokland

A series of short stories about the island of Schokland by Leffert Smid Why do I put so much effort in the history of this little island Schokland, when there are histories galore waiting to be written for instance? It has to do with a dutch song I remember only parts of.

One of the reasons I scrambled through the stories about the Northeastern polder and the little former island within that polder, Schokland, is that I can't wait to get on with the sweet little tale about that young maiden who lived in that polder-land between the colourful flowering flowers and the fragrant roses of the polder-land. Before I dig myself a deeper hole than that I find myself in already, I admit there was no sluice or mill, no flowering flowers or even sweet smelling roses. The polder was as bare as a Calvinistic church pew. This happened in the winter of 1953, only eight years after arguably the bloodiest war in history, yet - yet there was a darling young woman living across the road from that little island with many secrets, an island that not many years later was deemed so important that it became famous throughout the world.

Schokland one hundred years ago, starting the plank way from one island to the other

The second reason has to do with my father, Hendric Smid, a polder pioneer, like his brother Jan, and also of my wife Anne's father and, and thousands of one-tooled craftsman, the men with the shovels, the bats, the ground workers who really changed the mucky sea bottom only good for reeds into what it became - dry land, ready to be cultivated by men and machines in order that crops could be planted.

The creation of the new polder was a feat of engineering which never before was contemplated, therefore recognition and credit must be given to the Dutch engineers, who were wearing the same rubber boots the pioneers were wearing and were not disdainful to include the 'lower' workers, at least not in the pioneer time, recognising that it was the ground-workers putting the finishing touches on the entire operation by getting rid of the surface water through digging trenches, ditches and canals by the strength of their arms with the tool they knew how to handle - the bats. That was called the 'ontginning' the reclamation of the sea bottom.

The third reason is that there are so many surprising stories about the island of Schokland, most of them I was not aware of but others that slumbered in my mind and in my old age sprang to life again, and that from a world away.

If only I was able to master that computer, my enemy, who gives me grey hairs, if only I had them. However, my one-hundred year old friend, Klassen, born, as he said, a weakling baby in Siberia would say, 'I do what I can as long as I can.' He walks without a cane or walker, twice as fast as I do.

So give me some time, we will yet get to my dear wife Anne.

Patience -

Patience -

Patience....

Pioneers

My parents showed never any tenderness in front of us kids. I saw them kiss only once in my life, when my father left for camp Blokzijl in the new polder, seventy km south, for seven weeks at a stretch.

Workers arriving at the barracks in the new polder (in 'Sunday' clothes!)

His bike was loaded with a suitcase packed with a few sets of (long) underwear, several pairs of knitted socks; suit, shirt, and tie, (and shoes for going to church;) two pairs of work pants and a few blue work shirts; a towel and a wash cloth, a piece of Sunlight soap for washing his clothes and his face; his Sunday hat, shaving kit, and the tool of his trade, his shining bots (shovel) like a saber fastened on the bike.

“Now, behave yourself, listen to your mother and, I will soon be home,” then planted his left leg on the bike peddle, took a few short steps to move his two wheeled horse, swung his right leg over bike and suitcase, making a soft landing on the seat of the bike. One look back to wife and children, a wave with the hand, and together with his brother Jan, father was on the way to the barracks of kamp-Blokzijl, seventy km south, just within the almost dry new polder, where they were going to stay to work for seven weeks on end, including weekends, leaving mother to care for herself and five children.

It was a summer day in 1940, a good day for bike-traveling and for the first hour the brothers were exhilarated by the freshness and beauty of their province of birth, Fryslân. Uncle Jan was not a talker but this time started a discussion about something he seemed to have some problems with. As they were the first workers to start in the new polder, they were called pioneers, and as pioneers they were first in line to get a farm in that polder.

Polder workers' keet (Kate) lunchroom, in front the bosses

“Do you think Hendrik, that that is going to happen, that they will give us our own farm?” Father had no doubt that what the 'Hoge Heren,' (the Men in High places) had promised would honor, and just thinking about working on his own farm made him warm inside.

“Can you imagine Jan how that will feel, to work on your own land and not have to listen to a miserable farmer? We both have four boys in our families to help when they grow up a bit, and there will always be one among them who wants to take the farm over when we retire in Huizum of Appelscha.” His brother Jan did obviously not share that feeling yet as he said “Or retire in the poor-house.”

'When we were close to our destination, Blokzijl, we witnessed something strange' father told me once, 'workers were arriving from every direction, the closer we came to camp-blokzijl, the more workers moved towards 'the kamp,' on bikes, with shovels and suitcases attached, they walked faster and faster as if they wanted to make sure to be there before the others got there before them. Some took shortcuts through the fields, half walking, half running. It was so weird. And for what? I don't know.'

Ditching by shovel, brother Frank owns a bats, a shovel like that yet

When they were herded the following to their work station in the New polder they were surprised that there was still so much water on the endless field. They were told that they, the new workers were going to change that by digging trenches to collect the surface water and feed it via ditches to sub-canals, from where it was to flow to canals wide enough for freight boats to pass. The water in the wide canals was pumped into the Ijsselmeer, the Ijsel lake. The brothers looked at each other and the endless watery plain. Uncle Jan used sometimes a short sentence before he would state something profound.

“Hendrik,” he said, “it is here, sak mar sizze,just like it was were we came from, only worse.” He grinned at his brother an went on “before you and I retire in Huizum we have to do an awful lot of digging.”

The first man the walk to the island of Schokland through the reed covered sea bottom

Trenching under the watchful eye of a gang boss

Brothers in Poverty

Two brothers, Hendrik Smid, my father, and Jan Smid, my uncle, with limited education, left home early in life to make their living as farm-hands in strange villages. They worked hard and saved hard to better their lot, as they could not go any lower on the ladder of opportunity than working for a farmer in Fryslân. As children we heard heard horror stories from our fathers.

Uncle Jan, two years older than heit, married Roelofje Huisman and heit found our mother-to-be - Jacobje Roelevink, whom he married in 1930. Both brothers invested their savings in buying a small grocery store, and both went broke after only a few years. First uncle John and a few years later, in 1935, heit.

That happened in part because of the terrible economical times, the hungry thirties, and part of the fact that though they were hard workers, they were less cut out for business. Uncle Jan tried his luck in the farthest corner of the Netherlands, in Limburg, where good money was to be made in the coalmines, but they didn't hire.

After a time of bitter disappointment he returned to Fryslân and became our neighbor in Hijum, at a time that heit was struggling to keep his small investment afloat and worked in his spare time for farmer Pier Jippes digging potatoes, by hand. Uncle Jan joined him there and because they worked well together, they made a few times even more than twenty guldens a week. When the potato season was over, the brothers were unemployed again, and work was even scarcer toward wintertime, when unemployment went skyward as high as thirty percent, and Poverty was a regular and lasting visitor.

On their walks from one and of the village to the other, while talking about politics, religion, and miserly farmers, all the while smoking an empty tobacco pipe.

“This is no life,” said uncle Jan. “A man wants to work and there is no work. Do we all have to die first before Colijn finally does something for the poor worker? (Colijn was prime minister of the country and belonged also to the same church as both the brothers were members of. Heit defended Colijn, actually the PM was his hero as he was the party-leader of the Anti-Revolutionary party of which party heit was a member also. His brother Jan, though a regular churchgoer, was more of a socialist.

“Colijn,” he said once, “should have his leg twisted out of his body and be smashed with the bloody end for his snosterburger.” Uncle Jan was very forceful in his talk while heit polished it.

“You must think of principles too, Jan.” he cautioned his brother, but uncle Jan replied “My kids can't get a full stomach with that garbage.” They were politically far apart but knew that they were forced now to work at a Colijn made-work project – which in Fryslân was in the cesspit of watery clay outside of the sea dikes.

The work was hard. And dirty. Very hard and very dirty. Heit once said, “The slaves in America have a better live than we have.” Some workers thought that there was a political reason behind the work being that hard, that it was designed so the workers would be too tired to make trouble. There was a justification for that thought. All over Europe was an unrest that in many places had led to revolutions, and dead tired workers have no energy to cause trouble. Hard to figure in our time, but this was during the hungry thirties, in the Netherlands known as 'the crisis' years.

One group was to shovel the heavy wet clay into wheelbarrows, held by the next group who wheeled the barrow over narrow planks for a few hundred feet or more, 'your arms were sore from holding the load of a wheelbarrow heavy with wet clay, and at the end of that distance you had to take a run onto a ramp with an upward slope four or five feet high. So, when finally on top of the summer dike you were able to dump the load. That was how a summer dike was built, designed to stem the fall storm waters from flooding the newly won land.'

When a barrow slipped off the plank everybody behind him came to an abrupt stop and had to wait until the loaded barrow was pulled back on the plank again. All the time the weight of the load was hanging on your fingers, your hands, your arm, and your shoulders. Then you had to start up again, sliding, falling, and cursing as you went. 'Yes, cursing too, said my father, who I heard never swear.

Anyone protesting the inhumane working conditions were 'tamed,' like a dog. He was quickly separated, humiliated, and made inactive. His wife was made scared to lose her grocery money and lean on her husband as well, and in that way he would tone down and apologise. The protester was turned into a docile loser, licking the boots of his masters. He was 'tamed.'

The fortunate ones still having a job on dry land saw their wages cut by ten percent, then again by ten percent, sometimes by a third time from their already low wages. And the unemployed? They were sacrificed on the capitalist altar, hung between spades and shovels, only to be used when needed.

My father once said “Some of the old men were already dead-tired at morning coffee-time.” He was talking about forty-year old's. He himself was thirty-one then. He said “I think the slaves in America had it better than we had.”

"The still wet North-Eastern polder with Schokland far in the distance was not much better than outside the dikes of Fryslân, but we were promised more money. They kept their promise – with working hard we could earn 40 cents/hour instead of 29 !"—father

Then the German Wehrmacht rolled over the Dutch neutral border, at the same time that the North-Eastern polder was ready for cultivation, needing ground-workers, thousands of ground-workers to dig trenches and ditches for drainage of the entire polder, all of its 60.000 acres, and then finally a flicker of hope began to shine in the tired eyes of the two brothers. The year was 1940.

THE FIRST EIGHT GENERATIONS

Sometimes small things have a big impact on one's life, like the woman who I meet mostly every morning when I have breakfast in the Home bistro where I reside. Everyone in this home is friendly, so is she, but besides that she wishes me, with a friendly smile, a good morning, then lightly touches my shoulder. I am for more than eight years a widower and don't get touched by a woman-hand much. A lot of men, myself included, who find themselves in the situation of having lost a wife, miss that physical female contact. Some men feel a female touch as curative care, others feel it as a medicating sensation, even a cure-all, still others feel the touch of a woman as something pure and simply as wonderfully pleasant. I have felt it all.

Copy of birth certificate of FOKKE SMID my grandfather

During a sleepless night, which thank God very seldom happens, I was was busy with those thoughts, and on a rare occasion when I received a visit of my minister, or pastor as he likes to be called, the good man was unfortunate to ask me what had been the hardest thing that I had to give up in my life. I want it be known that I really like this pastor, and haven't got the slightest notion that his reason for this question was a malicious one. I answered him that there were three things that, for different reasons were hard for me give up – two of them were of my own choice, drinking and smoking, and the third was because of a circumstance and definitely not by choice, sex. That was when my dear wife Anne had passed away. The pastor was taken by surprise of me mentioning the intimate relationship between male and female by an old man like me, I think, and quickly turned to reading a part of the bible, a part that had very little to do with sex or the lack of it.

Why bring that subject up anyways? I will tell you. Five weeks ago I received word that the husband of one of the sisters of my wife had passed away in the Netherlands. He and my wife's sister were a loving couple and I wondered how she was coping with that loss. Then my thoughts wandered to my father when he became a widower and the number one concern seemed to be his lack of being able to brew a cup of coffee for himself, while I suspect that that was not the only reason. I was trying to formulate a comforting letter for my sister in law, but did not have her address. I called several times but got no answer, and yesterday via a a widow of Anne's cousin in the US, got a call that Anne's sister Ida had passed away as well.

Then I thought how important family is and how little we know of one's pains and problems, and how short the time is that we can be a comfort to each other. And now I go on with the little I know about the the first of the SMID generations because it is good for the future generations to know where they are from, knowing that their lives are also like 'a blink of an eye,' a very short time, in which to put a hand on someone's shoulder.

THE FIRST EIGHT GENERATIONS

1 Gerben, *1578 - ? is the first of the Smid generation. His wife is not known. We only know that he had at least one son whom he named Wytse Gerbens. The second name is after himself while the s behind Gerben denotes son, thus the name Wytse Gerbens stands for Wytse the son of Gerben. The year of Gerben's birth I have not entirely guessed, but calculated the average ages over ten generations which amounted to 32 years which I added to the birth year of his son Wytse Gerbens, of whom we know a little bit more.

2 Wytse Gerbens, *1690 - ? He was born in the small village of Terwispel in Fryslân. Who his wife is, we don't known, and neither when he died.

He rented his farmstead and land 1728, faring well, so that in 1732 he was already owner of two equal parcels of land, situated between two roads. He was considered a well to do farmer with 6 people over 12 years old, likely he and his wife and four sons. His taxes were assessed at 52 guldens and 19 cents.

He had at least three sons, of whom we know only Pieter, Hendrik, and Gerben, there must have been one more son , but the fourth child over twelve years could also have been a daughter. The only one of the three sons we know something more about is Hendrik.

3 Hendrik Wytses *1716- ? X Trijntje Johanna Postuma ? ? from Gorredijk. After the wedding the young couple are going to live at Lippenhuizen on the canal. Hendrik is a farmer but also a baker. They receive four children who all are baptized in the Dutch Reformed church.

'They are pleasant people who like a glass of wine,' is written of them.

They have one son, Johannes Hendriks.

4 Johannes Hendriks Smit1764-1876, X Wietske Hendriks from Terwispel. He takes, as the first one of our generations a family name, namely Smit. (My wife Anne chided me about this, saying her name, Smit, was the thru one.

Johannes is from Terwispel. When the mother of the bride is asked to sign as witness it appears that she cannot write, so she signs with a cross, which is then witnessed by an official, in order that the wedding can go on.

Johannes starts as a skipper when he is still a bachelor but does not very well, in the tax register he is mentioned as 'a skipper without any material possessions.' After his marriage he follows in the footsteps of his father as he dumps the boat and becomes a baker, and like his father he is not shy of a stiff drink. They are a happy and cheerful family. However, good times do not last very long in the heather community. Dark clouds loom again as the economy slows down, hitting the already financially unstable heather dwellers; still people must eat and Johannes Smit does not send them home without it. Though his clients severely promise to pay, they do not come forward with the cash since they haven't got it to give, which makes that Johannes loses his bakery, his second venture. He then the whole kitten-qua-boedel, including his family, to Wijnjeterp where he tries his luck as a small farmer.

Johannes Hendriks Smit joins the army around 1817.

Johannes and Wietske get four children, one of them dies very young and one out the survivors is Hendrik.

5 Hendrik Johannes Smid 1797 - ? X Grietje Sipkes de Boer 1802 - ?in 1795

6 Sipke Hendriks Smid 1831 - 1882 X Antje Roelofs van Houten 1833 - 1871in 1857

7 Fokke Smid *1869 – 1949 X Aukje Slofstra 1873 - 1956 in 1897

8 Hendrik Smid *1904- 1989 X Jacobje Roelevink 1908 – 1975in 1930

9 LEFFERT Smid *1931 - ? X Anne Smit *1935 – 2008in 1955

10 Janice 1957, Deborah 1959, Leonard 1961, Jacqueline 1965

11 Mark Dustin Alexis Dylan

11 Jesse Tyler

12

Rylee

Rylee really did her very best to loosen up our rusty bones; she made us work out while we were sitting in a comfortable armchair in a semi-circle around her. It was a pleasure for me to engage in this activity.

“Sit up straight” she commands. We sit up straight, roll our shoulders backward and down, pulling the chest upward, as straight as our body allows.

“March your feet.” We march.

“Move your arms like Popeye.” We imitate Popeye while eyeing Rylee for the right moves. Wow, she makes for a great Popeye. But here she is, asking difficult questions, but gives the answers as well.

“Why do we fall? We've lost our balance, so we must quickly counteract to resist the fall; that is why we do these exercises, right? Prevention is the best medicine.”

 It's not all old people at Menno Place!

There is something about Rylee that intrigues and mystifies me; I really couldn't put my finger on it what it was. It had to do with her smile. Her smile is not ordinary. At one time I thought it to be mischievous, and part of it is, I think, though not in a negative sense. Sometimes it is a fleeting smile, then it is a lingering facial expression, that is somewhere between lovely and sweet, but bewildering to me. One time I thought that she really smiled at me. And so we sit for half an hour taking preventive medicines from the energetic twenty-four year old and love it. Meanwhile Rylee is searching on her Apple-thing for the next torture, to be applied to our unwilling bodies, which rightfully should be administered to humans half our age.

My wife dragged me one time to Paris France, where we 'did,' among other things, the Louvre and walked by the famous painting 'the' Mona Lisa. I was familiar with the painting, but seeing it face to face, I was not greatly impressed. Walking by the very famous Lisa, her renowned smile did not move me, but the smile of our fitness instructor did. Whereas the 'enigmatic and mysterious' smile of Mona Lisa left me cold, the smile of Rylee stirred and baffled me, and I wondered why.

And than the secret manifested itself – the smile never FAILED to appear after a single word which she stretched to 'relaaax.' I waited for her to say that word again and did not have to wait long.

“Hold that position for five seconds. Five, four, three, two, one”, (and there it was,) and - relaaax.” Her smile was like a Boston pizza with a generous topping of the finest Dutch Gouda cheese and the sweetest Hawaiian pineapple, with a touch of a wicked Italian sausage. Bon appetite!

Rylee, now a personal few words. I have learned MORE from you than how to wiggle my toes and pull the ears over on the other side of my head, even though without your exercises I would not have been able to.

You were sharing, without mentioning it outright, what makes YOUR generation tick. I came closer to understanding my grandchildren and their generation in which they and you live. You are a wonderful person, blessed with many gifts, one of which is the God given smile you so eagerly shared with us.

I thank you yet for taking us on a bus tour to the unforgettable Westminster Abby in Mission in which the monks so solemn and melodiously chanted; the deliciously tasting sandwiches and coffee in the park on that beautiful sunshine day; and for the most interesting tour through the Abbotsford museum.

During that bus tour you showed your many talents of organising and directing; I thank you also for sharing your plans to travel the world, young people style – carrying only a rucksack as baggage, without a planned destination, now that, as you put it, 'you can swim across a lake and climb a mountain,' not waiting until you have made money but are old and have to walk with the help of a walker – like us.

I THANK GOD that our paths were allowed to cross and wish you on your grand trip Gods nearness and comfort as HE, I'm sure will show you HIS WORLD. Now we have to say goodbye.

Goodbye is an old Germanic-English blessing which means GOD BE WITH YOU.

So, when we now bid you goodbye Rylee, we really say GOD BE WITH YOU, till we meet again.

Potato Seekers

Today we had potatoes, as part of our lunch. Small potatoes. Some not bigger than a marble.

potato-harvest-by-hand

Potato harvesting during the hungry thirties (de crisis jaren) The men in the picture are not known to me.. The potatoes might be borgers of eerstelingen. (Check with brother Frank.)

When I was a little tyke and mother wanted me out of the way for an afternoon, my father took me sometimes along to the field where he worked, in contract, harvesting potatoes. By hand. Mother had then at least one less to look after. I was four years old then, my sister Aukje was three, brother Frank* (Fokke) one, and - mother was pregnant with baby Jan (John). We didn't know at that time if he was a he or a she of course. Had he been a she, her name would likely have been Durkje, after mother's mother, and brother Durk's name might've been Jan. This not necessarily pure speculation, because name giving went by rules and was taken very serious. My mother was 26 at that time, had thus three children and one on the way, therefore had still lots to look after, even when I was out of the way for a few hours. She also had to tend the little grocery store they owned, however the store likely did not take up too much of her time since they shortly after went broke and sold out to Foeke  Bijma, who operated the business for several years.

What I wanted to tell you though, was about the potato harvesting I witnessed my father doing. He worked on his knees, since potatoes do not, like apples grow on trees, but more like peanuts are found in the ground. The potatoes not only had to be scratched out from under the heavy clay, but had to be sorted according to size in three different baskets - one for the large potatoes, called consumption or eating potatoes - one for the medium sized, the seed potatoes, - and one for what they called the kriel, the offal, or waste potatoes. Kriel were a nuisance to the farmer because, if left behind, they, like a seed potato would sprout and become a new plant – only an inferior one.

It was also a pain in the but for my father, since the farmer would inspect the field for kriel and if he found too many, might deduct some off father's wages. Kriel potatoes were only good for one thing – feed for the pigs.

So today we had kriel potatoes as part of our lunch. My father, were he still alive would have shaken his head in unbelief. 'Well, well, my son is eating kriel, and he thought he had immigrated to a country overflowing with milk and honey. We had it bad during the hungry thirties but we never had to resort to swine feed.'

Potatoes as far as you can see

Smid Generations

This time not a story or fairy tale, but some facts about our forebears of the Smid line, which goes back to the late 1500th's!

1 GERBEN Around 1585 a baby saw for the first time in his life into the eyes of his mother. Who she was we do not know. Her child's name however, was Gerben, and that is all we know about our first known forefather. The baby Gerben in time got married with who, we again don't know, but became the father of at least one male child, whom he named Wytse Gerbens, (the s after the second name stands for son, in other parts of the world the name would have been Gerbenson,) thus Wytse Gerbens was the a son of Gerben, our first forebear, who was born approximately in 1585. The reason that we do not know for sure that date we can blame on those who destroyed the baptism records of the Roman Catholic church.

2 WYTSE GERBENS,1690- ? , from Terwispel, between Drachten and Heerenveen in Fryslan, X (stands for married) ? from ? They had at least one son Hendrik Wytses. The name of his wife again is unknown.

3 HENDRIK WYTSES, 1730- ? from Terwispel, X TRIJNTJE JOHANNA POSTUMA 1760 - ? from Gorredijk; they got four children, Antje, Johannes, Willemke, and Tjerkje.

4 JOHANNES HENDRIKS SMIT, 1764- ? from Lippenhuizen, X WYTSKE HENDRIKS, 1678 - ?, from Terwispel, in 1795. They got also four children, Hendrik Johannes, Jan George, Jan George, and Tsjitske. Jan George died very young so the following baby received the same name.

5 HENDRIK JOHANNES SMID, 1797- ? from Lippenhuizen, X GRIETJE SIPKES DE BOER, 1802- 1876 fromDuurswoude, in 1826; they got six children, Betje, Wytske, Sipke Hendrik, Grietje, Janke, and Johannes.

6 SIPKE HENDRIKS SMID, 1831-1882 from Lippenhuizen, X ANTJE ROELFS van HOUTEN, 1833-1871 from Haulerwijk; they got five children, Grietje, Hendrik, Roelofje, Betje, and Fokke.

My grandparents, Fokke Smid and Aukje Slofstra

7 FOKKE SMID, 1869-1949 from Duurswoude, X AUKJE SLOFSTRA 1873-1956 from Haulerwijk, in 1897. they got nine children, one daughter and eight sons, Lumke, Sipke, Jan, Hendrik, Anne, Bernardus, Roelof, Daniel, and Bertus.

8 HENDRIK SMID 1904-1989 from Donkerbroek, X Jacobje Roelevink 1908-1975 from Mirns- Bakhuizen, in 1930. They got seven children, Leffert, Aukje, Fokke, Jan, Sipke, Durk, and Anne.

9 LEFFERT SMID, 1931- ? from Hijum Fr., X Anje Smit, 1935-2008 from Zeerijp Gr., in 1955. They got four children, Janice Ida, Deborah Grace, Leonard Hendrik, and Jacqueline Audrey.

10 Janice Ida Smidborn 1957 in Winnipeg, Man. Canada married in 1981Erwin van Diermen, born 1957, from Victoria BC. They have five children, Mark, Dustin, Alexis, Dylan, and Tara

11 Mark Leonard van Diermen born 1978 in Richmond BC,marriedLaura Leigh, they have three children gen 12

11 Dustin Tijmen van Diermen born 1982 in Langley BC, married Denée Kerbrat, they have four children, gen. 12

11 Alexis Elisabeth-Anne, born 1988 in Langley BC, married Aaron Toews, they have one child, gen.12

11 Dylan Erwin, born 1988 in Abbotsford BC, married Natasha Mollison, they have two children, gen 12

10 Deborah Grace Smid, born 1959 in Vancouver,BC, married in 1979 Randy Williams, born 1958,

from Vancouver BC. They got three children, Katie Anne, Christopher John, and Megan Elyse, gen. 11.

They divorced each other and then remarried.

Randy married Nena Sadavol, theylive in Mexico, had one daughter together, who tragically passed away.

10 Deborah married Allan McLeod, theylive in Devon (Philadelphia)USA.

11 Katie Anne, born in 1980 in Vancouver BC, is in a relation with Peter Bushell. They have one boy, Lennin, gen. 12, who is two years old, and named in part after my deceased son Len.

11 Christopher John, born 1982 in Vancouver BC, is up to now single.

11 Megan Elyse, born 1988 in Vancouver BC, married in 2016 with Justin Nodecker from Hope BC. They have a daughter, Georgia Mae, gen. 12, who is two.

10 Leonard Hendrik Smid, born 1961 in Vancouver BC, died in Boil Alberta in 1979

10 Jacqueline Audrey Smid, born 1965 in Vancouver BC married in 19 Allen J Nielsen, born 1964 in

Vancouver BC. They got two children, Jesse Daniel, and Tyler Allen, gen 11.

11 Jesse Danielborn 1988, is not in a relationship so far, or am I mistaken Jesse?

11 Tyler Allen born 1991, is thus far in no relationship either, as far as I know, love you both

9 AUKJE SMID, born 1930 in Hijum Fr., X MARTEN HEIDA born 1929 in Echten Fr., they have six children, Jacobje (Cobie), Jan, Hendrik Anne, Ruurd Pieter, Fertile, and Femmigje Elisabeth, gen.10.

9 FOKKE (Frank) SMID, born 1934, from Hijum Fr., X HILDA van LEYEN, from Hattum Neth, they got three children, Ellen, Hendrik, and Esmé, gen. 10. Their children aregeneration 11, and their children are gen. 12. Frank will further straighten things out.

9 JAN (JOHN) SMID, born 1935 in Leeuwarden Fr., X SAARTJE (SARINA) van HEYST, they got three children Howard, Linda, and Beverly, gen. 10. John can figure it out further.

9 SIPKE (SIDNEY) SMID, 1937 in Hijum Fr., X AUDREY van der HOEK; from Richmond BC; they got four children, Audrey, Jacqueline, Hendrik, and Paula gen. 10

9 DURK SMID, born 1944 in Oosterzee Fr, X ANTONIA STAM from Zwolle, Neth.; they got their first child, Henrietta, in the Netherlands, the other four in Canada, Henk Allen, Sandra Jacqueline, Corwin Jason, and Marcel, gen.10. The children of gen. 10 are gen. 11(duh), and their children gen 12

9 ANNE SMID, born 1946 in Heerenveen Fr., X Froukje de Vries 1946 from Ens NOP in 1970, they have no children.

Most of this information I have from uncle Bernardus Smid, who got his knowledge from his brothers, including my father Hendrik Smid, and we know that even though our father was great in many things, in accuracy he was as bad as I am. Therefore, allow for mistakes and omissions. The reason I went through all this work (trouble) is to find out how many names Beppe Aukje Smid nee Slofstra every night brought before the throne of God, as was mentioned many times by her daughter and sons, and how long that would take her.

Uncle Bernardus estimated she had including the in-laws about three hundred to petition but that was mentioned several years after grandmother's dead in 1956, anyone born after 1956 are of course not included, for she never knew them. Beppe was a very loving person, she was a great mother and grandmother, and after her dead one of her sons said that 'a mother of Israel' was taken away from them. What he really meant with that exactly I don't know, but since everyone did concur with that statement proves that he could not have stated it any better.

I have only included the line from the fourth child of my grandparents, Fokke and Aukje Smid, the line of Hendrik (and Jacobje Smid,) gen. 8; the army of cousins that are not counted, (the offspring of my father Hendrik's brothers and sister) would fill many, many more pages, and will only be mentioned as they appear in future stories. When Henrietta, the oldest daughter of Durk and Tony Smid, gen.10, got married, I calculated that by the year 2000, a century after my grandparent's Fokke and Aukje Smid's (gen. 7) wedding, beppe Aukje Smid (in-laws included,) would have to have 2000 names to bring before the throne of grace. So far I have not been able to locate those notes.