ANNEKE DOUMA

I was born in a small village in the north of Fryslân and since Fryslân has become since the fifteen-hundreds a province of the Netherlands my birthplace is as far north in the Netherlands as you can get. Beyond its four islands broods the wild North sea. I have never visited any of them but one of my brothers, Durk has, when he served in Her Majesty's dutch army, and where he in his spare time of soldiering found himself a nice girlfriend, whom he in due time married as well.

The small village was and still is called Hijum, pronounced He-as in help, -yum.

This story was published in the Frisian language in the Friesch Dagblad in 2003 after a strange event. About twenty years ago I tried my hand at writing in the English language. I was lucky to get help of a very nice American born young woman firing me on.

I was as proud as a peacock that she was even taking an interest in me and worked like crazy to get a great story together, which when it was finished I proudly handed to her for what I thought was going to be a ten out of ten, at a family picnic.

She just glanced through it, gave it back to me, and between a mouthful of Kentucky chicken and a coke crashed my ego by saying

“Lex, this is crap, you don't know our language, why don't write in your own?”

I was not only blown from a high tower – she killed me, body and soul.

It set me back a year.

After that 'sabbatical' I thought why not ? Why not write in my own tongue, Frisian, and as a farmer in a hay-field spotting a rainstorm in the making, wrote furiously and as sometimes happens I had luck to meet a learned cousin, no, not a good-looking woman, but a warmhearted man, cousin Jan Smid, son of uncle Bernardus, who took a sample of my stories to a daily newspaper in Fryslân, where they eventually got published.

The short story following was my firstborn, translated out of the Frisian language.

So there, Dr. Goodlookinga, what do you say now.

Anneke Douma
a rather short short story by Lex Smid

Anneke was a wonderful, ahead of her age, little girl. She knew more than all others of her age before she went to elementary school and even jumped a class. She out-classed me by far. I played only a few times with her, but since she was better than me in almost everything I shied away from her. But not only about that.

There was a problem with her mom, more specific her mom's name, I did not really know how to address her mother, every time I wanted to say Frou Douma as I was thought to do , I was scared it would come out as a swear word. Thus instead of taking the risk to swear I just mumbled something, though I always had to think about that that bad word ferdomme.

You will not find it in the dictionary because it is a swear word and it is in the Frisian language, so don't try.

But because it was always in my mind, one time it just dropped out of my mouth and I never went back to Anneke's house again.

But I am ahead of the story. Anneke was a cheerful and lively little girl. Very lively, her curled hair danced up and down every time she moved, and she moved a lot.

“Come with me,” she said, pulling me under the kitchen table where she had put the doormat. “This is our island, and all around it is the sea. Watch out! Your leg is in the water,” she said while pulling my leg out of the water, and whispered secretive

“We are all alone, no one can see us.” her eyes glistened and her breath was warm against my ear. Our island mat was was tiny and my leg started tingling and felt like a rubber pipe, and it was stuck against the table leg.

It was coffee time and the brothers of Anneke came home for a snack. One stated kicking me asking what I did there with his sister under the table. Anneke pulled me away from him right up against the wall. She forgot the island and both of us were now sitting in the water, I was now even closer together with Anneke and she put her hands over my ear.

“We have a secret and nobody else knows it” she whispered. I looked at her in surprise, but her head went hotly up and down, saying yes, and her curls danced even faster.

“Say that we have a secret,” she demanded.

“We have a secret,” I said, adding “and no one else knows it,” as I had heard her say.

Anneke's parents moved to another town, after her dad had words with the farmer he worked for, and he owned the house the Douma's lived in. After that I never saw her again.

It took me a long time to understand what we had together, because I didn't know what a secret was. Later I learned what a secret was of course but up to today I still don't know what the secret was, that Anneke and I had together.

And what happened to the good-looking American young woman? She was already a professor on a University, but earned the letters Dr. before her name as well not too long ago.

That is how things fare in life, one goes up in status, another down to an old-age home.

Am I jealous of her? Let me say this, I owe her a lot, like her a lot, but she, like Anneke, was ahead of me, and with these letters in front of her name shielding her, is now out totally out of reach, but not forgotten.

And what happened to Anneke?

A few years ago I ran in to her on a cruise ship, where she was entertaining, Anneke had become a famous singer. She did not remember our adventure under the table though.

I might've been a different person than Anneke with the same name as her I met on that great ship.

Ye gain some ye loose some.

Anyways, until we meet again, I wish you all the best, Lex

Do it on the Duet

We had a man to man talk, Dale and I, and as man-talk frequently is about women, we talked about women as we rode the duet bike through the pastoral farm fields of our city in the country. Dale did the peddling from the rear of the duet, which is actually a tricycle, as was pointed out to me, while I did the sitting up the front, and in this fashion we had our manly conversation. As mentioned, about women. Our own women of course. 

In between our conversation Dale pointed to the low-hanging ash clouds against the mountains, which originated in Oregon and California, and the rows of capital farm-houses, showing the owner's welfare, obtained by the products growing around their places, blue - and rasp-berries. Dale even spotted a field of blue grapes on the Canadian side of Zero ave. 

Young kids on small bikes, doing a 12 km distance, swarmed by like a flight of swallows, assaulting the silent morning air with their hyped up cries, but came to an abrupt halt at a stop sign at a busy street, waiting patiently until it was safe to pass, then as one roared off again.

Sparse motor vehicles made a wide berth around us and only when the road was clear did we return to our man-talk. I did most of the talking I'm afraid, because Dale did all the heavy work, interrupting the man-talk only when he saw something interesting on the way while keeping the paddles going. 

I didn't know Dale Carlisle as well as I knew his wife and her mainly through my daughter the American, Debbi Williams McLeod. Both were, beside best friends, members of a Sweet Adeline Chorus and together with two other members sang at our fiftieth wedding anniversary in April 2005.

Dale Carlisle, a lifelong cyclist, is a recreation therapist at Menno Place who supports those living with dementia through a walking program, a woodworking club and the new Duet bike initiative, at Menno Place. He recently drove 1,700 km through four western provinces to raise awareness of Alzheimer's disease, set in motion when a close friend of his own age was diagnosed with a rapid form of this disease. 

“I wanted to to do something more, I wanted to make a difference,” he said.

I learned during this relative short trip Dale as a compassionate and capable person who is a friend to the unfortunate, and am honored to be his friend. I may well become one of the people with dementia he supports through his programs, and should this happen I would not hesitate to be enrolled in his programs, because he is a dedicated man who cares.

I trust him, completely.

Men like Dale do make a difference.

So does the bus driver who lend me his warm long-sleeved jacked to wear during the ride.

I will not forget easy the ride, making my small contribution to the MCC society – sitting down.

When Dale peddled us back to the Tradex Convention Center, where MCC held their annual collection and auction feast, hoping to get a million dollars together to help the home- and country-less, we were welcomed by the first fast bikers who had 25 and 50 km behind them, but had started earlier, and – of course, the photographers.

Trough gestures we were asked to smile at our arrival but my mouth being cold would not cooperate and stubbornly stuck to a grimace. 

And what we were talking about during our trip?

Didn't I tell you that we talked about women, meaning our women, well that is what we did.

Only two years after our wedding anniversary my wife, having been stricken by ALS and being wheelchair bound, and I, drove to Mission Hill's park, overlooking the Fraser river, to hear a concert by the Sweet Adeline's with Dale's wife and our daughter participating.

Leigh, Bonnie, Roxanne and Debbie after winning the silver medal at Sweet Adeline's International 2009

It was going to be the last time that my wife and I were going out together to an event. 

The evening had reached the point that one can almost feel the quiet, the dark sneaked slowly in and mist fogged the banks of the river, the first stars already winked.

Anne and I enjoyed the unique sound of the Sweet Adeline's blending in with the stillness and loosing itself far, far away, in the tree tops. The dusk of the evening adding to the fairy-tale ambiance, when we heard the director announcing a solo by one of the members.

I heard only part of what she said -

“... with her beautiful voice will sing 'the River'...”

A slender silhouette appeared at the darkened front of the stage, who, with a pleasantly clear voice penetrated the dusk with that unforgettable, bewitching song.

During the long pause, following her beautiful rendition, her voice still resting on our mind, and just before the restrained applause, Anne proudly whispered

“That is our daughter Debbie.” 

The spring following the chorus was present also at the funeral of Anne, my dear wife, singing the same song, so loved by us both, but now the solo was going to be sung by Dale's wife Roxanne. She had requested my daughter Debbi to ask me not to look at her, and I did not look at her, but heard her sing to honor my deceased wife and our entire family, in front of a filled church with a clear unwavering voice 'the River.'

It was then that finally I shed tears.

You never know where men really talk about, when they talk about women. Sometimes it is about things one never forgets.

Helen, The End

She was an goodlooking woman cleaning tables after lunch at the Pavillion, belying her age which must've been well over eighty and a resident of the building in which I live.

She smiled when our eyes met and the tone of her voice reminded me of favorite aunt, clear yet mellow as she said

“You speak my language.” I answered by telling her where in Fryslân I was born and raised, and from there on we chatted most every day in our mother tongue.

She was in a state of dementia, I learned, that made her feel lost lost whence outside and when asked to accompany her on her walks to the Lake a few times a week, I accepted.

We made are a fine pair I thought, here I was taking care of a woman who was likely older than me, but fitter, and unlike me walked without a cane or walker faster than me.

A frightful thought struck me though, what if she ran away, I saw scary as wel as a comical scene of an old man, steadying himself on a walker, chasing a much fitter old woman.

On our walks to the Lake we exchange a few words in the Frisian tongue witch made her eyes light up every time. Talk went easier than walk for me and I was glad that after a twelve minutes walk we were at the end destination - the Lake, where eight empty benches in a semi-circle invited weary walkers to sit and enjoy the scenery of the lake with geese and ducks and their brood making long lines over the water without rippling it. I was happy to collapse on the bench while Elisabeth remained standing, patiently waiting.

“Don’t you want to sit down for a while, Elisabeth?”

“Sit down for what?”

“Aren’t you tired?”

“We hardly walked.” I asked if she noticed the geese on the water.

“There are a lot more on the other side of the lake.” I cleaned my glasses; she was right, there must've been at least fifty over there, and Helen did not wear eyeglasses either, I noticed.

On the way back a wonderful surprise awaited us, as we wander right into Elizabeth’s old friend, accompanied by her daughter. What a joyful reunion, as the two women, recognizing each other, happily embrace. It is a small world. The daughter of Elizabeth’s friend tells me that her brother is married to Elizabeth’s daughter. On the way back I ask Elisabeth if it was her son or her daughter who had married into her friend’s family.

“I don’t know,” she said, “that was some time ago.”

When a few days later I called on Elisabeth there was a sign on her door saying AWAY.

The day after I remarked that I had called on her, but that she obviously had gone. I did not ask any questions, but got a surprise when she volunteered that she had been with her family.

“It is good for the family to be together; I am here and they are there, we don’t see each other. That is not good.”

Half a block toward the Lake is a playground for small children. Across the street is a large park with grassfields shaded by towering trees and – washrooms, to where a young mother prods her little girl, when the girl spots a colorful flower. Mother calls but the little girl has to pick the beautiful yellow dandelion, intently inspecting it before throwing it away. Helen watches the girl closely while mother is getting impatient.

Her little daughter spots a bird now, a very black crow. She scampers to catch it and bird obviously used to children lets the girl come close before it hops away. The girl runs after it, the crow waits, and at the very last moment skips away again. Mother meanwhile calls the little one more forceful to come to the bathroom but her child is too busy hunting.

A second crow wants to get into the play as well, confusing the girl. She looks from one to the other, ignoring Mother, she runs for the crows.

That is the last straw for the mother, she dashes to her daughter and takes by the arm to the bathroom. The girl screams, and then I hear Elisabeth laugh. She laughs loud and clear. I had no idea that she could laugh, which is silly of course, but this was the first time I heard her laughing heartily.

We pass by a house with an apple tree in the front. There are lots of apples on the tree and also some on the ground. Elisabeth finds a nice apple in the grass and then another one. But wait, she finds yet another one, then realizes she has only two pockets, one for each apple. I suggest to put all three apples in the basket of my walker. She agrees, but then, upon our return I forgot to leave them with her.

We watch a squirrel busily running around gathering food for the winter near the entrance of West Terrace after our walk to the lake, then take a five minute rest inside. I have a coffee and Elisabeth takes a mug with hot water. “That keeps you healthy,” she says.

After that I look for the squirrel but it has long gone.

“What has gone?”

“The squirrel.”

“What is a squirrel?” I describe the rat-like animal with a bushy tail that we watched just before.

“A rat with a bushy tail? That sure is a funny rat, I never seen a rat like that before.“ She still has a surprise for me, though. When we enter the side door of the Pavilion, she takes out her own key-chain and opens the door for me. That makes me warm inside. A small wonder?

“Thank you Elisabeth.” She does not notice that her apples are staying in my basket.

“You’re welcome.” The following morning I call on her and show her the three apples. Her face is a question mark.

“You can make applesauce with them.”

“These are your apples I”

“I forget things too, sometimes. We are all getting old, I think,” she smiles.

After coming back from church one Sunday, somebody dropped her off at the Pavilion, but instead of disappearing immediately to her room, as she usually does, she takes a seat in one of the easy chairs of the entrance hall. I ask her if she has been to church, mentioning that she wears her ‘Sunday clothes.’

“I don’t know, somebody picked me up, I think.” That was last year. How much can change in one year.

Because Elisabeth has become more and more confused, she is being escorted to the dining room by a healthnurse, as she has trouble even in our own building finding her way. She still walks without stroller or cane.

“I think there is something not right in my head. It feels funny, things that I should know I don’t know anymore. It is empty in my head. I never had that before.”

Today, Sunday, she came all dressed up down to the entrance hall, were she waited for someone to pick her up to go to church.

But no one showed up.

Grandparents Day 2017

Wow what a day it was, sure people came in rain clothes, but did anybody care of the soft summer shower caressing the happy crowd?

All I heard was happy sounds and laughter. The children had more than a great time finding puddles to stamp their boots in, with an ice cream in the hand on the way to bouncing castles, balloon twisting, face painting, live animals, and all kinds of games, contradicting that today's kids do not play anymore. 

I saw young children chasing one another yet staying with the groups they arrived with, petting goats and rabbits, a few found even a small puddle of escaped rainwater in the bouncing castle, providing extra entertainment by bouncing right in it. What an unexpected pleasure.

And then there was Mr Ernie Poignant, a resident of Primrose, who never misses a great event, still drawing a crowd at 98, sketching individual cartoons of people, including mine.

I printed my initials L S on a fresh sheet of paper as he directed and asked what my favorite animal was. The initials became part of the drawing and my favorite animal, a cow, became the subject. Mr. Poignant smudged her nose a bit and after drawing me had me ask in the caption 'what happened to to that snout of yours?' The cow answers 'blame that ol' cartoonist.' 

The staff of Menno Place organizing the event did all the hard work like setting up tables and chairs for the visitors, cooking the food and serving it. A fine idea was, I thought, to hold the entire event in the court yard so the patients living in the Home could participate as well.

The only screw-up was mine. Entirely. I had told my daughter that the event started at one,

while the actual starting time was at eleven am. Two of her sons (my grandchildren) with their households participated, even though another family-event in town, having to do with their business, was held at the same time. Love you guys. 

At the end of the feast a tall woman on stilts graciously maneuvered among the crowd, I wondered how was she coming down from that height, but at the same time thought how nice it would be to appear on a picture with her, together with the first of the two households whom belatedly arrived, which was not their doing but my inaccurate information. 

I own no camera but had just talked to a nice photographer who only a few minutes ago left. Where was she when I so sorely needed her?

But then, the staff member who never fails arrived at the scene with a camera, took the included in this story, thereby saving the day. Thank you Pearl.

I asked the stilted lady how she was going to come down from that lofty height, she graciously bowed her head a little down toward me, as if she was going to share a great secret, but smiling mysteriously said

“I will get down as I went up,” and on her way she went, but not before Pearl took this wonderful shot of the family Dylan and Natasha van Diermen.

From the left – Dylan and his son, then the lady on stilts, next the one with the hat, me, and next to me the wife of Dylan, Natasha, with their youngest son on her arm. Their youngest son has curly blond hair, the kind my baldness should greatly improve with, however...

If you look close you see a stick ending half ways on my left arm, that is my putter, now a constant companion.

My grandson Dylan is as tall as a beautiful lady I know in Fryslân, and that lady is again as beautiful as the woman on my right. 

When my oldest grandson, Mark van Diermen, who sports spotty gray hairs in his beard, arrived with his beautiful wife Laura, together with their beautiful daughter Deah, whose first word as a baby was 'no' and the second 'hockey,' and their son Max, named after his father Mark and after myself Lex.

I felt really bad, but was able to show all of them them our new putting greens, including the secret disappearing act of the golf balls at the fifth hole, only to reappear at the second green, three feet lower, after traveling some twenty feet underground and crossing a busy side walk, which amazed them all.

I have a special bond with all my grandchildren but with Mark an extra special one as he and Laura greatly honored me to officiate their marriage before God, family, and friends.

We were lucky to find the bistro open where we had at least a dry and quiet spot to have something to drink and eat, and touch bases again.

Mark and Laura have still another gorgeous and intelligent daughter Tauny, who supports herself by working full time, and still bagging the highest awards at school.

The two brothers are blessed to work at the same family business together with still another brother Dustin, who owns the successful business with his parents Erwin and Janice van Diermen, which was started by their other grandfather Mr. Art van Diermen, who recently passed away.

He started the business in the 1950's. 

Grandparents day 2017 was, in spite of drizzling rain, and misinformation, again a great success, with many looking forward to the next one.

Reunion of Helen and Lolke

“How far do you think it is from eastern Ontario to the lower mainland of BC,” asked Doede Jr. his mother, as he saw a look in her eyes he had never seen before.

“Had I said about as far as to the moon she would've said lets go,” he later told his wife, but to the excited Helen he said

“It is as far as from Amsterdam to Moscow,” which really astounded Helen.

“And back,” he added, but said he had a plan, a plan that needed the cooperation of all.

With the help of his in-laws he unfolded what he had in mind. His suggestion was to rent a motor home to travel to BC. He figured that two weeks would be sufficient to drive back and forth and have a few days visiting Lolke. If - they could find him.

“I have talked it over with my wife, Doede Jr. said, who would've liked to come along but two weeks away from her parents of the four weeks holiday was cutting it just a bit too deep, she would rather stay with her parents, but urged her husband to take his mother to BC.”

“As long as you come back,” she said.

“I will,” he said.

In spite of his mother, who would've traveled right through the night, it was a nice trip that both enjoyed. Helen liked the fastness of the prairies the best because it reminded her of wide expanse of the green meadows of her home country. They progressed well and did even better than they thought they would.

Meanwhile Lolke had made the short walk to what was now a cornfield, to take a last look at the fine crop before he went to bed, entered the house from the rear. He did not see the motor home half ways in the driveway, and when he he did see it from the living room his thankful mood changed to annoyance. No one was supposed to come this late in the evening at a farm no matter what the reason. His tone of voice was blunt when he asked

“Can I help you with anything?” Doede Jr. hearing the gruff voice answered coldly in return

“No, you can't do anything for me, but maybe you can for my mother.”

Lolke got upset, and when he got really upset, he stuttered. He quickly advanced to that point as he wanted to go to bed and these – these – strangers …

He was going to tell them to get off his property but could not find the right words. He stuttered – and stuttered - then tried swearing - but stumbled even more - when Helen stepped out of the truck, tears coming out of her eyes as she said one word - “Lolke...”

As if struck by lightning Lolke stumbled backwards.

Time stood still, his arms automatically unfolded while he cried in his mother-tongue

“Bist thou dat Helen?” Is it truly you?

They fell into each others arms crying and crying, while their memories went back fifty years, they did not stop until Doede Jr. showed himself asking

“Is there a place around here where one can get a cup of coffee?”

It was inside that the tongues came loose and did not stop until deep in the night and when Lolke opened a bottle of Beerenburg, a delicious Frisian drink, they started all over again.

“I don't have to milk tomorrow morning,” said Lolke.

While the threesome had brunch in town the following morning Doede Jr. shared a carefully thought-out plan with them.

“I have to bring the motor home back but you, Mr. Harkema, and my mem mother have a lot to talk about together, so I would suggest that mem stays with you to have a proper visit together and I will call my wife to fly over here and drive back with me to her parent's place in Ontario.”

“Ya, but what will the people say,” protested Helen.

“There was a time that we didn't care much about what people said,” chuckled Lolke.

“But then we were young.”

“Now we are wiser. We should be anyways. I am all for it Doede. Any time she is homesick – on the plane she goes, but I hope she won't,” and then Helen couldn't hold back her tears.

Doede Jr,'s plan worked.

Helen stayed longer than she was going to, as they enjoyed being together.

And then they made their own plans. The were making trips together and on one of the first ships, the ss Westerdam of the Holland America line, they got married because Lolke wanted to make a trip to Africa to meet the daughter he had never seen, and though they were satisfied to living together, Helen insisted they should be married when visiting Johanna.

After all she was a missionary, who did not need a mother living in sin, as she put it.

Their plan was to live four months in Canada and four months in Fryslân. The rest of the year would be spent in Africa, or the Holy land or at Lolke's seven sons.

And for a few years everything went according to as they had planned but then Lolke noticed a very subtle change in Helen's behavior which worsened over time and had unmistakably the signs of dementia, and after a heartbroken Lolke was unable to take care of her anymore, she was finally placed in a local care home.

And that is where I finally met Helen.

We were living quite close together on the the second floor of the same building, and as she was born in Fryslân where I was born as well I often spoke a few words with her in our mother tongue, which we both enjoyed .

Helen was not the blond wavy haired young woman who danced through the village anymore, her hair was still wavy, but gray. Though older than I, she walked upright without the support of a walker, and she was definitely a woman worthy of a second look.

She had joined a walking club of which I was a member as well, but when her best friend could not take care of her self anymore Helen's sense of direction left her and outside of our building got confused.

It was then that one of her daughters asked me to walk with her, and from thereon in I did.

Lolke and Helen

When Lolke found a dead man in his field his first thought was - a homeless man, but Harke, his son, figured differently.

“I bet you that he is one of these guys from the East looking for magic mushrooms. And he is probably gored by our bull, Dad.”

“Do these things grow out here, I've never seen them around.”

“I didn't say they grow out here, but wouldn't be surprised if they did though.”

“What are we doing with him?”

“We better call the cops.”

The police found a bag of the hallucination making mushrooms and took the body of the man and his treasure away.

The local press made a news report about the affair and the bull was put in his stall.

Nothing more was heard about it until a local dutch language monthly asked Lolke for an interview which they published shortly after, together with a photograph of Lolke leaning over the fence pretending to stare over the field in which he had found the dead man.

Thousands of miles away the widow Harkema, as Helen is known, now in her late sixties but looking much younger, is contemplating her life. She was in her mid thirties when her husband Doede passed away and she became not only a young widow but also a well to do one.

Towns people like to talk, and not always negatively, they were one in their opinion that that Helen was a fine looking woman to make a single man not only proud but also even more well to do.

Her father had cautioned her to not make up her mind too fast about another man, but to find out what she herself wanted to do with her life, and this time Helen listened to him while putting out feelers here and there what to do, without really making up her mind, and in that manner one year after an other passed without her pursuing anything different from what she was doing – bringing up her two children.

After high-school Helen arranged for Johanna to attend the best university she could think off, the Free University in Amsterdam, the flagship of the Reformed church, to which Helen's parents belonged and she grew up in. It had been the worst decision she could have made.

The university was alright but it was located in Amsterdam, far from Johanna's home town, and Amsterdam was not.

She got in with a wrong crowd, did drugs and when the money ran out, prostituted herself. When the need is highest the rescue is near, in her case a missionary group and Johanna eventually wound up being a missionary in Africa somewhere.

Helen never heard from her again.

Helen, now in her late sixties, prayed more than she had done her whole life about Johanna, imploring god to to look after her wayward daughter, blaming herself of having so miserably failed herself. She even visited the nearly hundred year old and long retired dominee who assured her that god would surely look after Johanna, but was at a loss why she avoided Helen as she did.

Doede Jr. did his best to comfort Helen but was at a loss for the reasons behind Johanna's strange behavior.

Little Doede had become Doede Jr. but instead of studying in the US, he found a great University in Oslo, where he studied agriculture. He also found his wife there, a dutch- Canadian from Ontario. He eventually became an important agricultural adviser to the Dutch government and lived in The Hague. Their two children lived also in Holland and seldom visited Fryslân.

Helen's mother had passed away and her father who was diagnosed with Alzheimer was wearing out the rest of his life in an old-folk's home in the city.

Helen felt alone, and when Doede Jr.'s wife visited her and asked if she would join them for a a vacation at her parent's in Ontario, she finally said yes, but only if she paid her own fare.

She was so heartily received by Doede Jr.'s in-laws, she really felt at home, and after a trip to the Niagara waterfalls when they were resting outside drinking a glass wine, Helen remarked that she loved Fryslân but could've lived just as well in Ontario.

One evening when they gave Helen de dutch by-weekly to read as she had difficulty reading English, she shouted out while laughing and crying in turn

“I found him, it's him, there is no doubt , it's Lolke!

She kept pointing at a picture of farmer gazing over a gate.

They congregated all around her while reading the account of a farmer finding a dead magic mushroom seeker on the Fraser river.

When the name of the farmer was recorded as Lolke Harkema they all knew for certain.

“How far is the Fraser river from here,” Helen asked.

More later

What Else Could I Want

I might have had a little stroke when I laid on the floor in my house on the mountain, or an diabetic attack, however since the time I am here at Menno place, which is four years, my memory has somewhat degenerated, as for years it was hard for me to remember names it has worsened to forgetting my pills, specially in the morning.

When my daughter Janice and I saw the doctor to renew my medicines, we brought this to his attention and Dr. Egolf made out a requisition that I should have help with this, especially that I take the medication. I have once in a while dizzy spells and therefor felt unsure to take a shower in the bathtub. With the help of the wellness nurses I receive help with this as well.

So, early in the morning a young nurse shows up to assist me for either a shower or a sponge bath. That means that I am required to appear in the nude before her when she directs me to sit at a special chair which has two legs in the tub and the other two outside of it. After I am seated my legs are, with the help of the nurse, swung over the tub-side into the tub and then the fun starts. The shower-head is operated by the the nurse who tests the water for the right temperature while I just sit quietly enduring the warm water to be sprayed all over me.

During this operation my few hairs are shampooed and my body lathered with soap and rubbed with a soft sponge-brush. I am allowed to do wash my privates, as she calls it, by myself if I desire so, and so far I have desired so.

Then she applies a lotion over my entire body 'you have very dry skin you know.'

Then the drying part comes she makes me think of a great friend who at the end of her life had to go through what she found the indignity of being washed and happened to get a softly cleaning nurse, which made her skin crawl, cried

“Rosse, rosse I say, I'm not a pussycat!” Rub, scour harder, harder.

My nurse did just right.

I admit that I was hesitant at first of undressing in front of a woman I had never met, and even worse a young woman I knew, but they quickly stopped my embarrassment.

“'This is what we do, you know. This is our profession.”

They certainly are professionals, and made me so fast at ease, which is quite extraordinary if you think about it. Never before have I taken my clothes off for anyone but my wife and they, without any fuss made me comfortable doing just that. Bless you for that ladies.

They equally professional check that I take my medication by following the pills as I put them into my mouth. I feel strongly that their attentive looks accompany the pills all the way into my stomach just to make sure that they arrive where they should.

All in all I am happy into my surroundings with and with myself. I love my offspring and who would not, I just found a letter from my daughter Jacki, who is married to Allen Nielsen and lives in a romantic little settlement called Pinantan, east of Kamloops BC, with their two sons Jesse 26 and Tyler 22, both hard workers, Jesse on heavy equipment logging and Tyler as a builder all around Kamloops. Those two are my youngest grandsons of whom I am exceptional proud.

Jacki was writing stories already at the elementary school in Ladner, which she used to end with, what else - 'the end.'

I found a letter she wrote me at Christmas of which year I do not know, which does not matter.

I will only use one part of it – 'the end' - what else.

“Thank you so much Dad for the wonderful childhood I remember.

Now along with my memories is the one about the tent-trailer license plate copper. I remember hearing you laughing and boasting to I don't who, about telling the cops in our town that you would be leaving for a camping trip, so it was up to them to find you with your expired trailer license plate.

As a little girl, I was afraid of the consequences of what would happen to you if you would be caught by the police. I would anxiously stare out of the windows while we were driving to our holiday destination ... watching for the cops for you. We never got stopped did we?

Good thing though – I thought for sure that they would handcuff you and throw you (yes, literally 'throw you' into jail. However, the thrill of usual law abiding dad breaking the law gave my thoughts of you a whole new dimension.

I started to realize at that time that you weren't only MY DAD, but a man who was many things to many different people including himself. That realization of you became what Oprah says is an 'A - ha moment!'

My world started to grow larger and deeper along with my appreciation and empathy for people as well. Looking back at my years of growing with you I see the qualities I admire the most within myself are indeed given to me from you.

Thank you for all you have given me Dad,
Merry Christmas and a Happy, Happy, New Year!

Love Jacki

The end … haha “

followed in her own handwriting

Love you Dad

she drew a heart

Jackie

What else does a father want than a daughter like that and I have three of them, Janice, Debbi and Jacki

thank you Jacki, the end.

LETTER !

Menno Place surprises me all the time, actually it is the people that run Menno Place that amaze me, case in point – they advertised an open house on Facebook.

I don't have to tell you what Facebook is because you either know it and then you know more than I will ever know , or you say you know but quickly add that your computer has given up and you had no time to fix it or have it fixed, as many living here do say.

Anyhow the result of the ad was was meager - six people were interested to attend the affair and one person promised to come, me.

When I shuffled over to the Primrose to fulfill my obligation to attend, I was let in by a nice young women with a genuine smile on her face, which was more than I expected, I do not know why, since everyone here is friendly. Once inside I was able to hear the end of a speech given by Sharon Simpson, the organizer and promoter, welcoming a crowd of people.

A fine voice nestled itself in my mind – o ye of little faith.

After having a homemade cookie, (Mennonite girls can cook) and a look in the dining room, where I did not notice real linen table cloths, as was rumored one time, I searched the reading table when my eye fell on a new old-German bible at the end of the table.

I opened the bible carefully to Lucas 2 verse 14, reading about the good tidings of Jesus' birth, which always thrills me, known as the angel's song, though recorded in the old German bible as saying, and translated in English says – 'honor to god in the highest, peace on earth, in the people a delight.'

Several groups were now led to the innards of the Primrose building, the flagship of Menno Place, were they were inspecting its living quarters and views.

I quietly started up my walker and drifted off to the playgrounds of our campus with the newly acquired nine holes putting - and grass bowling - greens.

An eight, nine year old girl, visibly bored hung on the bench on the green.

I asked her if she wanted to play the game.

“There is not one to play with,” she answered, but just then two elderly ladies entered who obviously wanted to play, which made unique foursome. I told them that I was new to the game, which did not seem to bother any of my three partners.

The girl won and I high-fived her, which pleased her and amused the ladies so much that they also high-fived the girl and henceforth promoted that act to be part of the game.

We played until the girl was bored of winning and the ladies had enough of the excersize for the afternoon, and I was tired.

As I intended to report to you about my pro- or re- gress as an oldster I am able to share with you finally some concrete news, which is not as hard as the word concrete may imply.

For more than a year I have had some dizzy spells, most did not take long, but some did.

Six years ago after attending a funeral service were afterwards dutch goodies were offered, I grateful accepted more than I should have, seeing that they were richly endowed with sugar and I am diabetic, I landed on the floor of our retirement home on the mountain and was unable to get up. I laid there paralyzed from Friday afternoon till Monday morning, not able to reach the telephone which was about two and a half meters away from where I laid.

I employed a nice lady to clean, wash, vacuum, put order of things, and all things my dear wife used to do and I only did during her illness, well her, Margaret was scheduled to come on Monday morning and was my only hope. Before she arrived I had managed to get to the telephone but forgot the number.

And there she was, she immediately saw that I was dehydrated and filled me with up with water, tea, and anything wet, which made me feel a whole lot better. I needed clean clothes but she could not stuff me in my pants. Margaret is resourceful and called my neighbor and together they managed to forced me into it.

The neighbor took me to the hospital where I remained for a week and then was all better.

There is much more to come but I save it for next week.

Have a great week. Lex.

Agnes' Bible Records (the Dutch bible)

The year is 2000, twelve years after Agnes' dead.

Lolke has moved into the new retirement home they built at a corner of their farm property.

For a Christian immigrant farmer, cows came first, providing income. Second, church and school providing spiritual needs and growth. Third, a new house (for the wife was often the excuse, as the cost of a new house would buy two dozen cows or a half a dozen tractors) the final reward for their efforts.

It was a splendid dwelling they build, that like the gold headpiece of old proudly worn by the farmer's wife, was the unmistakable sign of the farmer's welfare.

Anyone could see Agnes' hands in its design and finishing of the home of their retirement. 

It pained Lolke that his wife and partner could not together with him enjoy the sweet fruits of their labor. Though farming has its spurts of leisure, a dairy-farmer puts far more hours into it's operation than most other occupations or undertakings do. 

Together with their offspring they had fared well and became prosperous but after two years a widower Lolke felt the anguish of being without Agnes, as he walked alone in the dwelling which was meant for both.

Without purpose he entered the small but well stacked library, another idea of his wife, where his eye fell upon the old dutch Staten bible which was given them at their wedding by his in-laws. He took the large volume from the shelf and sat himself in the comfortable chair where he leafed through the pages written in dutch when his eye fell upon the last blank page on which Agnes had written some notes. 

She had written down the name and date of her firstborn, Harke, less than a year after their marriage, in 1956, after that the name of his wife together with the date of their marriage, followed in the same order with the birth of the second son, almost one year later.

Under that Jonathan, the third, who was now a preacher in Toronto.

Before number four, she had made a different entry.

1962 – 1966, rented a 40 acre farm---------------- 27 cows
1963 - 4th son
1964 - 5th son
1966 - 6th son, rented 150 acre farm in pit polder 60 cows
1967 ---------------------------------------------------------70 cows
1968 - 7th son ---------------------------------------------80 cows

1970 - purchased own farm --------------------------80 cows
1973 -------------------------------------------------------120 cows
1975 -------------------------------------------------------145 cows
1988--------------------------------------------------------600 cows

After that followed one more entree by Agnes - 

1988 – 7 sons - a good life - 600 cows, take good care of them Lolke.

In a few notes Agnes had led Lolke through their entire married and partnership life of thirty-two years. It had been a journey over a gravelly country road at times, but one that was smoothed by their unique and skillful working procedure as partners, with a total balance of seven sons and six-hundred cows.

And a good life.

Thank you Agnes, he mumbled as tears welled up in his eyes, put the bible on the shelf and walked outside where a darkening mist came in from the riverside. Leaning over the gate he scoured the field for his large Holstein bull he had grazing in the grass field.

How many times had they stood here together, feeling together, looking over the land, their land, happy about their blessings.

His eye caught something that should not be there. Better have a look. He jumped over the fence, congratulating himself that close to seventy he was still able to do that. He hurried to where he'd seen the dark spot in the meadow and found a sleeping person, a homeless man?

But why sleep in the middle of a field.

He nudged the man with his foot – no response.

The man was dead.

Anne Continued

by Lex Smid, Anne's husband for 53 years and three months

The second part of Anne's letter to our daughters which she dictated to me 40 hours before she died in my arms April the 2nd 2008. The evening before we celebrated Debbie's birthday.

so I was going to talk about Janice – being the first one – and so on
and put you all in a a very nice light – because I love you all – but
there are no differences and I could never figure that out
but now I can – because
you were all made by god - and god loves you all - and
therefore I love you all
I think that is the secret – you know – and it's nice

I hope you will do the same thing to your children
I don't know really what else to say
I'm a little bit in awe – that I come to think this way – because
I remember – I wanted you kids to do better
and that might have looked like a scolding – but it wasn't - it was

I – wanted - you – the – best you could be – because that's right – you know
but by saying that made - it didn't come out as nice as it should
its so stupid
now I don't think I am going to say any more about this
I can't talk very well
why did I wait to the very end to talk about this
I don't know

maybe that's what god wants you to do
he wants you to talk about it – see – if you think about it
you don't go very far - you know
I'm sure my father thought about it himself
he never said much
it would've been nice if he would – when he was ------------- I don't know
maybe some people find some other ways – maybe they want some more
there is no more – you know – there is no more

for the last two years I have looked in every corner I could think of
but there is no more - but there is Jesus – and Jesus took our sins away
so we could live - that's an ultimate sacrifice
and that's about all people can get - there is no more

the world is so big – so big -we can't even think far enough – long enough
so what are we to do

I have this ALS – miserable – illness
now there is this man in England – he also has this disease
and they say he wants to find where god is
well – I thought maybe I should think like that too
but I still will do better – because I don't know where it's going to be

in heaven – on the earth – or in the water – but one thing I know
that Jesus died for our sins – the ultimate – thing to do
if you give your life away – for somebody else – that is the greatest thing to do

I can't think about anything else – except
I love you all - very much

I would want to talk about it more but – I don't talk very - good
I want to wish – you do well in life – and so... “ click

“...I remember walking as a little girl through the town with my grandmother when we passed a vegetable and fruit cart and she let me choose of the fruit on that cart whatever I liked and I chose a tomato.

I liked the the beautiful texture of the skin, the red color, an the little green stem.

My grandmother discouraged me by holding out an other fruit which she thought might taste better but I still preferred the tomato and ate it.

And since then I always liked tomatoes.”

Anne Smid – Smit 1935 - 2008

Anne's great-grandson Lenin likes tomatoes, son of Katie Williams and Peter Bushell

Helen and Douwe

DEAR FRIENDS

We live in a world that can not live without negatives it seems, the news is unappetizing, the weather tries hard to equal it and people in general elbow each other for the best best spots to watch what used to be an exciting ice-sport but has degraded into slug fests, I'm thinking about hockey.

And here is me trying to finish a decent story by connecting several parts needing to be connected – and I had it, but lost it, due to interventions by forces stronger than me, or just by me me pushing a wrong button.

I am not giving up easy, we started from scratch with this story except the one given – a happy blond haired young girl hopscotching through a small town, bewitching even the local dominee, the one whom we have neglected for too long – Helen.

Helen, the child-woman despised by an entire village because she bore a baby out of wedlock while the father of that baby, Lolke, took off to Canada, leaving her to the cruel people of her birthplace where every one seems to be judge and jury.

Well, how did Helen fare with that farmer with a baby she met through a newspaper ad. 

So far we know that the man lost his wife through a divorce, his wife's complaint was that he was unable to father children. We do know that her accusation was not true as he wanting to know the truth about himself, found himself in bed the maid, contradicting the accusation of his unfaithful wife when he successful fathered a child with the maid.

What was wrong with him was of an entirely different thing but every bit as troublesome – he was diagnosed with cancer and was given a maximum of five years to live, which he himself altered to ten.

I think we should give the man a name first which so far was neglected by the writer. It is also highly unfair to our heroin as she has a right to carry a name that binds her to the man of her choice even though he is as old as her father.

What d' you think of Douwe Hijma. Alright Douwe (pronounced Thou – wu) Hijma it is, and from this time forward Helen is going to be Helen Hijma, after she is married of course, but the name of her daughter Johanna Harkema stays as it is. 

If the foregoing is OK with everyone we can continue with the rest of the story.

The rest of the story

Helen and Douwe liked each other so well that they soon skipped the agreed-to trial period of one year abstinence and after their 'sin' became the norm, and strange rumors were going around in the village anyways, they decided to get married, but only in the town hall and not in the church as had been for generations the custom in the village.

Their decision hurt the bride's father, but he he was prepared to carry this part of, what he considered another humiliation, because he loved his daughter.

Douwe had so far not talked with Helen about what he had in mind when he mentioned something about the conditions he had in mind when they first met and Helen did not ask as she figured that it possibly had something to do with little Douwe and in that she was right on.

“Helen, I didn't think I was going to find a woman like you on only one ad,” was his preamble, “I am pleased of the way you take care of my son little Douwe and I make you a proposal before we take any further steps. I am going to marry you regardless, but something lies heavy on my heart and I want a true answer from you

“are you going to be a real mother for little Doede?” It did not take Helen long to answer -

“Doede, let's go to bed.”

He got a satisfactory answer there

Though Helen had ample proof of Douwe's satisfactory sex performance he let on that he, according to the doctor in all likelihood would not be able to produce any offspring of his union with Helen on account of his cancer, which started a talk between them about their own future as that of his son and her daughter.

Doede - “I have some money, Helen, which is no secret in this neighborhood and when my time is up it will be yours.”

Helen - “Isn't that a great gamble, Douwe.” 

“I am a good judge of people, safe the one time, my first wife.” 

“What do you want for little Douwe?”

“You as his mother. When ready let him study in America, hopefully agriculture, but let him decide.”

“What about little Douwe's mother?”

“I have looked after her, she does not need to be a maid anymore. She will not bother you or little Douwe but allow her to see him if she wants to. She is a good woman.”

“Why didn't you marry her?”

“She was my maid,”

“And I a farmer's daughter?”

“Yes.”

“Anything else Douwe Hijma ?” she saw a faint smile fall over his face

“Yah, lets go to bed.” 

The chattering tongues of the villagers were quieted by the wedding feast Douwe threw in his empty hay barn, complete with the story teller and MC, old man Teake, who kept the guests laughing till it hurt, as well as the local copper band Crescendo giving a round of hoompapa every time the newly weds kissed, urged on by the guests noisily twirling spoons in the coffee cups . 

It was a great village feast where the liquor freely flowed and the barn was blue of tobacco smoke, however when the dancing started Helen's parents took off, which annoyed the bride as she had called off the garter belt removal, to safe her father embarrassment about that sort of spectacle.

We are up to date on Helen for now, as they enjoy their married life together, so next time about Lolke who has lost his love and is alone in a brand new house not far from the great Pacific. 

Timi, Our Beautiful Exerciser

Today, our fitness leader Timea, looks over the motley crew before her, having one thing in common, all are old and very old. You just don’t count if you’re younger than ninety in this place, and being born a male is not much of a help either, since most of the enthusiastic walkers are women. But here I am, one of at least three dozen eager participants mostly walking with a walking-aid.

We are scrutinized by college students volunteering for the program as to ability to walk and perceived stamina, after which they divides into three groups: top - good for a half hour walk, bottom - not very good for any physical activity, and in between the rest.

Before that our leader Timea instills us with the importance of this exercise and its goals. She sees us walking to such destinations as Chilliwack and Whistler!

A hush falls over the participants, walk all the way to Chilliwack? Timea, in a very pleasant, faintly Hungarian accented English tongue, explains how the apparent impossible goal will work. The distance we walk in a day will be recorded by her and when a walker, over time, reaches a total of fifty km, she will announce that he (more likely she) has arrived in Chilliwack. What we are going to do there she keeps secret, neither is it revealed how we are going home from there.

Timi, as she likes to be called makes no secrets of the fact that she originated from Hungary and why should she, if all young women look like her in that country, it is a wonder that the secret never leaked out about it to the rest of the world.

The three groups, under guidance of staff and volunteers take off around the structures of Menno Place, first the top group, then the middle group, and lastly the bottom group, to which I am assigned.

Part ways into the walk I get company of a woman pushing a walker, but boy o boy, what a walker it is: large wheels, wide leather seat, deluxe brake system and a covered basket, and -

the whole thing is able to fold into a parcel-size package. I am impressed.

That walker must have cost at least five times what my Costco special $100 one is worth.

Her ‘mobility aid’ is almost touching mine with the small wheels that make a sound like a train going clickety-clack over every crack and groove in the sidewalk.

When I dare to look at the lady driving the expensive walking-aid she takes my breath away. She is one classy lady.

“What is your name?” she sings.

“Lex” I stutter.

I could've given my nice name Fertile (its my jealous computer which changes my name again) My name is Leffers, but not with an (s) on the end, but a (t.)

“Do you live at Menno Place?” I answer in the affirmative.

“So do I,” she says, “I moved into the Primrose Garden a month ago.”

Wow, the Primrose, the newest addition to Menno Place which features silk cloths on the dining room tables, and crown moldings on the ceilings. A place where the rich live, like doctors and lawyers. Rumors have it that a judge has moved in one of the two bedroom corner units.

Could this classy lady be the wife of that judge perhaps? Could she herself be a judge?

If only I knew her name, but by now I don’t dare to ask. Much less about her marital status. After twice going around the Terrace West and East buildings the lady says a friendly goodbye and walks the sidewalk leading to her residence, the Primrose.

On my way back to Timi, I have time to think about my walking adventure with the classy lady, who might even be a judge. I am totally exhausted and have a coffee at our starting point. However, I get credited by Timi at two km toward my crusade to Chilliwack and am awarded a congratulate smile of her as well.

Has she noticed my venture with the lady from the Primrose, or is it a smile meant for me?

To the residents of Menno Place Timi, Rebekah, and Rylee represent so much more than being a director or leader and I tell you why.

A huge variety of activities is offered at Menno Place, from church-services to putting and lawn bowling, and much more, like communion, prayer groups, bible studies and fellowships, by our chaplains.

Musical Java, arm chair traveling, art teaching, and bus-tours, exercising, walking, bowling, ping pong, knitting, hosting of choirs, bands, foreign students, all by our recreation and entertainment staff.

Our community exists mainly of above retirement age women and men, let's just say old and very old, who live independently or with some assistance, together. Without contact with a younger staff, we can not help but get a feeling that the world exists only of old people.

More than everything else, most value to us is that staff like Timi and Rebekah and John and all others in whatever capacity are around, are with us, together with the health nurses, the cooks and servers, the volunteers, the staff members who make it all possible, even the good-looking mail lady.

They made themselves part of our community and because of them, and their attitude toward us, make us feel not only an old people society but rather a multi-generational one, like we were used to, before we made Menno place our home.

O, I almost forgot – after the next walk my table buddies eagerly asked me about the Primrose Lady.

I can be short about that – she never showed up again.

Anne

I have a whole bag full of letters written by many different people and addressed to me, mostly from family and friends way, way, on the other side of the world, written before we we and they started communicating by computer. Handwriting is one of the things that has gone the way of the tyrannosaur.

Some letters are worth more to me than others, my mother wrote seldom, 'that was father's work.' Probably the only non-physical thing he knew, the physical tool he mastered and honored like a carpenter or blacksmith takes care of his hammer, was his bats, his shovel, which is now a museum piece also.

All the thousands of his compatriots digging ditches and canals have followed the tools of their trade and like the bats of my father and the scythe of his farming brother are known no more. Having these depressing thoughts going to my brain I found the letter of my wife written forty hours before her death to our three daughters. Without me knowing she wrestled with the idea of leaving something behind for them, a wise word or perhaps a blessing, instead she shared her struggle and finally her understanding of it.

A dying person does not pretend, so her words are valid, not only for our daughters but also for me, and I will share some with you. Anne had a difficulty in that she did not want to give more to one of our children than to the other, at one time she made dresses for all three out of the same material which non of the sisters liked.

Just before she died Anne found the solution – why not one letter for all three? She was on oxygen because of her shallow breathing, pausing frequently which I have indicated by –, and by ending the sentence. Anne spoke coherently be it with a weakened voice, calm and clear.

Anne - “so why should there be a first and a second – you know?
so – actually – in my life – my parents were most important – because they gave me life - they learned me what they could and that's what I became,
so – because of my parents – I became what I am
not so good – not so bad – just a normal person
and I've been thinking about that “

because of me – Janice has become what she has become
Debbie has – Len has – Jackie has – their children have,
they all have become what their father and mother are - and I think
that is pretty neat – because think about it – we had very little to do with it
you know – there they were!

we thought we could do everything
we didn't do anything
we just followed the pattern of our father and the mother

if you were angry about something we did
it's because of our father and mother
it's so strange
the fathers and mothers think they can do everything
they know it all
but at best they found out - they didn't know anything
they only followed the pattern of their father and mother

and it's all like that with God
I thought I start with God – because after all he made us all
well – he could've done a little better – I think
because we didn't have any problems then
why not good the first time? Then we didn't have any problems
but I guess that was not to be – for one reason or another

so – now I'm this far already – tel all your kids they are perfect
because God made You
so – I really don't have to go on – about anything
but that's dumb

more next time

Payday and Showers

My first payday was not on Friday, but a day later. We worked five and a half hours that day and eight and a half from Mondays to Fridays making it a forty-eight hour workweek.

The hourly rate was was laid down in a contract starting at age fifteen at the lowest age and reaching the maximum at age twenty-two. I was then sixteen.

We walked to the rear door of the contractor's house with our hands held out , in which he put our wages for the week. In cash. We said a friendly 'thank you' and went home with a pocket full of money, so to speak. I was the youngest and therefore the last on the line.

When it was my turn to hold up my hands the boss eyed me and asked not unkindly

“What do you want boy?”

I cleared my throat and ever so humbly mentioned something about getting my wages.

His eyes looked straight in mine now, then lifted his hat to scratch behind his ear as if he were suddenly puzzled about something and asked

“Wages? For what did you want wages boy?”

I stuttered some more about the workers that he had paid before me just a moment ago..

“You mean Abele, my foreman for almost thirty years and old Wybo. And the Klomp brothers, see boy, they all are seasoned people, they know what they're doing.”

I did not get a penny from him.

Not then, but at the end of the next week he said that I was a boy that didn't give up easy, and told me to see him after work with the others. He gave me a raise of 10%, from 20 to 22 cents per hour, one whole guilder more a week. That was then, and it made me as proud as a peacock to give my mother ten guilders while keeping the one dollar raise myself.

This week I received a golf putter from an old friend, a good one according to Bas, the boss. A neighbor gave me a golf-ball, so I can putt er at our own new new golf-course at will, which I am sure going to do.

I promised to inform friends and and relatives if any changes were to happen to my health to let you know. Something has come up, which was to be expected, for some time I forget to take my pills. Not once but quite regularly. I talked to the doctor about it and he gave me a requisition that, as he put it, 'this individual needs help', so tomorrow a lady is going will call to give me an interview how they can address this.

At the same time I will talk to her about having help with getting a shower, because I lost my confidence in the bath tub shower. I have no fear to slip but every move I make is a cause for me to fall. I wonder what will happen, especially with the showering help, since I have known three or four nurses in my building doing this kind of work and there is going to be some anxiety about it I am sure.

I did not have a shower until I was about eighteen or nineteen while working far from home in Limburg in the deep south of the Netherlands. The reason I never had a a shower before is simply because there were no showers showers at one time in my birthplace which is hard to imagine today, but then a fact. My first shower was not in the privacy of a home but in a public building, where either got a bath or a shower for 25 cents, once a week.

Since it was my very first time I to be baptized into this new new technology, I was given a young lady to assist me who, she told me, was doing this for the first time as well.

Her supervisor, a large no-nonsense woman was watching in the doorway.

My granted assistance started drawing warm water into the tub, hinting for me to undress, to which I complied with my backside toward the no-nonsense supervisor.

The young woman tested the water with her fingers and nudged me into the water filled tub She told me her name which I have forgotten, what I remember was her dark hair and long fingers, and that she mentioned that it was her seventeenth birthday that day before she started scrubbing me, not rough but thoroughly.

“Happy birthday,” I said, uttering her name.

If this is the kind of care awaiting me, getting old will not be too bad.

Secret Letters from Agnes

Lolke had been married almost thirty-eight years to Agnes when she succumbed to cancer and passed away and almost a year after her untimely death, he found a hand-written journal of Agnes. Following are some entries of what she wrote over the years.

feb. 10, 1951
father is dus een kappers zaak begonnen in Calgary. (so dad started a barbershop)

aug. 22, 1955
Saw this new boy in church. An immigrant from Holland, I think, sort of cute but not looked after

dec. 1, 1955
the immigrant boy was at young peoples, he has one of these funny Frisian names – Lolke. Sloppy!!

dec. 8, 1955
he was at young peoples again

new year's day 1956
Lolke has a child in Holland!! Heard it in the barber shop. He just left this little girl. And her mother. Afschuwelijk!!! They should keelhaul him.

jan. 28, 1956
Lolke asked me out!!! After next young peoples. He will take me home in his never cleaned old jalopy. I will tell him off, the beast. He does not know where I live, I think, ha ha.
Dad and mom are out coffee visiting. More later.

Feb. 5, 1956
Something came over me, am I going crazy? I fell in love, no I didn't, yes I did! The poor guy didn't know that this girl in Holland had a child. But, their must've been something he knew they did, ha ha.
He is still a beast but maybe a kindly beast, well, I will not put everything in this journal, but I did change my mind about him. Overnight.
Actually not even overnight, the same evening that he, ha ha took me home.
I really have made up my mind, I M MARRYING him. Crazy, but I'm DOING IT.
(only he doesn't know it yet)

April 13, 1961
Lolke wants our 3rd son named Jonathan, practically the same as his daughter's name Johanna in Holland. Why I wonder?

April 24, 1962
he says it has nothing to do with the girl he made pregnant ten years ago. I still wonder though. I don't like this place anymore, too far from the family. And the church too.

Aug 21,1968
So, I had a this little preventive medical operation. I am just 30, and have seven boys, that is enough! Never mind what the minister says. Wouldn't mind having a little girl though, but Lolke doesn't know how to make them, ha ha.

Sep 18, 1988
Had a check up at a specialist in Calgary, something wrong in me, hope its nothing.

Oct 2nd 1988
o, my God.
They found something inside of me, it does not look good. Pray for me, please, please. Lolke, do something!
Please God help me, help me please.

Nov. 30, 1988 Calgary Herald

Peacefully passed away at home
with her loved ones by her side,
after a short struggle with cancer,
fully assured of going to her God and Savior
our beloved wife, mother and daughter

Agnes Harkema - de Jong
55 years old

3 - A Letter to my Friend

Today, actually this morning, I killed a nice woman who was in the way, and is now out of the way. I committed the crime with a bleeding heart. I cried, really I did.

I held no grudge against her, but feel I too have to go with the flow of the story demanding it.

I am all confused and feel guilty, but saw no other way out. I am sorry about it all.

You know who she is, or was - Lolke's wife, Agnes. (see Friday's story)

Right from the beginning it was decided that that Lolke and Helen would have to meet up again sometime, somewhere, and not casually, like an accidental meeting in the mall and going for a cup of coffee at Tim Hortons, no we all wanted something better for Helen, the happy kid with the dancing blond hair who even moved the village dominee, didn't we.

Lolke received more than what he was going to get from Helen, remember that she, still a teenager, demanded Lolke to promise not to have more than four children, and this was way back in the dark ages of the early fifties, when birth control was way in the future, and sinful. They were mere kids then and innocent kids at that. Well, not quite.

Lolke is a widower now, just at the beginning of building a large dairy business which he started to build together with Agnes. They received not four but seven children, all boys.

It is so tragic and I really do not know where to go from here.

The rest of the week was pretty good and really exciting.

My brother Durk, the one aiming to live 120 years, together with his lovely wife Brenda, is safely (and temporarily) living with his daughter in Kelowna. It has been raining but not enough to quench the fires, and Durk thinks it will be a while before he and his wife are able to return home in Williams Lake.

Our building at Menno place is being revamped and receives air conditioning!

Not only that, the vacant areas between several buildings are in the process of receiving a complete rejuvenation, as those spaces together are made into a mini golf course, so I have to learn how to play golf, or actually, how to putter.

At one stage the ball, being puttered into the last hole on the high greens, keeps on going through a pipe underneath the artificial turf, under a new hedge, and spills onto a concrete sidewalk below, where it rolls at a dignified speed unto the second green, which is three or four feet lower, and contains the last four of the nine-hole putting greens.

It really excites me as it is a masterful invention, all engineered by staff members, who must have had a lot of fun creating it, but I can foresee one extra cost yet – every time a ball, traveling from the last hole in the upper greens, tumbles onto the footpath below, should there not have been booms installed, stopping the sidewalk walkers behind their walkers momentarily, allowing safe passage of the tossed about balls finding their way into the lower regions for the final onslaught?

And if that's not enough, we are also getting a grass-bowling green, or greens. (I like to cover myself as, besides all these improvements they have also employed *a very nice aber very knowledgeable young woman whose job it is among many more and much more important tasks, to inspect my scribbles as to accuracy, artracy, and whatever racy's she might think of, and only if she deems my epistles worthy to consider.)

As the lowest on her totem, I like to climb at least a few steps upon the ladder of success so I can enjoy the view from above.

• to my loyal reader(s) – have a great week and join us for a coffee at our open house.

• Since I do not get paid for words over 694, that's it – lex.

*the young woman has three A's in her name, not all capitals, more like Argantina.

Agnes and Lolke

“The herd was well over five-hundred head who in the summer roamed all over in the bush, sometimes sixty km's away from the ranch, but in the fall when it got cold and the snow began to fly, I would dump hay at different stations and gradually the cows came down to feed. They grouped together that way, which made it easier to drive them to the ranch, where I fed them throughout the winter.”

“During the fall, we shipped sometimes beef to Calgary, and one day I loaded the old ranch truck with a dozen heads of steers. We had lots of snow already and it was hard to see where the road ended and the ditch started on the side of the road.

I must've been too close to the edge and flipped the truck on the side. The steers spilled off the truck and stood up to their bellies in the snow-filled ditch. Fortunately they had no broken bones and just stood there, because they couldn't lift their feet out of the snow. That way they couldn't run away either, that was the fortunate part of the accident.”

“Luckily this happened right close to a park-warden's ranch where I went for help. He had a corral near the house and we managed to get the steers into it, except for three wild steers who took off into the mountains.

After I called the ranch for help the warden put me up for the night. The following morning a few hands arrived with another truck with which they pulled my truck on the road again.

We loaded the steers up again, which took us all day, and in the evening finally left for Calgary, leaving the three wild steers in the bush.”

“The windshield of the truck was broken and the battery was nearly drained, so I drove without lights in the night, but it was clear and the moon was out, but still I drove in the night, and when I saw a car approaching I flipped the lights on for a second, so they could see that I was coming.”

“Once in Calgary I dumped my load at the stockyard and went to my in-laws to sleep.”

“Next morning I went back to Cranbrook, but not before I stopped at the place where I lost the the three wild steers.

With the help of the warden we rounded the threesome up, on snowshoes, and got them on the road but since we were in a park I was not allowed to shoot them.

So, the warden, who was the only one who could legally shoot a fire arm in the park, shot all three of them, and then we dragged them to his ranch where we butchered them. I gave him a quarter of beef for his effort and took the rest home to Agnes, where we shared with my helper and the rest went in the freezer.

We had meat for a long time.”

Lolke and Agnes by now had lived four or five years in Canbrook and both liked the openness an sunshine of the country in which they had made their home.

They had three children by now, all boys, but as they grew older, Agnes felt uneasy about that, as she called it, they lived like heathens, because two of their three children were not baptized yet.

Their first child was baptized in the church of her parents which was nice for her parents so they could see the baby, but the drive from the ranch to the church was two and a half hours long and when the second baby arrived there was so much snow that it would have been irresponsible to travel. They could've had him baptized in their home by a traveling preacher but here Agnes drew the line.

“No way,” she said, “he will be properly baptized, like his brother, in church.”

Agnes - “After the birth of our first baby I didn't like living on the ranch that much anymore, because it was too far away from the church. When our first boy was born, we drove to the only CR Church in this wide, wild country, to Calgary, to have him baptized.

When our second son was born a year later I disliked it even more and when our third boy arrived I hated this country, realizing our children would have to attend a public school instead of a Christian school.”

The first of the seven boys they were going to have was named after Lolke's father, the second after the father of Agnes and the third boy, Lolke insisted, had to be a Jonathan. When Agnes asked him if there was a Jonathan in his family he just shook his head.

It gave her to think. Could it have anything to do with his daughter Johanna in Fryslân?

And her mother Helen?

“I asked him about it but he just grinned a little, then something I had never thought about before, sneaked into my head, stubbornly took hold of it so tight that I was unable to dislodge it. I remember it vividly – I was doing the books for Lolke.

I stormed from the house to the corral where I knew I could find him and cried -

Lolke give it to me straight – Do you still love Helen?”

(Jonathan means God has given)
(Johanna means gift of God)

2 - A Letter to my Friend

This morning when I stepped outside with, or actually behind my walker I found a refreshingly soft rain, making me grateful. The rain is badly needed to help stop the wild fires ravishing our province, and … it felt so good soaking up the oxygen by the bucket full.

My walk made me think about the time when I was about five and walked with my father.

It was right in the middle of the hungry thirties and my father, who was a ground worker, was unemployed as were 30% of his partners in distress.

Together with his brother who was also without work, my father and I walked from one end of the village to the other - and back again – and again, being out of the way of mother for a while.

My father sucked now and than on an empty tobacco pipe, and uncle John did the same, talking while they walked about politics, the last Sunday sermon by the minister, the weather, the new crop of potatoes and sugar beets, and about hings I should not have heard. Not at that age anyways.

It was an uncertain and frightening time, with a somber and fearful future as another war was looming, but here we were, still walking in freedom, soaking up the fresh country air brimming with oxygen, just for the take.

I had my little hand in my father's big hand and I felt safe.

---

Just inside the bistro I was told that I was famous because I was published!, an overwhelming thing but also somewhat scary. How should I react to that, now that I was published, without making a fool of myself by bragging abut it.

Then I read an article by a staff member that gripped me about God's faithfulness to fathers.

She touched on a very familiar song, which we regularly sang in church before the modern trends sneaked in, admitting though that some of the 'new songs' nearly equal the proven old.

Great is Thy faithfulness, o God my Father
There is no shadow of turning with Thee
Thou changest not, Thy compassion's they fail not.
Great is Thy faithfulness, o God my Father
Morning by morning new mercies I see
All I have needed Thy hand hath provided.
Great is thy faithfulness, Lord unto me.

Last year the same writer wrote a story about her own father which touched me as deeply as her present article did.

Everyone was normal, which means that the atmosphere in this place, my home, is loving kindness, without the sweetness going with that word sometimes.

I made the right decision to make this place my home and my 'success' has a lot to do with the help from the staff members, when I was ready to throw in the towel, make that the computer, it was one staff member preventing that from happening and gave me a kick in the pants to boot, propelling me onward.

I got complimented about my published work by the CEO, who informed her friend in in the city where I first set my foot on Canadian soil sixty-three years ago, in Halifax.

We enjoy the best of food there is, still the cook gave me a local address of fish and chips because she knows I love fish and chips and maybe I can persuade my daughter Janice, to take us there because I have an appointment with the doctor and she drives me there.

Anyways, I am just in time to join the 'Armchair travel presentation' where we, after Belgium, Hungary, Hawaii, and many other countries of the world, visit today our own, Canada.

We will have coffee and cookies in the form of a maple leaf, with maple syrup filling, and before that we sing the stirring Canadian anthem – all four verses. O,yes we surely belong!

This is the second of 'letters to my friends' and to all of you kind people, thank you,

until we meet again!

Lolke and Agnes

“Lolke, I will marry you only if you quit working for the city, I worry myself sick every day for fear that you get killed.”

“But I have never made more money than by laying sewer pipes” said Lolke, however Agnes was unrelenting.

“I am too young to be a widow.”

When Agnes had something in mind she was grimly determined to see it through, though that drive slowed right down when the topic turned to marriage, even though she talked about it as if they were married already.

But then a stroke of luck hit Lolke which pleased Agnes very much as well, the trucking firm he worked for when he was employed at the bakery wanted to hire him full time, be it at a severe loss of wages.

It was a hard decision for Lolke but he said farewell to the sewer pipes and took the gravel truck job, mainly to please Agnes. He told himself that he loved Agnes, but she could be more than a wife for him, since he knew that she would be an capable administrator if he ever was able to afford his dairy-farm, a skill he definitely lacked.

Lolke - “I worked Fridays and Saturdays at the bowling alley which more than made up for the loss of wages, because after a while I was able to setting pins of two alleys of five-pins at the same time, and sometimes three. I worked my but off and did this for more than a year beside hauling gravel.”

“Saturday-nights at eleven the big shots came in for ten-pin bowling. I got good at that too, so I did easily two alleys and when you set fast and good, you would get tips.

The big shots just rolled the silver cash through the gutter towards me, so the money just rolled in you might say.

And then we finally got a break.”

A dutch rancher near Windermere who owned a chicken business on large acreage, wanted a manager to operate his new enterprise of growing potatoes and strawberries on the unused land.

Lolke drove over to check it out and when the businessman showed him a nice furnished house to live in as part of the deal, he went for it. Finally he had a decent place for what should've been Helen, but was now for Agnes, who was more than enthusiastic about moving into the country and recommended that they should get married.

The ceremony was held in the church after the morning service without bridesmaids and the usual trimmings, which was not unusual in the fifties. The bride was given away by her father, the city barber, and the preacher read the christian reformed form of marriage, which among other things stated that henceforth the bride would have to be obedient to her new husband.

Lolke smiled when he looked sideways to his strong-willed feminist inclined bride, who looked as if she had swallowed a life frog, after hearing what she did not want to hear, and while Lolke kept that wicked grin on his face, her cheeks got as red as her mother's crimson geraniums on the living room window sills.

“And inside of me I swore 'Lolke, you are not getting tonight what you think you were getting.”

Lolke – “Then I realized why Agnes had shied away from marriage.”

Both newly wedded enjoyed the three hour trip by the one ton truck from Calgary to Windermere and Agnes was ecstatic about the house. After unloading mostly Agnes' belongings they met the dutch owner who quickly took Lolke with him to show him his responsibilities while Agnes reorganized the inside of the furnished house in order to make it look more like their own place. The fridge and freezer were generously stocked and in no time Agnes had fixed a meal together. Their first meal in the country, it looked and smelled delicious and Lolke dug in hungrily. Agnes looked at him with wide open eyes

“You're not a pig are you?” she said to a bewildered Lolke, not knowing what he did wrong.

“Weren't you brought up to pray for your meal, or isn't the meal good enough to pray for?”

“Sure I was brought up with praying but we prayed quiet, for ourselves.” Lolke being afraid that the good meal was getting cold gave in to folding his hands and closing his eyes, but drew the line with him reading the bible after the meal, so Agnes did that herself.

Lolke planted acres of strawberry plants and even more potatoes for weeks on end and liked what he was doing while Agnes showed her talents in the kitchen and in bed. He told Agnes

“I feel as if I'm in paradise with my work and with you.”

Agnes had similar feelings and said “I hope this will never end,” but even biblical paradise had an abrupt and tragic ending.

The dutch-man didn't pay.

After two months of hard working and not being paid Lolke had enough.

“What is the most valuable thing in this house that you would like to have,” Lolke asked Agnes.

“You are not thinking of stealing, are you ? I certainly wouldn't go for that.”

“Of course not dear, just asking.” This time Lolke made the decision.

“I have decided to leave, so far I have never worked for nothing in Canada. Besides a big company in around Cranbrook is asking for a herdsman. So, I think we should take to the road for a new adventure.” And Agnes agreed.

Lolke - “Before traveling to Cranbrook I stopped at a warehouse in Windermere where the boss did business and came out with two men handling a dolly carrying a large freezer, a fridge, a washing machine and a small TV.

All charged to the account of the dutch-man.”

More to come.

A Letter to my Friends

It's strange how things sometimes go in life, there I was going to write about a friend I met at Menno place a few years ago, and after I had a few paragraphs on paper, thought to start the story when she was a young girl and so invented Helen. As I didn't know anything about my invented happy girl, I followed a different young woman of whom I did know something.

From there on I went from one person or character to another, still trying to make a sensible whole. I made several errors in what real writers may call the plot but will not tell where you can find them, because they are obvious enough and will not correct them either because I am an lazy story teller like my father.

If we as children thought that he went over the believing line and asked 'Is that really true dad?' he would would pretend to think very deeply and say 'Well, maybe not all of it...'

My parents who during the hungry thirties read a newspaper together with two friends, in order to minimize the cost, waited anxiously for the Saturday edition because it featured a feuilleton, a serialized story. I know, because I had to deliver that paper when my parents were through reading it to a family living on the other end of our village, for which I sometimes got a candy.

It would be a grave sin if we held the paper back a few hours because they were just as anxious as my parents were to know what was happening to their feuilleton hero's.

Since there was no news of or about a Trump in those days, (even though there used to be a painter named Hitler who lived all the way in Austria,) the feuilleton with the main characters was besides the bible with its characters all they had to read and thus very important to them.

I will never equal the writers of those (these?) times and that is not the purpose of my effort either. My goodness I can hardly speak my third language (English) and without the google family would never even get a proper sentence on paper, but even without a formal education I do write (and was published) in the Frisian language, write in Dutch, and am published (one time, for which I got paid $75,) in English.

I try to humor my audience with my true and almost true stories, but also to leave something behind for my grand and great grand-children, as my stories are for a great deal about family and family roots, and also I want to share my thanks to the Creator for the beauty I find in all of nature around me here and the love and friendship I experience here and over the earth.

An important reason that I wrestle daily with computers, language, and skill is that I exercise my brain with it, and so do my best to prolong the time that I am reasonably sound of mind, because the evil of Alzheimer is lurking, and trying to destroy.

My father succumbed to it, at least two of his brothers, and my only sister as well. My doctor is confident that I do not have 'it' and I hope he is right.

I received great help from one of the staff members of Menno place and am for ever thankful to her, and to others who may not know my circumstances as well as she does. I have young friends who see me not only as an old man stumbling behind a walker, but share a laugh or smile and I have more than a hundred friends on Facebook all over the world who help me along on my journey.

I do not know where Megan will put this chapter, as Denée calls it, but am going on with Helen and Lolke for a few chapters yet and then I intend to do some characters I am living with in Menno place – such great people.

If I was God I would want them all, and of course he does want them all. Even I, the least in His kingdom, belong to Him.

I will keep you posted.
Keep smiling.
And laughing.