Remembering

On the last evening of our Netherlands adventure, it was time to recount the events of the two week trip. Glass of wine in hands, Olga, Bohdan, Danya, and myself, were asked to identify our highlight. The response was swift although difficult to reduce to only one.

The Keukenhoff with its magnificent display of spring bulbs in artistic splendor throughout a vast park of lush greenery topped the list. Our timing to the northern part of the Netherlands was intended to coincide with the accompanying flower parade during the prime of the annual festival. This year, 2024, was the 75th rendition of the 47 km. long extravaganza.

The pilgrimage to Vimy Ridge was next, site of Walter Allward’s stunning memorial to the 3,600 Canadian lives lost in a pivotal battle of WWI that helped define the country. Each step towards the massive monument induced another look upwards to the heavens, the destiny for the fallen, their names permanently inscribed at the base below.

Then there was the solemn visit to the Groesbeek Canadian War Cemetery, homage to the soldiers that liberated the Netherlands in World War II, just outside Nijmegen with its understated stones, personalized with the messages of grieving families. “Some Time, Some Where, We will Understand”.

I relished all of these places and more, enjoyed viewing them again for a second time, recalling earlier trips with Nicholas and Olena, with Dad, driving through the countryside from one site to the next. The cumulative experiences remind me of the  history, the culture, and the beauty of this part of Europe. Yet, for me, the most memorable, the highlight of this trip, was meeting with a number of cousins over dinner and drinks and stories and song. For those able to attend, the conversation flowed in Dutch and English, picking up where we had left off eight years prior, everyone a little older, families growing up, parents since passed away.

Remember when? Do you remember? I remember.

Riet pulled out her parent’s photo album after dinner at her home in Tilburg. She had digitized the content to share with her siblings after their mother had passed away. I began flipping the pages, intently staring at each, attempting to recognize members of the van Rooij family, specifically scouring them for my mother.

And then I discovered this one.

It is 1951, two years after the first flower parade, six years since the end of World War II; the country is rebuilding, dormant  lives brought back to life. A time for hope, a time of youth, a time when the future is yours, when the possible was real.

Smiling faces of siblings relishing the moment, enjoying each other. Mom in the middle, Herman to her immediate left, the oldest of the surviving children, Joseph on her right. The youngest, Nico, is one bookend; Piet, Mom’s favorite, in uniform as part of the obligatory military service, is the other.

Mom would have been embarking on her nursing career, a secular vocation, never having considered service to the church, unlike all her other siblings.

A headshot of her in the nurse’s uniform, adorned with the medal, is also part of the photo album. She would have been in her 25th year when it was taken. Subsequent images suggest it was the year of graduation. Official looking, an outward pretense to seriousness, quietly restraining a smile, eyes of accomplishment, a look of achievement, The future was beginning.

I now have my own digital copy

My Dad’s side of the family was represented by the children of his oldest sister, the van der Wiel clan, and Henriette, from his youngest brother, hosted at Margaret’s house in Waalwijk. I strained to keep up with numerous exchanges across the table, loud and boisterous, full of enthusiasm. My rusty, limited Dutch enabled a general understanding, sometimes acting as an interpreter, occasionally responding with a butchered Tilburgs phrase. Suddenly Geert breaks out into song, explaining my Dad was the originator, a ditty he learned while in the Navy. Did I know it? Did I remember?

The past was further explored when I showed him the pamphlet, in Dutch, commemorating Uncle Kees’ ordination. Harriet was giving it to me as a gift. The others had never seen it before. They sang the tunes, laughed at the songs. They needed to have a copy.

This group photo captures the spirit of the afternoon.

I am very comfortable being in the Netherlands. Olga and I enjoy this part of western Europe so were delighted to act as tour guides for Bohdan and Danya.

I will remember the sites and family on our journey; moreover, I will cherish the small things such as the local pub in Haarlem, the friendliness of the people, grocery shopping for Dutch delicacies, playing card games in the evening drinking our favorite beverages. When we return….and I will be back…the memories will be fodder for the next conversation, remembering when.