Violieren......................

The other day I bought a bouquet of Stock, or as we call them in Holland: violieren.

My mom hates these flowers, as the scent of these remind her of funerals. You won't do her a favor at all if you brought her a bunch, no matter how pretty they looked. No, she likes Freesias, Rozes, Gerberas, Lillies of the Valley, Lilacs and Sweet Pea....

We all have sense-memories like this I am sure. I can well imagine her dislike for these flowers, as it most likely reminds her of her own mother's funeral, or her father's.
It easy to recall the old ornate churches, dark and mysterious, smelling of frankincense and must, and during funerals and holidays, the flowers. Carnations and violieren. Hardy flowers, they don't wilt quickly, and they fill the space with a sweet smell for days.

My very own memory of these flowers is not a sad one at all. During certain holidays in the catholic faith, there are celebrations when they hold these parades, for lack of a better word, of children, girls dressed like little brides, white dresses, veils, holding a small bouquet of flowers.

Only once was I a participant in one of these parades. I remember it quite vividly, the dress, the big silk bow in my hair (I still have a kink in my hair where I always wore my bows), the white shoes, the feeling of being so very very special to have been chosen to participate. And of course the flowers, the fragrance. I'll never forget that. In the picture I am posing before the event. In the backyard, standing on the "put" the waterdrain from the kitchen. Against the wall there were two pear trees which were trained to grow flat against the wall. I remember them bearing fruit, but there were always worms in them.


I must have been three or four. We were still living in my grandparents' house in Den Haag in the Chasseestraat. We lived there with my Opa, and my mother's youngest sister, who was still single at the time.
The house was like a small brownstone, two stories with a large attic.

The backyard was tiny, but I always remember it to be huge. My grandfather built a shed in the back, he made a sign that hang over the door, and ever so often he changed the name of the shed. As a matter of fact, every picture I have ever seen of that shed has a different sign on it.
Many family group pictures were taken in this little garden in front of that shed, mostly at engagements, birthdays and weddings.

Opa was in charge of the yard. He loved planting his marigolds. I remember there being a huge golden rain tree (wisteria) in the back corner by the shed. The bunches of bright fragrant yellow flowers in the spring. We might have had some lilacs there too. Right outside of the French doors there was a black and white tiled patio, then a narrow pebbled path (or crushed seashells), with the flower beds on each side. Planters hanging from the fence.

As I grew older, especially once I lived in the USA, I had dreams about that house. Every time I visited Holland I would drag my sister out and we would drive by the house a few times, making pictures of it, wondering who was living in it now...

The dreams continued for quite a while, always about the attic, where my aunt had her tiny room under the roof, where my mom hung the laundry when it rained. The hidden closet. We would play up there. My brother and I shared the front bedroom on the second floor. A curtain dividing our space.

Opa had the back bedroom, and there was a small room in between with a wastafel, a dry sink. I clearly remember my Opa shaving there in the morning. He would tell me stories, usually pretty fantastic ones to scare me a little, but never with any malice. He had been bald since his engagement to my Oma. On a dare he shaved his head and he never grew his hair out again. I would watch him shave his head and his chin with an old fashioned razor, and what I thought to be whipped cream from a mug.

One night my parents went across the street to play cards with the neighbors. Apparently I didn't want to go to sleep, so I got adventurous and started climbing the drapes. My dad rushed back home (I guess someone saw me and reported my crime) and he tied my feet to the bed rail with a towel so I could not get out. You do that now and you'll be arrested for child abuse.

Of course my brother was always the good little boy, he never got into ANY trouble, EVER...:>)

So a few years ago, I was tired of just driving BY the house. When I was planning my annual trip home I took the bull by the horns and wrote a letter to the owner of the house. Not knowing who lived there, I just addressed it to "occupant."

A week or so later I received a phone call. It was our old neighbor! This woman was quite a bit older than I was, but we used to play together as kids. Her parents lived in that house ever since they were evacuated from their home in Scheveningen during the war. Her father was a fisherman from, a heavy drinker. Her mother was Austrian. A short fat lady with enormous boobs, and black hair which she wore in a long braid down her back. She always wore an apron. She was a very jolly woman, always laughing always hugging the stuffing out of you. There were tons of kids, I believe about 8 of them (I could be wrong of course)

On of their daughters continued to live in the same house after her parents died.
The lady who lives in our old house was quick to show her the letter I sent her, and all heck broke lose. Tineke (the neighbor) could not find my parents in the phonebook, since they had moved outside of the city, but she did find my aunt, and called her. She got a hold of my phone number here in the USA and decided to give me a call.

She was so terribly excited to have found us. The lady who lived in our house, her name is Toos, told us we just HAD to come down and visit. She was very eager to show us the house and hear our stories, and meet the folks who once owned it and grew up in it.
My parents were surprised, they thought I had a lot of nerve writing that letter, but they were also pleased to catch up with the old neighbors and accepted the invitation.

So one evening we all got into the car and went to visit.

At first there was the drinking of coffee with gebak, of course, and Tineke and my mom never stopped yakking.
Toos then showed us the old house. She had done quite a bit of renovation, but it was basically still our old house. The place I had dreamed about so many times.

The attic was still there of course, with it's very very steep staircase, almost vertical. The bedrooms where we slept. Now with a complete bathroom. Ohhs and Ahhhs....Oh My Gods....

There was a door that opened to a patio (the roof above the kitchen) which had a beautiful etched glass window in it. Yup, the original, as were the stained glass top windows in the front room, and the black and white tiles on the garden patio.

I am sure my mom and dad were awestruck, and I would have given anything to have been able to read their minds when they toured the house.

But I had an experience that was absolutely priceless:

When we entered what used to be my Opa's room, I experienced a flash, like a photograph...I clearly saw my Opa's bed, him in it, while he was being given the last rites, the priest, my uncle Bert kneeling at the foot of the bed with his rosary in his hands, my uncle Chris there too and my father....it lasted a nano second, time stood still, for that split second I did not hear anything, but it was almost like I was transferred to that particular point in time.
My sister who was walking ahead of me turned around and looked at me, I probably gasped or something. She wondered if I was ok. I'll tell you later, I whispered.

The experience has since played in my head over and over, it was such a special moment, such a wonderful gift.

The attic held much fascination for me as well. Toos told us when they were tearing down some walls in the attic they found a small bed there, and some drawings, some anti war propaganda.
It might have been something my mother's brother will know more about, as he was in the army during the start of the war. And he hid for most of the war under the floor of the back room (this is a fact I remember hearing the grown ups talk about and I can't say this happened for sure)

There were many things in the house that had never been changed. The front door was still the same, the long long hallway, so dark and scary to me then, the itty bitty teeny kitchen.
Mom and dad used the front room as their bedroom in those days. They had this humongous painting hanging over their bed with the Holy Mother and a bunch of angels.
I wonder how they were ever able to be intimate under that piece of art *lol* Geesh!

Hopefully I will be able to go and visit there again, maybe by myself this time, stay a little longer.

For now I am going to close this down, as Boo-boo just woke up from her morning nap, and is demanding to be fed.

Have a super day y'all!

SGMKJ!