Maziestraat

This is the little house my father grew up in.
He was eight years old when they moved in. It was 1928.
The family lived in this house until my grandfather died in 1968.

I got all these pictures from a great Dutch website, an archive of the city of Den Haag. (The Hague, 's Gravenhage.)

The top picture was from 1936. The fellow driving the bakfiets (a bike with a huge cart in front, usually on two wheels, do a search for photos of bakfiets on Google.nl and you will get a good idea)) may very well be one of my uncles, or my grand father.

This view was taken looking into the little dead end street, or alley, really.
The house is on the left, with the bike parked in front, some sort of sign hanging front the first floor.
You can see the narrow front door and next to it a wide door, like a garage door. That's where my grandfather parked his wagon. The horse had a stall in the back of the house, under the kitchen. I can still hear the loud clicking of her hoofs over the stone floor, when grandfather brought her out in the morning to go off to work. It always scared the bejezus out of me. The horse's name was Nel, she was huge. I believe she had a mean streak too.
The wagon was one of those you see in old cards, I found a few pictures online, but this one came the closest. My grandfather's wagon had a covered seat though with a slightly arched roof and a small round window.

He worked his business until about 1960. He got rid of the horse and wagon and serviced his customers on foot. Dressed smartly in his gray coat, carrying his wares in a big round basket. Need less to say he only had a few customers, and they were right around the corner.

He was a dapper little guy, always bragging he was a hofleverancier (purveyor of royalty)
well, NOT! *lol*
But it was only logical he'd feel that way, as he lived a stone's grow from the Palace. I doubt it that he ever knocked on the door there though.

As dapper and as gentle as he was in his golden years, he was a a force to be reckoned with when he was younger.
He could cuss up a storm, was tough on his boys, worked long hours. Working a horse and wagon like that, having to get up at 4 every morning to go to the market, then loading, and then going into the neighborhood to sell, must have been extremely hard work.

I still remember that wagon though. When we visited on Sundays, we were always allowed to pick an apple or a pear. Grandfather taught us how to handle a peach. VERY gently, as not to bruise it. I STILL do that. Every time I pick up a peach I think of my grandfather.
He also showed us how to give old Nel a snack. Holding a slice of bread in your flattened hand. Of course I never dared to do that, those big yellow teeth just looked way too scary!

The second picture I gleaned from that same website.
On December 31, 1953, the boys next door were making firecrackers in their attic. The explosion pretty much blew up the entire house.
My uncle Koos has his bicycle repair business on the ground floor there. I think the loss of his business might have been one more good reason to move to Canada, who knows?
It's a little hard to see, but the little black head you see peeking out the window was my aunt Ria,
surveying the damage.
This picture was in the local newspaper.


I found the last picture on a current Dutch real estate website. The blue house is my father's old house. The one next to it (the one that blew up) is now for sale for a whopping quarter of a million Euro!!!
When I told my father, he got a real kick out of that, as I am sure that his old house is probably just as expensive.

The ground floor has been everything from a restaurant to a printer shop. Don't know what's there now. A project to find out for my next visit.

We did get a very rare peek at the house back in 1986. Wheelie, my son, and Bugs were all in Holland to celebrate my parents' 40th wedding anniversary. We all took a trip 'downtown' to see the old neighborhoods. When we came in the Maziestraat, we found the door wide open. There was some renovation going on. The guys that were working didn't mind us coming in and having a look.
The place had pretty much been gutted. The large front room was now one small room and a bathroom with a tub and shower.
The staircase to the attic was moved from the opposite side of the hall and extended to the stairs coming up from the front door by taking out the toilet room. The attic was still pretty much the way it was.
I immediately showed my family the spot where my father and uncles had hid in the war during the razzias. Right under the roof, behind a low wall. The small entrance to the space was still there. Amazing!

I don't know what the house looks like now, it's 22 years later, and who knows what they did to it to improve it. Perhaps I'll write the people who live there, like I did with my mom's house.

Lots of nice memories from that place though. The visits, playing with my cousins. My brother running his new bike into the dead end wall (DUH!) The apples, the smell of the hay and the horse, the small patio out back with the chickens and the rabbits.

My aunt Ria, who lived there with my grandfather until she passed away. She was such a sweet lady, but also very stern and old fashioned.
She let me play with the toys in the attic. I remember a large doll, and a doll bed, and white lace.
And that odd smell, not bad, just very unique. Old, a little musty, a little sweet.
The smell of a large family having lived in a small house.

My grandmother died in that house. She had a stroke and was taken care of by a nun who was deaf and used a copper horn to listen. All I remember about my grandmother is that she was a large woman, in a bed, never speaking.

But she was a cheerful lady according to my father. She could laugh!!!! Big hearty belly laughs...

I imagine I inherited that trait from her...*S*

Have a wonderful day y'all!

SGMKJ!