Day 9 (Friday) -- Good-bye to Jenni

This being Friday and Jenni’s last day with us, we decided to take it easy and start with a good breakfast, which Jenni created for us (here’s a view of the cook from the loft).

More gifts and souvenirs were needed (it’s amazing how much of our energy has been devoted to finding just the right items), so we drove into nearby Drachten, which has a substantial pedestrian shopping mall.  There we resumed our search for—among other things—a Friesian flag that was just the right shape, the right length, and the right price.  Not anywhere to be found!  We did, however, score a victory with Dutch lace curtains to go over Gayle’s kitchen windows.  And a multitude of scarves.

We also found a lovely bakery run by the DeJong family!  

We also found another HEMA store (which for you Michiganders is a smaller version of our Meijers one-stop shopping), and indulged in another coffee/pastries treat and talked about the way God has moved in our lives.  A good time and good conversation.

Following a hurried lunch at the picnic table outside our cabin, we drove Jenni to Herenveen to board the train into Amsterdam, where she would catch an evening flight back to the Ukraine.  It was sad to let her go and to realize that the week had flown by so fast that it felt we had left many things still unsaid. 

Since we were out and about anyway, we drove a bit further down the A6 and took the first exit westward, to the smallest village in Friesland.  Sloten was designed and built in the 1600s by a famous Frisian fortifications engineer.  Its houses cluster along a picturesque canal, with open harbor on both sides of the town and a windmill (#21!) just outside the houses. 

I tried driving through the small lanes until it became apparent that they were not intended for motor vehicles, so we backed carefully out and found a space in the shopping center.  Mom elected to stay in the car to read, and Gayle and I set out to find that elusive Frisian flag.  We found an antiques shop that was open but utterly unattended, and then several other shops that were open (or at least unlocked) but certainly not open for business.  Apparently everything shuts down in Sloten the minute summer ends.  The frustrating thing is that we actually found the perfect Frisian flag in a shop—but the owner, who came downstairs and joined us, refused to sell us anything because the shop was formally closed.

But the scenery was worth the trip.  The neat, quaint homes, the tranquil harbor, the classic Friesian windmill—we strolled through the one main street of the village and over the footbridge.

Notice the DeJong name on the store sign, above.  We even found a construction truck with the Bajema name in the supermarket parking lot!

The evening was spent packing, organizing, and cleaning.  We planned to leave early in the morning (well, early for us) to drive back to Amsterdam and catch a 1:20 p.m. flight back to the States.  Annette brought over a large pot of pumpkin soup left over from a school lunch, so we dined again with wonderful food, then gave thanks for all the gifts God had given us during this week.

Day 8: Medieval Fortifications and an Unusual Answer to Prayer

The big question today:  Do we drive into Germany, or explore more of Holland?

We decided to do both.  Which meant an on-time departure, something we had not been good at achieving on our other days.  (With showers, hair-drying, and magnificent breakfasts, we usually left home about noon each day!)  But by 10:00 a.m. we were in the car, ready to go. 

On the drive through the province of Groningen, we were on the lookout for more windmills, as our count was approaching 20.  (One of Mom’s friends had told her that she visited Holland and never saw a single windmill, so we were determined to document their existence.)  We added none on this day until we reached our first destination: the medieval village of Bourtange, on the border of Holland and Germany.

Bourtange is located on some of the only solid ground in the marshy wetlands that stretch from the north coast down a substantial portion of the German-Dutch border.  In the 16^th century, William of Orange ordered that the village be fortified against a possible German invasion, fearing that invaders would choose this point as the best place to invade with horses, wagons, and cannons. 

The town was fortified with a series of walls and moats arranged in a star-shaped pattern, which from the sky looks amazing (picture is courtesy of Google images):

The purpose of this design was to make it nearly impossible for an army to get through into Holland.  The fortifications gradually fell into disrepair, so that by the 20^th century there was almost no trace of them left.  In the 1960s and 70s, the townspeople decided to rebuild the village and moat system the way it used to be, with authentic reproductions of the buildings that had been lost.  Today’s village of Bourtange is the result.

We parked our car in the information center (no motor traffic is allowed in the small village except for residents) and got on a shuttle bus that would take us to the village center.  In the parking lot was a small yellow cat calling for someone to pet him, so we all obliged.  The shuttle driver informed us that he was one of two village cats who were fed by everyone and who often traveled the shuttle bus with visitors. 

At the village center, rough with primitive cobblestones, we were surrounded by a circle of shops, cafes, museums, and resident homes, all situated as they had been in the 1500s.  We had coffee and pastries in one of the cafes, fortifying ourselves for the exploration to come.

After coffee, we found the old Reformed church, a quiet and peaceful place, still used for worship.

On one wall was hung a triptych dating back to the early 1500s, the time of the Reformation.  On this wooden plaque was hand-painted the essential articles of faith:  the Ten Commandments, the Apostle’s Creed, and the Great Commission.  A wonderful visual of our common heritage of faith through the centuries.

After that, we wandered out to the village windmill, a replica of a rare type of transportable windmill (set on wooden posts) used for grinding corn. 

We explored the dikes and gardens, peering into what we thought were museum windows until we realized that they were private homes!  We especially appreciated the fine shops that held wonderful treasures, some of which we purchased for gifts for family back home. 

But the best part of the day was a unique answer to one of my prayers.  Along with prayers for Mom’s health and strength, for protection for our rental car, and for finding the places we wanted to go, I had a specific but unspoken prayer:  to find some proof that the Van Dyken descendants had not completely vanished from the land.  I had wanted to find a tombstone with the name “van Dijken” carved into its stone.

So far we had not found one, even in the cemetery that adjoined the old Van Dyken homestead.  Nor a single business or sign that contained the Van Dyken name.  Where had they all gone?  After all, this was one of the dutchiest of Dutch names.  It means “from the dikes.”  How much more of a true Hollander could you get?

On the shuttle bus into Bourtange, an older couple joined us:  Mrs. and Mrs. PJ Eigeman.  We exchanged friendly greetings.  Her walker was packed alongside of Mom’s.  We made small talk and discovered, as is usual when playing Dutch bingo, that we had a lot of connections.  Mr. Eigeman happens to be, among other things, the uncle of Andy Ryskamp of CRWRC in Grand Rapids.  (At which point, as is common in this bingo game, the young lady driving our shuttle turned around and said, “I’ve visited relatives in Grand Rapids also.  Do you know the Kok family?”  Ralph and Edi Kok were long-time members of my church and dear friends.)

Later that afternoon Jenni came running to get me out of one of the shops.  “Come quick!  We want a picture!  We found a Van Dyken!”  While conversing with Mom, Mr. and Mrs. Eigeman discovered that we were researching our Van Dyken heritage.  Mrs. Eigeman exclaimed, “My mother was a Van Dyken!  She is still living in Bedum!”  So we embraced each other as long-lost cousins, and marveled again at the connections we discover with people when we begin to talk.

Later, on the way back to the parking lot, Mr. Eigeman told us some of his life story.  Born south of Amsterdam, he was orphaned at a young age and was taken in by an older, married sister near the city of Groningen.  (“A happy move,” he said, “because otherwise I would not have met my dear wife!”)  One clear memory of wartime Holland is that a young Jewish mother came to the house, asking the family to take in her newborn son.  The woman’s husband had already been taken to Auschwitz, and she was afraid that she too would be transported into Germany.  Her fears were realized, and she suffered terribly in the camps but emerged alive.  When she returned for her son, it was heart-wrenching for PJ’s family to give up the young boy they had come to love as a son and brother.  To this day, PJ maintains contact with his adoptive brother, who lives in England and has no other living blood relatives.  “We talk every other week,” he says.  “He is still my brother.  We are all the family he has.”

PJ’s parting advice:  “Talk to people.  Get to know their stories.  Everyone has a story.  When we ask questions and listen, we can hear these stories and find out how we are connected.”  What a blessing to have met PJ and his wife!  And cousins yet too!

After a cool, windy picnic lunch—eaten just before a drenching rainshower—we drove off to find the German border a few miles away, and then hopefully to the German town of Bentheim about an hour south of us, which Sjoerd had told us contained a lovely castle.

Unfortunately, our map of the Netherlands did not extend far enough to show the town, and despite Jenni’s excellent navigational skills, we never really found the town.  (Which disappoints me later, as I write this, because I have just learned that there is a large contingent of “Bentheimer” Dutch/Germans living in Grand Rapids, who gather every year to celebrate their heritage.)  Just for fun, here is what we missed (courtesy again of Google images):

We did, however discover our 20th windmill!  With a rainbow behind it, which we took as a kind of benediction that we could abandon our journey and head for home.

So, feeling a bit weary, we turned our faces toward home and were glad to enjoy yet another night of chili and toasted cheese sandwiches.

To the Dikes from Whence We Came (Day 7)

This morning we rose with a sense of freedom:  We had found the ancestral homes, and now we were free to explore more of the area that our grandparents and great-grandparents, perhaps back to hundreds of generations, had walked.  Since our family name means “from the dikes,” it seemed logical to drive north and walk along the man-made walls that kept out the sea and carved out more farmland for Holland.

At Jenni’s suggestion, our first stop was in Dokkum, a small city with canals and windmills, museums and shopping.  

We happened to park near a museum featuring the history of Boniface, an English missionary murdered by Friesian pagans in the 6^th century.  The museum was open only in the afternoon, so we decided to come back to Dokkum later, after lunching on the dikes.

So on to Wierum, a small fishing village due north of Dokkum, as close to the dikes as we could get, according to our map.  Driving to Wierum, we passed a solitary church and stopped to look at the names in the cemetery—hoping, as always, to discover some trace of family.  The sad thing about this church was that it was locked, and there were cobwebs on the doors.  It had fallen into disuse—typical of many churches in Holland.  But still, with its aged golden stone work and classic rounded Dutch back, it retained a solid sense of faith and history.  Some of the names of those buried round the church:  Douma, Van der Veen, Spoelstra, Blijstra, Kamstra….no wonder we feel so at home in this place.

We passed by the harbor to the Fries islands, where ferries take vacationers to the grassy sands and long stretches of beach during the summer months.  We were treated to the sight of a group of Frisian miniature horses grazing in front of the dikes.

Then, following narrow and winding roads, we drove slowly through fields of grain, small homesteads with orchards, and everywhere the brick houses and Friesian barns along the road.  Wierum is a town sheltering behind a massive dike that stretches the length of the Wadden See.  We parked at the church, which was recently rebuilt, but the old remaining tower dates from about 1000 AD.

Standing next to the church is an odd statue.  A woman, weary and yet standing straight, looks out to sea, a shovel slung over her back and a bucket dangling from the shovel’s handle.  A sort of bonnet shades her face from the sun.  She wears what appear to be bloomers, and sturdy boots rise to mid-thigh. 

Curious, I checked the information plaque near the church.  I discovered that most of the wives (known in Dutch as “Pierensteekster”) in this fishing village not only tended to housecleaning, meals, gardening, and raising the children, but also were responsible for digging as many as one thousand worms from the mud flats that lay on the sea side of the dike.  Each day these would need to be dug, and then carefully placed on a fishing hook (the children often helped with this task).  Then, as though this were not enough work, the women also had the responsibility of taking any unsold fish to hawk at the market place in Dokkum, an 8-mile walk (one way).  Wow.  And I thought I worked hard.

We climbed the steps up the dike and stood gazing out at what appeared to be a flat sea, but on closer inspection was a vast, shining mud flat, with the sea lying further out.  In the distance we could make out the Frisian islands of Ameland and Schiermonnikoog.  A telescope enabled us to see the vacation homes that lined the dunes and sandy beaches.

We ate lunch in a sheltered bus stop, out of the fresh, raw wind.  Then, after searching in vain for an open tea room or café (everything closes down here in the fall), we headed back to Dokkum, where we had tea and cappuccinos in the museum café.

The exhibit on Boniface was interesting, as far as we could tell, but sadly was written completely in Dutch, so we had to guess at much of it.  But it was a good exercise in trying to figure out the Dutch words.  Gayle and Jenni were quite taken with the figures of Boniface and the pagans.

It gave us pause to think that this English bishop who left his comfortable cloister to preach to some hard-headed Frisians was in great part responsible for the families of faith—both Pasma and Van Dyken—that we have grown up in.  I felt a depth of gratitude for his apparent passion and dedication and must remember to thank him personally when I meet him in person.

Leaving the museum, we drove to the center of town to look at some shops and a large open-air market. Mom stayed in the car, dozed, and read her book while Gayle, Jenni and I browsed the stores and stalls for mementos and gifts.  Then we headed home, glad to be early enough to do some bicycling after dinner. 

Sjoerd had prepared three bikes for us to ride and pointed out one of the great biking trails in the area (there are many!).  With some trepidation Gayle mounted her bike, then pronounced it a “Cadillac” and did amazingly well, dodging pedestrians on the bike path, maneuvering through narrow gates, and battling a bike seat that wanted to point upward like a rocket every time she sat on it.  We cycled along a deep, dark canal lined with old and neatly kept homes, then turned around and rode into the sunset—a find end to a fine day. 

The only fly in the ointment was a small mishap as Gayle swerved to avoid a couple walking on the bike path, only to cause a small dent and scratch on someone’s hood.  We alerted the owner, who shook his head sadly and tried to find a kind way to tell us that the cost of repair would be considerable.  That was particularly bad news for Gayle, and it was difficult to understand how God could have allowed such a stressful incident in an otherwise beautiful day, but we decided it was best to allow God to work through whatever purposes he might have in the situation.

And so to bed, with prayer and hope and faith.  Not a bad way to fall asleep, in the hands of God.

An Amazing Clock Tower (Day 6)

Another night of storm and wind did not prepare us for the mild and sunny day that dawned.  As usual, we did not leave the house until close to noon (all of us being slow starters in the morning—must be genetic).  We barreled our way down the A7 freeway and raced around the Ring of Groningen, skirting the city and heading north for the country and the little town of Bedum.  We were on a mission:  to find the childhood home of Lambertus Pieter Van Dyken, my father’s father, born in 1877 in the province of Groningen, in the village of Zuidwolde, to Lambertus van Dijken and Anje Wigboldus.

I remember Grandpa only as an elderly, white-haired gentleman—a bit stiff and formal, but of upright character and a firm posture.  All of us grandchildren (and there were many) were expected to go up to him at Sunday morning coffee and give him a peck on the cheek and remind him of our names.  He was kindly, but a bit distant.

So it was with some anticipation that we looked forward to seeing the place where he had played as a boy, running through the pasture, climbing up into the clock tower next to his home and winding the clock—his special chore as a jonge.

Driving north from Groningen toward Bedum, we resumed our count of windmill sightings.  Suddenly there flashed by on the right a most lovely windmill, standing by itself a few hundred yards distant, on the side of a canal.  By common consent we turned down the first lane to the right and drove slowly down its neatly cobbled surface until we were within camera range.  It was greatly satisfying to finally have an opportunity to look at one of Holland’s magnificent windmills up close, and to take as many pictures as we wished:

I think the skyscape is as magnificent as the windmill.  And I like to think that the mill is old enough that Grandpa knew it as a boy, having been born in the town of Zuidvolde, only a kilometer or so down the road. 

Not more than a quarter mile further, we stopped at our first antique store and browsed for a few gifts to bring home with us.  Antique stores are not common in Holland, but we managed to find a few on our travels.

By the time we reached Bedum, it was time for lunch.   We drove into the charming, clean town (as is almost every other town in North Holland) and headed for the tallest church tower, hopeful to find a cemetery with a few Van Dyken names and also a place to eat.

We found the Nederlanse Hervormde Sint Walfridus of Grote Kerk by spotting an immense, ancient, and leaning church tower rising above the roofs of the town.  (The magnificent structure was built around 1050 AD; the rest of the church building was built after 1450.  Grandpa would have known this familiar landmark as well.)  A hearse parked outside told us that a funeral was in progress, so we walked around to the back of the churchyard and sat on a bench in the sun to eat lunch. 

Behind us, beyond the churchyard fence, spread a large and amazing garden, now in the fading glory of late summer.

A few slices of moist raisin bread, fragrant Gouda cheese, crisp apples, and water made for a good lunch.  As we finished, the church tower bell began to toll for the dead—long, mournful peals that kept going even after we had driven back into the town. 

Following instructions from my cousin Roger, who had traveled this road with his own father some years ago, we found the road going west out of the town center, and drove to the edge of Bedum, where we found Lanting’s antique shop and stopped to purchase a few more mementos of our Dutch heritage.   The road we drove on was raised slightly from the rest of the farmland, and we noted that it was called the “Oude Dijk” road—very likely one of the hundreds of dikes that were built over the centuries as the Dutch reclaimed more and more of the land.

Turning left at the row of trees and small stream, we found the tiny hamlet of Westerdijkshorn—and the strange anomaly of an ornate clock tower rising out of what appeared to be a sheep’s pasture on our left.

This was it!  According to Roger, the old farmhouse immediately to the south of the clock tower had been Grandpa’s home for perhaps about five years, from age 7-12.  Here he had taken on the responsibilities of an oldest child and son, helping out on the farm, going to school, and daily winding the clock.

We took many pictures of the clock (still working and ringing out the hours), the graves surrounding it, and the house next door, which is the typical Friesan farm house, consisting of a huge barn area included under the same huge, sloping roof as the family's living quarters.

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A young woman approached us from her home across the road, and we asked her about the history of the clock tower.  She said, “I can tell you a little, but my husband can tell you a lot more.  Why don’t you come inside for tea and we can talk?”  We followed her into her kitchen and, warmed by tea and by the views of pasture and cloud and sky through her large windows, listened to the history of the clock tower.

Centuries ago—earlier than the Reformation—a  large and important church had stood on this spot. But after the Reformation  attendance fell away, and there was eventually only one priest to share between the church in Westerdijkshoorn and in a neighboring village.  Services alternated between the two, until people got tired of walking all that distance, and it was decided to let the church in Westerdijkshorn fall to ruins. 

In 1872, however, the village decided to salvage some of the building and use original stones to build a clock tower, using the same bell that had rung in the tower since the 1500s.  Someone from the village would have to wind the clock gears regularly.  This task fell to little Pieter Lambertus during the five or six years that his family lived next door.

Interestingly, the man who told us this history had also been the village clock-winder for a time, until the job was taken over by a blind man.

We thanked the couple for their kindness, their tea, and their hospitality, and as we were taking our leave, the residents of Grandpa’s childhood home came out and invited us to walk through the barn portion of the house.  What a treat to see the beams and cow stalls and roof that Grandpa must have seen daily during his chores.  

Meeting the family’s children (all blonde little tow-heads), I thought again how fleeting this life is, how quickly we pass through it and are gone.  When I and my siblings have left this life, there will be no one with living memory of Peter Lambertus Van Dyken.  His memory on earth will be like grass that withers in the wind, and blows away.

We drove away feeling blessed and refreshed, not only by human kindness but by the far vistas of fields and sky and clouds that had formed the early childhood of someone very dear to us, whose genes are in our blood.

We drove to Winsum, attracted by the name of the town and by its description in our guidebook.  It was truly winsome, with a large windmill standing over the central part of town, used in centuries past for grinding grain.  We bought some flower bulbs for planting next spring, to bring some of Holland to our own homes in America.

And then  home again, retracing our route and settling in to a warm meal of chili and toasted cheese sandwiches—comfort food in a very comfortable cabin.  Over grace we gave special thanks for the unexpected gifts of hospitality and serendipity that God had given us in this day!