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!

Probing the Pasma Roots (Day 5)

During the night the rain began to fall, and in the morning the sky looked threatening.  But we could not resist the impulse to start immediately on our hunt for the Pasma roots.  We had read much of Orville Pasma’s manifesto on the descendants of Klaas and Klaaske Pasma, my Grandpa Pasma’s parents.  So we mapped out a route that took us first to the scenic Fries village of Sneek, then on to the port village of Harlingen, and finally to the early roots in the tiny hamlets of Oosterbierum and Tzummarum along the northwestern coast of Friesland.  Here is a link to a road map of our trip that day:

https://maps.google.com/maps?saddr=Lippenhuizen,+The+Netherlands&daddr=Sneek,+The+Netherlands+to:Harlingen,+The+Netherlands+to:Oosterbierum,+The+Netherlands+to:Tzummarum,+The+Netherlands&hl=en&ll=53.096498,5.740356&spn=0.355408,0.883026&sll=53.094849,5.740356&sspn=0.355421,0.883026&geocode=FXD5KAMdK_tcACkNQaaM2ETIRzEO5vCgPBVxtg%3BFUwtKQMdrGFWACmR9zn_t_HIRzF62GtpEVojdQ%3BFVkmKwMdn-RSACmzlCAE3d3IRzGjZ3BP7p_gXw%3BFeFILAMdCBtUACnV29TPUODIRzG6qSFD9xbnLg%3BFe5WLAMdCK9UACnbicXNv-HIRzHvDiXhRCHvnw&oq=tzu&mra=ls&t=m&z=10

The reason we stopped at Sneek is that my neighbor and others told me that we must.  I disagree with that, having been there.  Perhaps it was that we were a bit grumpy, just starting out on our morning drive (things are never happy just at the beginning of what we know will be a long day; I think it has to do with a drop in blood sugar after breakfast).  Sneek was okay, but the best thing about it is that we found a Hema store, where I found a cute outfit for my new grandson and Jenni found the world’s greatest brown tights and a Subway restaurant.

We also visited a medieval Catholic church, which was stunning inside, with intricate brick work on the massive columns, high ceilings, statues, stained glass windows, and, permeating everything, the smell of holiness and mystery.

It was mid-afternoon before we left Sneek, and we made it to Harlingen 20 minutes later.  Now, here was a town that I would have liked to explore more!  Perched on the coast of the Waddenzee, it was one port from which Dutch ships sailed all over the world.  My great-uncle Henry Pasma caught the sea-bug here, and begged permission to sail with Dutch merchant vessels for the first few years of his adult life.  (Permission was granted.)  We loved the old buildings and picturesque canal.

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More importantly, Harlingen was the city to which my grandfather, Wiebe (William) Pasma, moved when just a boy, along with his parents (Klaas and Klaaske) and siblings.   Our mission:  to find Rommelhaven 7 and 7a, and Rommelhaven 28 and 28a, the home and the store, respectively, of Klaas’s family.  Thanks to Orville’s manifesto and Jenni’s determination and good sense of directions, we navigated the narrow, winding streets of the old Harlingen and found parking just two blocks from the Pasma home.

Filled with a growing excitement, we got Mom’s walker out of the car trunk, grabbed our umbrellas (it was raining by then), and walked the uneven cobblestones to 7 and 7a Rommelhaven. 

In the midst of our picture-taking, the door opened, and an older woman looked at us curiously.  She did not speak much English, so I explained as best I could in German that my grandfather had lived there as a boy, around the turn of the last century.  Her husband arrived and told us that he had lived in the house since a child, and that his own father (now over 100) still lived there also.  

They could not remember, of course, the Pasma family who had lived there before them, but they were able to tell us that the house at 7a had been a potato barn before it had been torn down and a newer home built there.  Here is a photo of the "new" 7a:

We half hoped they might invite us in, but I think the language barrier was too much for them.  It was raining harder by then, so we took our leave with many thanks, and crossed the narrow footbridge over the canal to Rommelhaven 28—a grander-looking corner building, once no doubt the Pasma store but now an elegant home.

 

Driving rain forced us to take shelter another block down under a storefront, while Jenni searched fruitlessly for an open café (everything closes on Mondays, apparently).  When the rain stopped we retraced our steps and stood again in front of Rommelhaven 7, amazed at the knowledge that this would have been an everyday, familiar sight to Mom’s father and grandfather.  With the large boats lining the canal, it was truly beautiful.

Reluctantly we took our leave and drove along the huge, mounded dikes northeast to Oosterbierum.  There, thanks again to Orville’s manifesto, we immediately found the impressive Reformed church at which Klaas and Klaaske first worshiped. 

We also found the small brick house across the street at which their family had lived, before leaving Oosterbierum for Harlingen.

There’s an interesting story in the move from Oosterbierum to Harlingen, which took place sometime in the 1890s. Klaas had been a merchant in Oosterbierum, but was apparently forced to move to Harlingen after some religious controversies made him a bit unpopular with many of his customers.  Klaas was a fervent Calvinist who followed the teachings of Abraham Kuyper and urged his congregation to do the same.  A split between the two hard-headed Dutch theological camps was inevitable, and at first Klaas changed his membership to the newly formed Gereformeerde Kerk in Oosterbierum (now a private home). 

But his customer base in Oosterbierum dropped away, preferring to give their business to Reformed church members instead.  So Klaas left for greener pastures in Harlingen, and eventually in America.

Knowing that Klaas’s birthplace was in nearby Tzummarum, we drove there and found the large church with the cemetery in the center of town.  There we did find a few Pasma tombstones to at least mark the fact that Pasmas lived there at one time:

By this time, Mom was very tired, and we headed home for bowls of hot chicken soup, toasted cheese sandwiches, and warm beds, hoping for better weather the next day.