The great story of Greeningen. Scape three

I thought, yesterday late, I am going to try some Smirnoff. Like Poetin. You picture it, Mynski drinking white liquor. Als dat maar goed gaat. Hope for you all is well. A popular is a tree. A tulip is a flower. An ocelot is an animal. A nightingale is a bird. Europe is a territory. Life is a bitch, a bogger. Death is inevitable. The world of the gifted, new intellectuals, like the new rich, are popping up, like bird signs and moonlights. Now retrieved when dusted, whispered to, asked about, shine. We remained unknown to Dutch men and women in general, they do not see us. They do not look further than skirts and pants. And want babies all the time. The burger and burgeres becoming fat because of a lazy life, also known as comfortable. They think of as comfortable, as good, as something right to do. Their world. Not to confuse with planet Earth and seven billion people moving over it. This scape three is about brave hearts, a heroheroine, not Mus, Dutch poetry, Cats and Vasalis, a third character. A  name: ITperson. Iterson, an Icelandic habit of namegiving, a temporary phenomenon, I before J, V after T.

A person. Can a person be a gift? Can someone be too good to be true? Is there something like truth? Is it all in the name or less absolute, in the naming?  The creating. I wonder how far the imagination of the reader will follow the young lovers after they have been dismissed. The lovers who dream of writing, real writing, writing a blog with the name............. My young persons are influenced by the fall of the red lantern, belonging to a period when the acts were played. What do you remember of the first three years of your life? How? How do you know or not know, do you know? You will learn in time. Trust. Trust you. Or me. And me. Lets start with the three years just passed away. Yesterday, what did you drink on your porch, in front of your tent, in your favourite bar, on the in the wood something festival, at the bench in front of a TVmachine with red and green buttons, one alarming, one cooling, calming. Looking. Looking, for what exactly? Spending time. Waiting, waisting whipping seconds, hours, days, weeks. One year? Time is going so fast, time, a construction, a word,
something someone introduced one time. Was there a time when there was no time?



From Russia with love, Just Bond, licensed to kill, once upon in a time in Great Britain.

My uncle Albert

Oooooooooooooooooooooooh! When did I first see uncle Albert. I remember. The place. The happening. I am not sure about the date. No problem, I can figure that out. There was a crowd, a lot of people, all so called members of the family. Like united nations. All geographies and bodily hidden histories, voices all over the place. Something serious had happened recently. Something all seem to have touched. Grimms and enchantments. We had been travelling by train to gather with all these strange looking familiarities, highly exceptionally. We, in this case, my grandmother from the Sival Baarda branche, and me. For so far I can remember. All of a sudden my brother and sister were there as well. We joined. And then we met uncle Albert. We looked upon him, very excited, he smiled at us, made jokes. My sister immediately got very nervous, my brother and I had to laugh. Making a good time. He loved us. We were his kids for some time. My great grand mother just had been buried. The mother of my grandmother from the Sival Baarda family. Uncle Alberts mother. You are great kids, he said. You know what? I give you this. And he showed a ten guilder note. Ten guilders? We are with three! What to do? We decided to buy icecreams of three guilders a piece and return the one guilder coin to Albert. He let it all happen. He knew, always watch the little ones. Something very Dutch to do. Even the Belgions are profiting from it now.

Mmmmmm, uncle Albert. The uncle from up North, who rescued two family members from kamp Westenbork in the middle of world war two. 1942. Never seen him before. He lived very. In solitude was said. But, what did my father know about this?  So father so son. Dear religious dad.

How did he do it? Did he make a plan? Did he just decide  'I am going to be the man', was he bored,

war is so boring and especially these neighbour occupiers with their toys. Was his smell gone, by too much powder in the past? Didn't he think at all, did he follow his instinct? I wasn't there at the time.
what do I know about it? What I did came to know on the memorable traintrip day, was, he was quite
tall, taller than me. No exception to the rule, by that time all men were quite taller than me. Not my grandfather Piet, but all the other ones. So far nothing strange. When I looked up again, I saw he had very dark hair. And a lot of it. Well, that was extraordinary in the midst of all the Dutch blonds and light greys.
The story goes that he travelled by foot. When he arrived at the gate of Westenbork, it is said that he shouted at the guards. Probably something very impressive and with absolute authority, for they, the guards, opened the gates and he was allowed to go along, to get inside, to do what he came for to do.

Drie dagboekaantekeningen van Be Scholten, uit Horizon city, opgetekend door Jaap Scholten, 2014, p.369.
11december 1941. Wat is het moeilijk niets van elkaar te weten, maar we houden moed, niet waar? Niet aan de toekomst denken, maar van het heden een kunstwerk maken. Dat is ware levenswijsheid. Alleen het moment heb je in je macht.
27 Juli 1942 Gister kwam Hans hier met zeer alarmerende berichten uitvAmsterdam. Ze hebben 4000 Joden naar Duitsland gestuurd, vermoedelijk om daar afgemaakt te worden. Er speelden  zich de vreselijkste tonelen af op straat. Joden, die wilden vluchten of zich verweerden, werden neergeschoten. Enkele stumpers sprongen in de grachten en verdronken. Er heerst overal een spanning, die haast niet te houden is. Een groot aantal vooraanstaande mannen is als gijzelaar gevangen genomen. Ik hoorde uit Enschede dokter Van der Wal, zde Vries zeilinstructeur, Helmich Ledeboer en Bob Roelvink.
16 Augustus 1942 Op het ogenblik wordt er naar gezinnen gezocht, die tijdelijk een Jodenkind willen opnemen, waarvan de ouders naar Polen zijn gestuurd. Ik zou best een zuigeling willen adopteren, maar toen ik het aan Pieter voorstelde, moest hij er niets van hebben en zei, dat ik wel gek leek om het hele gezin aan het grootste gevaar bloot te stellen. Het is een illegale actie en je hebt niet met mensen, maar met wilde beesten te doen. Natuurlijk is dat wel waar, maar ik ben er voor mijn geweten nog niet van af. Bij het grote leed, dat wij allemaal te dragen hebben, wil ik meedragen en niet te vreden zijn als mij en mijn gezin nu toevallig nog niets ergs is overkomen. God, wat een ellende is er toch door die Hitler in de wereld gebracht.
10 October 1942 Frits is ook een bron van zorgen. Hij draaft zich dood voor die arme Joden. Het neemt hem zo in beslag dat hij niet meer tot werk komt. Ik kan het me zo begrijpen, want met elke stumper die je een schuilnaam bezorgt, red je een mensenleven. Ik had zelf wel een zuigeling willen aannemen, maar Piet durft het niet aan. Er hangen je de ergste straffen boven het hoofd en verbeurdverklaring van je goederen


The end, you know, the familie members, if they were family members at all, were travelling back with him, to were they wanted to. Never heard anything about the freed familiymembers. They were definitely not mourning, that day the brother and sister and me got icecreams of three guilders each. Strange, I realise now, there were no other kids there, then. The seventies, previous century. Just the three of us. Getting all the attention. The sister didn't like. I indulged in. The brother I don't know.

There is a cowboy version of this story, telling uncle Albert jumped on one of these transport trains, just in time, and, heroicly, freed all the passengers ( probably all breaking their legs without
muscles, falling). So far, a war rescue.

Summer 2015. My uncle Albert

Otium / Otia

The Roman politicians went to their otia near the Adriatic sea, to avoid the heath of the city of Rome in summertimes. Since 20.000 elderly persons died in Paris, last 2003, it would be a wise thing to do, not just for me. I wonder, how old were these politicians and why only the politicians? It has been almost ten years now, since I have had the opportunity to visit the Otium, a lot of things have happened since then. I invented the worldartparty.  www.worldartparty.blogspot.nl

First of all, I still like to go to the Otium, mainly for spacious reasons. And for doing nothing visibly. For a change. Sit and think. Remember. That kind of stuff.

I started to study history, three years ago. No, actually two years ago. I don't know how this works, but so many stories I have heard in the past, all pop-up. Stories my father told me about WW II for instance. He was between 4 and 8 years old, living in the city of Haarlem. With his mother, my grandmother, Frannie Baarda, married Sival Baarda, and his older brother, Frans Sival. He did not live with his father, Piet Sival, who was hiding for the militant Occupiers. How many years? I don't know. He didn't tell. Probably not more than 4 years. He was quite smart, Piet, the grandfather. And religious. He believed in the goodness of people and he was authority sensitive unlike me, he played the organ, he loved my grandmother with all his heart and being. He was very afraid and nervous at the end of his life. I was his darling grandchild. I kept answering all his questions. He liked a cigarillo or two after dinner. Something my sister and an older niece, both very intelligent and promoted women, in herited. Although the sister dips them in brandy. Just a matter of taste. We had a lot of fun, the old man and I, joking the world and especially all our family members and their habits.
Me twentytwo of age in the city of London, he passing away in the city of Utrecht. I made myself some promises.

Now and then I share a family story, with one or another parent, while waiting for the kids to drop out school. And I thought today, why not share it with you.

My uncle Albert