Ever since I can remember, I felt a safe sense of warmth and security whenever I spent time with my grandparents; whom I referred to as “Oma en Opa”, given that we’re a Dutch family. Throughout the years, I remember frequent visits to their home in Burbank, OH, as well as their ‘new’ home in Wooster.
As a child, one of my favorite sounds was hearing our family car pull into their long gravel driveway. In me, it triggered a sense of safety and belonging. I knew that once I heard that sound, it was only a matter of time before I entered their home and sat in front of the cast-iron fireplace nestled in their living room; often lit by Opa using long wooden matches – the type of kind you rarely see in homes these days.
How I loved that home and the memories we made there. Visits to Oma en Opa were always accompanied by adventures walking in the forest with Opa, Kool-Aid and brownies served by Oma and King mints given to ‘good’ grandchildren.
Their home was a minature masterpiece, filled with mementos from the Netherlands, artwork hand-created by Opa or cross-stiched by Oma, and a feeling of warmth and security that I still draw a sense of strength from. There were so many beautiful things about that home; from the way it smelled as soon as the garage door opened, to the way they furnished it. Everywhere you looked were thoughtful accent pieces of decor, antiques and artistry.
It wasn’t a ‘precious moments’ sort of home. It was a Country Living home, which could have been featured in one of their monthly publications – were they to ever do a focus on Dutch country living.
As a [grand]child, my experiences there were filled with fun moments, framed in a reverent respect I held for their home, as well as Oma en Opa.
In his ‘office’ hung minature models of planes Opa flew during the war; each of which he assembled and painted by hand. Whenever he talked about those ‘big birds’ I could hear him going back in time to the moments where he was behind the cockpit, as he flew hundreds of missions across enemy territory while dodging exploding flak in the air around him.
Opa would sit in his comfortable reading chair and tell all of us stories from his life, which included tales of his encounters with cannibals, racing his motorcle, swimming with sharks and stories from his life in an orphanage. When I got older, I eventually read many of these stories from the book he wrote – which created a blend in my mind of the way he shared them by word, with the poetic way he captured them in written form.
He once held a toilet paper tube in his hand and told us how the cannibals would wear them as clothing…
He didn’t make any of these stories up, either. His life was a tragic masterpiece of an adventure that many would consider themselves lucky to have lived through – and survived.
Oma was the tireless other half in their home; always busy in the kitchen, taking care of her grandchildren and setting the proverbial table for our family visits there. She would share her own stories of life in Amsterdam.
There are so many parts of their home/lives that are forever etched in my memory. From the way those small ‘Kool aid’ glasses felt in my hand, to the way their carpeted stairs felt as I ran up and down them as a child.
The hourglass of time never stops draining. As one grain of sand falls from the bottleneck in the middle, it lands somwhere on the bottom to away the moment the hourglass turns around once more. As I once walked and held Opa’s hand while walking through the woods, confident he would protect me from any snakes, bears or foxes that crossed our path, I now hold Atlas’ hand as we walk through the ‘forest’ near our home as he looks to me to protect him (and Rocky) in case we encounter any coyotee on the loose.
Life is a beautiful thing. The moments we live and experience are very much like rocks thrown into the center of a pond; rippling out as time goes by. Where our ripple ends, none of us know. However, we can be assured that all of our actions, choices and words will inevitably ripple across the life of those we encounter – and even those who pass by long after we take our last breath.
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