First Steps...First Words

First Steps…First Words

 

An Exert from, “Full Circle Moon…a Daddy’s Little Book”

 

By John W, Vander Velden

 

 

I think it is important to remember that dealing with all the challenges of a child connects us to all the generations before.  We deal with different things -- have new tools to aid us -- yet there is this constant stuff that parents, all through history, must face.  So we remember and write little thing down -- important things, like first tooth, first steps, first real food, and first word.  All parents understand.  The whole process is a mix of worry and pride.  We watched each milestone wondering if Nick met standards considered normal -- if indeed normal truly exists. 

Nick began standing very early.  Figured he would be walking at eight months.  But he fell and didn’t try again for ages.  Trust me walking is great but it makes the kid faster and harder to contain.  The house had been kid proofed.  You know sharp edges eliminated and those plastic things stuffed into all the wall outlets – etc – etc -- etc.  I remember Nick crawling and examining the outlet cover.  The kid took everything apart his little fingers could grasp.  Does it surprise me he wants to be an engineer?  Naw.  So he didn’t really walk until he was fourteen month, but he took off with a vengeance. 

Those first steps, Nick firmly gripping my finger, surely this is one of the things a father remembers.  I feel sorry for any father, that for whatever reason, did not have that joy.  But of all the things I remember, that moment remains a treasure.   

When a child begins to talk -- it is clumsy at first.  New parents listen to each sound as if the child were about to say something very profound.  After months of garbled gibberish, misconnected syllables, a word comes out by accident it seems.  No one appear more surprised than the toddler whose lips formed their first coherent sound.  How fortunate the parent that hears that first word -- over and over and over again.  In this crazy busy world -- with work and all manner of responsibilities -- nothing quite stands up to the sound of the first word. 

That one word does not remain lonely for long.  A day came when Nick connected words in all sorts of babble.  How is it children learn to speak, intelligently?  I guess by hearing intelligent conversation.  I did not make a habit of returning babble for babble.  Nor did I speak to him as if he was a history professor, but rather as the small person he was.  And soon Nicholas spoke to me in a simple logical way.  Oh, there were many words and concepts he had to learn -- and correct pronunciations as well.  But that is part of the magic.  As he watched “Thomas the Tank Engine” on TV he called Harold a Hoc-a-Doctor.  For well over a year we smiled as “Hoc-a-Doctor” came from his lips while he pointed skyward anytime a helicopter flew past.  Of course we are thankful he no longer calls the aircraft by that name -- yet miss the wondrous sound of young lips attempting complex words.  Where has the time flown?  Nick no longer calls his shoes “woofs”.  But that word and so many others will always remain in my memory.  

I remember a time.  Nick must have been three or four.  I had brought him home and it was dark.  Before going in, we wandered the back yard.  The moon was particularly bright, near full.  I can still see him standing in the dark, awe upon his face as he pointed skyward.  “It’s a full circle moon.”  He said confidently.  Another time he pointed at the moon’s crescent, naming it as well -- “A Rocking Horse Moon”.  It was then I knew that I must write this story.  A story of Rocking Horse and Full Circle Moons…a daddy’s little book.  A book of all the feelings and remembrances.

 

(655 Words)

 

White

White                                 4-8-2013

By John W. Vander Velden

A late night, returning from relatives, I sat in the back seat of our ’54 Dodge Coronet.  The winter intense, the heavy snow fell.  Great fluffy white flakes danced across the windshield, all I could see.  My father, with firm grip on the wheel, stared intently ahead.  How he could see anything beyond the floating whiteness, I could not imagine.  The drive took much longer than usual, surely a sign of his caution as wipers flailed and puffs of white blinded.  The ride quiet, unusual, unnatural, none dared to speak, each staring out the windshield and seeing nothing…nothing but white.  I had lost track of the turns made, the lefts, the rights, lost track of how the journey was proceeding, how far we had come, how far we had yet to go, mesmerized by the white, taunting, swirling, that hid the world beyond. 

The Dodge turned suddenly, to the right with a thump, its nose rising, the car slanting as it came to an unexpected stop.  The front doors swung open, pushing the deep powder aside.  Mom quickly climbed out.  My youngest sister wrapped in a blanket in her arms. Dad dashed around taking the rest, a small caravan by the hands.   Cold wind blew the white flakes that bit at cheek and blinded my eyes.  Frightened, I trudged lost, only my father’s hand leading through knee deep snow.  Suddenly steps…familiar stairs, a known door opened and we entered our own home, leaving the cold, the snow, the white, behind.

(251 Words)

Oliebolle

Oliebolle

                                   

By John W. Vander Velden

 

When you move from one place to another, what you bring will surprised you.

 

My parents came to this country from the Netherlands in 1948.  Fortunately they did not come alone, for my father’s oldest sister and her family settled in northern Indiana a few months before my parent’s arrival.  Times in Holland were difficult so shortly after the war.  As newlyweds at twenty-three, they had little and leaving a county in reconstruction were allowed to take less.  Yet the Vander Veldens came with that optimism that so many had, when reaching this “land of opportunity”.

Though their suitcases lacked the material things, they carried memories of family and customs for the remainder of their lives.  With time, they became citizens and blended into this land, that had once been new to them, yet they retained much of the “echt Hollands” (real Dutch) in their home.

Perhaps New Year’s would be the best example.  The holiday was to be celebrated in the home of the oldest member of the family – within a reasonable distance.  Growing up we always went to Tante Agagt and Oom Cass after milking on New Year’s Eve.  The adults, a large group, played a game they brought from the “old country”, “Clock and Hammer”, until the wee hours of the New Year, while the young played Monopoly in the kitchen.  But the whole event would be for naught if it were not for oliebolle, a deep fried Dutch treat.  I loved my aunt, but she couldn’t make oliebolle like my mom.  Tante’s were OK, but mom’s….

Over the years things changed.  My Aunt and Uncle moved to a farm further away.  We continued to visit them on New Year’s Day though it was no longer reasonable to go after milking on the Eve.  As the family grew older and larger, we assembled at the Vander Velden farm house to wait out one year and welcome in the next. 

Mom would work all afternoon, making a raisin bread dough, filling large pans covering them with dish towels, warming the rising dough until the pots nearly overflowed, then dropping large spoonfuls of the sticky concoction into the hot bubbling oil.  She removed the olliebole, when the bobbing balls of raisin bread became golden brown.

At the end of the day’s work, we would enter the house, to an aroma that I am unable to describe but will be part of my memory all my days.  And everyone knew that something special awaited. 

Yes, over time many thing changed.  The family now “blown apart” by distance, no longer gather to celebrate the New Year’s beginning, though a few of the descendants of Jacob and Nel Vander Velden or their spouses continue to make oliebolle.  Yet the memory of that delightful treat reminds me of the place from which I have come -- and the life my parents left behind.

(480 Words)

The Gift

The Gift

By John W. Vander Velden

 

The greatest you can ever receive, is not wrapped with fancy paper tied with a ribbon of silk. It cannot be found on a glass display in a department store. No, the greatest gift is wrapped in swaddling cloths found in a stable, lying in a manger.  And yet nothing -- absolutely nothing -- can compare with that gift.  No other thing you have ever received.  No other thing you could possibly hope for -- has the value of that special gift.

May the birth of Jesus -- the Savior of the world -- be part of your Christmas -- part of your life!

(106 Words)

Amos

Amos         12-18-2013

By John W. Vander Velden

Some call it a cozy room – others dingy.  The first glimpse of faded wall paper, with its once cheerful patterns now diminished to slight contrasts of brownish grays, or the worn coffee colored rug that shows pathways of frequent footsteps leading to and from closed doors, might fuel a person’s opinion.  The room is simply furnished with two green upholstered chairs that do not match by either color or style, a small round glass topped table that holds a lamp and a single shiny metal framed photograph of a woman, apparently in her thirties.  The space contains little else other than a brown porcelain covered Segler oil heater, burning ferociously, yet unable to completely chase the damp chill beyond the walls.  Behind the Segler, above the space that long ago would have been a fireplace, now filled with concrete painted beige to approximate the walls coverings,  stands a cream painted mantle with  a collection of small photographs,  two teenage boys and three young ladies of varying ages separated by small figurines, a white angel with pleading eyes, a black and white cat, that if one stared at that cat long enough it would seem to grin, and a boxer, the pup crouching down, face forward as if anticipating the toss of a ball for it to fetch.

The space is occupied by a single old man seated in a green chair.  Amos Fenton, dressed in a hand knitted red sweater, the boldest color in the room, over a deep green shirt, wearing olive colored work trousers and heavy grays socks.  The man sits motionless, his newspaper spread across his lap.  The paper does not hold Mr. Fenton’s attention for the man‘s eyes, face the mantle across the room.  Yet his gaze is further, not trapped by walls.  A few moments pass and Amos’ distant eyes begin to return to his surroundings.  Shaking his head ever so slightly the old man slides his fingers through the neatly combed stiff white hair, which may have thinned over the years but still covers his head.

Amos turns to his right and smiles as he views the picture at his elbow.  Gingerly he lifts the framed print and stares into the eyes of the woman’s image.  The old man draws a deep breath and allows it to slip out with a sigh.  He glances up to the pictures upon the mantle, allowing another sigh to slip past tight lips.  The old man whispers as once again he faces the photo he holds in shaky hands.   “I’m well my dear.  They’re fine – all healthy and happy, best I can tell – all five of them.”

Amos embraces the silver framed photograph of his wife Ellen, as a single tear slides down his cheek, and with a trembling smile, allows a few soft words to slip into the room.  “Yes, dear it’s been a good year – Merry Christmas my love.”

(483 Words)

Red and Blue

Red and Blue

By John W. Vander Velden

The night dark, heavy clouds hid the moon and stars.  The sound of the wipers slapping the large drops that fell, pounding the Valiant’s windshield and roof, and the hiss of tires on wet pavement made listening to the AM radio difficult.  Tom turned up the volume which only added to the din.  The two lane seemed more quiet than usual as he made his way home.  The ride, of twenty-five minutes, familiar, even in the dark.  Tired, he stared bleary eyed at the dark roadway, the headlights of a car that followed -- too closely -- did not aid.  Tom shoved the rearview mirror aside to keep the glare from his eyes.  But the light on his side of the windshield only added to the difficulty of driving.  “Pass or back off…”  Tom cursed to himself.  The answer -- red and blue, alternating intense flashes which filled the old Plymouth with color.

After Tom had at last found a space safe enough to pull over.  After the wet officer had tapped upon his window.  After Tom had shared his driver’s license and registration.  After the State Policeman told him it was a mistake…Tom pulled away slowly, his car yet filled with red and blue.  

(202 Words)

We Can Teach

We Can Teach                        

By John W. Vander Velden

What can we teach?  Who would learn?  How have we learned?  Who has nurtured?  Life -- its ups -- its down, the ultimate instructor, so many lessons learned by bruises most invisible. While we continue yearning for a gentle pat, recompense of task well done or achievements noticed.  Have we tools to spare others from the pains and disappointments?  Look into mirror’s reflection; see the truth in lines, wrinkles and hair long lost of color.  Do not life’s scars make us worthy instructors?  Does not our conscious demand, harsh lessons learned shared, that others need not pay penalties avoidable. Surely hands and voice driven by truth -- words spoken -- words scribed -- offer wisdom to the ears willing to hear.  We can not force deaf ears to listen.  We can not expect blind eyes to observe.  Yet surely around us are those open, wise enough to accept life’s lessons paid with our sweat -- our blood.  Therefore it becomes our obligation to teach any willing to learn and by our effort perhaps make the world a grain of sand better.  Yes, it remains with us.  We can teach!!!

 

(189 Words)