Working weekend

Hey Robin, you gorgeous little man! Greetings from Granddad the Writer


It is now past midnight on Sunday night and Granddad is looking back on a most productive writing weekend. And this in spite of his respectable age. But when it comes to creative writing, your granddad is a diesel that has just warmed up and has no intention of stopping any time soon.

So I got up to all kinds of creative writing. And most of it was somehow connected with the wedding next Friday 24th April of your Uncle Alex and your Auntie T. You know, the party that you are NOT invited to (Mean old Granddad just loves to rub salt into open wounds...)

Anyway, I wrote this short and somewhat 'spiritual' speech that I have been asked to give in the Church. Actually, I am pretty darn pleased with that one, if I may say so myself. There is some real good stuff in there, but I won't go into details because your Uncle Alex and your Auntie T are also reading this blog and we don't want them to know the content of what I will say during the Church service, now do we? That would spoil the surprise. Suffice to say that I suspect there will not be a dry eye in the house. Break out the Kleenex, boys and girls...

Then we had to write down what kind of animal your Uncle Alex is. You see, the nice lady of the city hall who will perform the civil wedding ceremony wanted to have the juice on him. She has know Auntie T from the day Auntie T was born, being a good friend of Auntie T's parents. So Antie T is an open book for her. But your Uncle Alex is more of a mystery to her (come to think of it, not only to her...) and so she needed some inside information as ammunition for HER official speech. Of course, I first dutifully consulted your Grandma (it is ALWAYS wise to 'dutifully consult' your Grandma, Robin, on any given topic... take my word for that) and benefiting from her kaleidoscopic knowledge of her own sons, I wrote another piece, describing the weird and wonderful personality of your Uncle Alex. So I am now also become an unoffical (and in any case unpaid) speech writer for the officer in charge of marrying people at the city hall of the fair city of 's Hertogenbosch (or Den Bosch for short). Great, I can start a career as a speech writer...

As if that wasn't enough, I then produced a poem.... a POEM, for Chrissakes. That also has something to do with the wedding, but the rest of the information is classified.

To top it all off, I wrote a 35-page Annual Report for Caritas, the place where I work. It is needed by tomorrow, so Granddad rolled up his sleeves and produced the Mother of all Annual Reports...

Then I thought I was done writing... but what the heck, I might still go on while I am hot and write another letter to Robin as well. So here you are, kid.

Remind me that one of the first things I want to teach you, laddie, is how to mix the perfect Bacardi & Coke in order to quench the thirst of your too creative Granddad.

Love you, kid. Too bad Ajax got the shit kicked out of them today and will NOT be this year's champions. Your Dad will be totally sick about that, so better be nice to him...

Big hug from

Granddad Faraway

In charge of the remote control

Robin,

You are truly amazing! I am sure you are not the first 15-months old kid that likes to push buttons on a TV remote control.

But what sets you completely apart from other would-be zappers in your age group is that you actually understand what you are doing! Cause and consequence and all that stuff!

I think anyone would be hard put to find another 15 month old kid who KNOWS that the grey coloured remote serves to switch on the TV (and that to do that you need to push that green button and nothing else), while after that you need the other black coloured remote to switch on the digital TV decoder and then zap with the '+' or '-' buttons until you hit the baby channel. And yet, that's what you do. I am totally impressed, Robin!




And not only do you already know the 'technicalities' of TV remote controles, you are also accutely aware of 'TV remote etiquette' and the time honoured traditions and role models that relate to this instrument. As demonstrated by the picture above, when it comes to remote controls, it is the MEN among us who handle that thing, and the WOMEN (like your cousin Maud) stand respectfully back. She may be an older woman, Robin, but when it comes to control over the remote control, she instinctively KNOWS that you are a MAN not to be trifled with!

Granddad is proud, Robin!

Hugs from

Granddad Faraway

Opa en Oma 'on their way'...

Hey Robin

WE KOMEN ER AAN!!

Die 220 kilometer tussen Wolvertem en Hoofddorp zullen voorbij vliegen!

Tot straks!

Opa Verweg (die straks dichtbij zal zijn!)

The Fifth Commandment

Hola Robin

Has anyone already told you what the Ten Commandments are? I guess not.

To make a long story short, they are 10 basic life rules, given by God to His people, that some man called Moses brought down from some mountain a few thousands of years ago, chiseled into two stone tablets. According to the famous Dutch painter Rembrandt van Rijn, this is what that scene must have looked like.




Today I just want to give you five good reasons why the fifth out of those ten commandments makes excellent sense.

The fifth commandment is: 'Honor your father and your mother.'

This makes good sense for - among others - the following five reasons:

1. You are 50% your mom and 50% your dad. And since you are pretty amazing, they must be twice as amazing, each one of them. That's pure mathematic logic. So being amazing people, they fully deserve to be honoured, right?
   
2. Your mother is awesome: She carried you inside her body and under her heart for 9 months, she feeds you, she clothes you, she nurses you when you are sick, she comforts you when you are afraid, she consoles you when you are sad. And all of that without ever asking something in return other than the occasional kiss or hug. And given that she is in any case a very good looking lady, that shouldn't be too much of a sacrifice, right?
   
3. Your father is pretty cool too: He decorated the room in which you sleep, he makes sure that you can't stick metal hairpins in electric sockets or fall of the stairs, he teaches you how to use the TV remote control, he carries you around on his neck so you can look out over the crowd and he even lets you punch him in the nuts without getting mad or getting even.
   
4. Your mother will make sure that you will grow up to be a good boy, who knows right from wrong; she will instill in you respect and appreciation for people (and especially for girls), animals, plants and all other things living, big or small. She will be the source of most of your wisdom.
5. Your father will make sure that you are well protected and that you can protect yourself; he will teach you all those important practical skill sets such as using a computer, playing football, riding a bicycle, driving a car etc. He will be the source of most of your skills.

So there you have it, Robin. Just five simple reasons why the Fifth Commandment makes sense. Of course there should have also been an Eleventh Commandment: 'Honour your grandfather and grandmother'. But they forgot to put that in. Well, I guess you won't need any Commandment to do that anyway, will you?

See you tomorow, kiddo!

Granddad Faraway

About Easter eggs and bunnies

Happy Easter, dear Robin!

Today is Easter Sunday and I am sure that today you are likely to be confronted with loads of Easter eggs and an Easter bunny or two. There is no escaping that reality. These eggs (often in a chocolate variety) and that bunny are symbols for Easter.


Okay, I see by the puzzled look on your face, that I have totally lost you already... Perhaps I should today try to explain to you the relevance and meaning of this day and the relationship of these symbols with this day of celebration.

Easter is an important annual religious feast within Christianity. It is when Christians remember and celebrate the resurrection of Jesus from the dead on the third day after his crucifixion. It is a celebration of the rebirth of Christ, so to speak.

It's up to you, Robin, to make up your own mind about believing tin his or not. Personally, I happen to be a Christian and a believer, but I do not wish to impose those beliefs on you. As you grow up, you will come to decisions of what you choose to believe in and what not in your own good time.

With regard to origin of the name the name Easter (in the English language), it has been suggested that the word Easter may originate from a pagan fertility goddess called Eostre or Oestre.

The same pagan heritage can be used to explain the relevance of a rabbit and eggs to Easter. In early history, even before the time of Christ, the early pagan populations in Europe celebrated spring festivals. There were fertility festivals celebrating the renewal of life in the earth after the snows of winter. Eggs and chicks represent new life, rabbits are known for having many babies.

The following quotations are taken from an old book, "The Most Useful KNOWLEDGE for the Orthodox Russian-American Young People" compiled by the Very Rev'd Peter G. Kohanik, 1932-1934. Okay, it IS a bit 'dated' but it was the best I could find and it seems quite logical.

"During Easter Day the egg stands as symbol of the resurrection of Christ, and is universally used as means of Christian greeting and present. The symbolical and church significance of the egg has its roots in the greatest antiquity. Long before Christianity, all the cultured nations of antiquity held the egg to be the symbol of life in all their beliefs and customs.

According to heathen cosmogonies, the original world’s chaos was contained in an egg, which broke into two halves, the one forming the sky and the other the earth. Out of the lower part of the egg came Mother Earth. Out of the upper part of the egg arose the high vault of the sky.

There exisits a tradition which makes Mary Magdalene to be the originator of the custom of using red eggs on Easter day. After the Ascension of our Saviour, Mary Magdalene went to Rome to preach the Gospel and, appearing before the Emporer Tiberius, she offered him a red egg, saying: CHRIST IS RISEN.” Thus was begun her preaching.

Learning about this offering of Mary Magdalene, the early Christians imitated her, presenting each other with eggs. Hence, eggs began to be used by Christians in the earliest centuries as a symbol of the Resurrection of Christ and of the regeneration of Christians for a new and a better life along with it.

The custom of presenting each other with red eggs was familiar to the Christians of the earliest Universal Church. The red color, which generally is used for Easter eggs, serves to remind us of the precious blood of God the Redeemer, which was shed on the cross for the salvation of all men. The blessing of the eggs takes place after the morning Easter service.

The breaking of the lenten fasting on Easter Sunday begins with eating the blessed eggs."

Sounds pretty logical and comprehensive, doesn't it, Robin? Robin???

Mmm... you must have fallen asleep... Probably ate too many chocolate Easter eggs already!

Anyway, Happy Easter, kid! Enjoy the eggs and the bunny!

Love from
Granddad Faraway

Lessons in Essential Dutchness

Dear Robin,

Perhaps you do not yet realise this - after all you are not yet even 16 months old - but you are Dutch, laddie. And being Dutch has implications. I would miserably fail my obligations as your grandfather, if I did not enlighten you about what being Dutch implies, quite apart from living in the most beautiful country in the world.



There are implications of being Duch that are gender neutral (meaning they apply to Dutcheroo's and to Dutcherina's alike) and there are some additional implications that hold true particularly - if not exclusively - for the male variety of that remarkable species.

Let's start with the general stuff:

Being a Dutch person (male or female) means that you are supposed to:

1. Be highly opinionated, fairly blunt and pretty damn sure of yourself and always have the last word, preferrably a sarcastic one
2. Passionately dislike and distrust Germans and consistently piss them off and pick a fight with them at every available opportunity
3. Studiously ignore the French, even while on holiday there (a favourite expression of Dutch tourists is: France is a great country. Too bad there are so many Frenchmen living there...)
4. Learn to ride a bicycle before the age of 3. As you grow into your teens, you will futher develop the skill of stealing someone else's bicycle as the logical reaction to discovering that your own has been stolen as well... Some smart university student once promoted on a research proving that if you wait long enough, your original own bicycle will invariably come back to you after (on average) 349,456 years, having been stolen and subsequently lost again by about every other bicycle owner in the country. It's called 'ownership rotation system'...
5. Learn to ice skate by the age of 4, preferably on frozen lakes or canals, and preferably covering riduclously long distances
   
6. Develop a taste for raw herring, covered in onion chips, which you MUST eat in the only socially acceptable way in Holland: On the street, cocking your head way back, holding the herring by the slippery tail, dangling it right above your wide open mouth and letting it slide straight down your throat
7. Live in a house where you spend a small fortune on expensive designer curtains, which you subsequently NEVER close, because otherwise passers-by who are walking their dogs can't see and be suitably impressed by or envious of the big flat screen TV that you have recently bought
8. Go on holiday all over Europe by car, dragging a humungus big caravan behind you

Being a Dutch boy, however, carries with it some additional 'essential Dutchness' requirements and obligations. As a Dutch boy, Robin, you are supposed to:

1. Play football (and I mean the variety that Americans call 'soccer', not that sissy sport of theirs where they wear shoulder and crotch padding and helmets, for Chrissakes...) and make sure you look good in an orange coloured shirt. This is a non-negotiable requirement, especially with a Dad and a grandfather like yours
2. Be the self-appointed personal and expert advisor to the unlucky devil who happens to be the coach of the Duch national football team and who simply doesn't 'get it'... Holland is the only country in the world where the entire male population is made up of 8 million qualified national coaches
3. Stick your finger in a hole in a dyke (and I don't mean the variety that would subsequently clobber you over the head with her handbag...) because that is what legend expects little Dutch boys to do
4. Pretend to ignore the fact that - as a species - your female counterparts (Dutch girls) are generally considered to be among the most beautiful in the world and pretend that you really couldn't care less (this is called the 'essential coolness' of being a Duch boy)
5. Be devoted and especially nice and kind to your mother, because not only does she have to deal with YOU, she also has to deal with your DAD, and two Dutch boys are more than any woman could possibly be expected to cope with

So there you have it, Robin, the secrets of your 'essential Dutchness'. Remember this simple little checklist of requirements and expectations, and you will fit right in.

Now be a good lad and get me a beer and a herring, will you?

Hugs from

Granddad Faraway

Stuck in the sixties

Hi Robin

It's time you are informed about a horrible truth about your old granddad. It's better you get it from me, from the horse's mouth so to speak, then from someone else.

Culturally speaking, I am stuck in the sixties. There, that's the turd in the tomato soup. That's the horrific little secret that has been the subject of an elaborate cover up among family and friends. But there should be no secrets between you and me, kid.

You see, the sixites was a wonderful era. Geopolitically speaking, it was the simplest of times. There were good guys (us) and there were bad guys (the Russki's). That was simple. You could understand that even if you had a brain the size of a peanut. On the good guy side you had people like John F. Kennedy, Martin Luther King and Mahatma Ghandi. On the bad guy side, you had Nikita Chroutshev (or however it was spelled), Mao Tze Dung and a bunch of other commies. In Berlin, they built a wall: on one side of it were the good guys, on the other side of it were the bad guys. Simple!

In the sixties, NATO was not yet a four letter word. In the sixties, there was no terrorism and the term Al Qaeda at best conjured up associations with some strange form of mathematics. In the sixties, the good guys as well as the bad guys had nuclear missiles pointed at each other with such a devastation potential that the world's population could be anihilated 10 time over. But the people with their hands on the button were smart enough not to use them. Of course, there was that nasty business in Vietnam, but that was far away and we were told it was for a good cause... by politicians that somehow we could believe in.

Most of all, though, the sixties was love, rock and roll and shaking your fist at the establishment. The sixties was Elvis Presley, Marilyn Monroe, the Beatles, Mary Quant, Twiggy, mini-skirts and Eurovision song contests where people actually could sing and no Eastern European vote rigging occurred.

Can you imagine that in the sixties youngsters like your grandfather did not have computers, the internet, cell phones, iPods? Just how lame were we? But funnily enough, we DID communicate. Young peole actually wrote each other good old fashioned letters, with an actual pen on actual paper, and with words spelled out in full, not mutilated to expressions like 'C U L8TER'. And we had actual CONVERSATIONS with other young people. We were interested in them. They were interested in us. Friendship still meant something.

As Dutchies, in the sixties our sporting ambitions were also a tad more modest than they are these days: Dutch football fans were already ecstatic if our national team won at least one of its semi-annual friendly matches against Belgium... against BELGIUM, for the love of God! And the harvest of one single bronze medal at the Olympics for something vague like clay pigeon shooting was cause for mass hysteria, state sponsored celebrations, a polonaise in the garden of the Royal Palce (with the old Queen leading the parade) and the inevitable knighthood and a celebration tour in a horse drawn carriage for the lucky winner of that single bronze medal.

Because I liked the sixties so much, I got stuck in them, culturally speaking at least. Don't take my word for it, check out my CD collection. And even now, with internet and limewire and downloaded music, what do I download? Yup, 'sixties stuff'.

If you want to truly understand what the sixties was all about, Robin, check out this video by Billy Connolly. He is of my generation. He was there like I was. He understands. As he says: It was amazing. We were teenagers when rock and roll was invented. We were the chosen ones!




I rest my case!

Hugs from

Granddad Faraway

Suit shopping at Alfredo's

Hi Robin

Granddad got himself a new suit today. For the forthcoming wedding, you see. Showing up in Bermuda shorts and flowery shirts is frowned upon on such occasions. So your Grandma dragged me to downtown Brussels today to deck me out in something that will look slightly presentable at her side.

Of course, on that wedding day she will look stunning as ever, in her strapless killer outfit, which makes me wonder: what's the point? Why bother investing good money in an expensive suit that nobody is going to take a blind bit of notice of anyway? Because next to her, I will always pale into insignificance.

But then I realised that I am supposed to deliver the Concluding Remarks during the Church ceremony of the wedding of your uncle Alex and Auntie T. And since I am hard put on any given day to string two coherent sentences together, I might just as well look gorgeous, don't I? Hence the investment in the suit...

Funny experience, shoppping for a suit under your grandmother's expert supervision. There is not a lot of talk going on, but there is an awful lot of non-verbal communication. Here is how it goes: I spot a suit in the rack which I really like. For instance some Italian designed bit of work in smooth cream or caramel color, something that would really make me feel young and attractive again. My hand tentatively reaches out to it, just to feel the material, mind you, not as if I want to actually TRY it, heaven forbid! I give a sideways glance towards your grandmother, and I see her eyebrows curving up so high, they almost hit the ceiling. She gives me a look that says: "What on EARTH are you THINKING??" and she gives that almost imperceptible no-no shake of her head which in 38 years of marriage I have come to understand as 'This is NOT negotiable'.

I always buy my suits at Alfredo's on the Boulvard Adolphe Max. They got great suits. And they don't overprice. In spite of it being exclusively a men's clothing store, they only have female shop attendants. And they are good looking. And they are friendly and really make an effort. I like that.

There are two men that belong to the set up. One of them is an athletic looking black man who is their 'runner': he shuttles between this shop and their other shop on the Place Brouckère. That's where the Alfredo conglomerate apparently stores many more suits. It is also where they adjust the trouser legs to the right for the customer. My hunch is that they have a sweatshop over there where Filipino women are bent over sewing machines in a danky, dark little room, adjusting trouser legs all day long. Anyway, so this guy runs back and forth a lot. Come rain or come shine. He sure looks fit. But he doesn't help customers. Probably he is still considered to be a trainee.

Not looking so fit is the other guy. I guess he is Alfredo himself, the owner of the store and presumably the ring leader of the alleged sweatshop. He just stands there in a corner, looking important and looking menacing. He is in his late fifties, early sixties, I guess, and he is pretty fat. He does bugger all. I look at him and I can't help thinking Cosa Nostra. He could certainly star in the next remake of the Godfather. At his feet lies a humungus dog with a muzzle. I don't think I have ever seen a dog so big. It's a toss up of which one of them is the meanest looking. Beats me what either one of them is doing there but they don't bother me, and frankly I don't want to bother them.

Meanwhile your grandmother is giving the nice shop assistant a run for her money. The girl is running back and forth, bringing arsm full of suits, only to have them instantly rejected by your grandmother. Sterling effort meets stubborn resilience.

Finally, the two ladies settle on a suit that is definitely 'it' for me. Neither one of them seems to care very much about my own opinion on the matter. All that is expected of me is to hoist my sorry looking frame into it and present myself for inspection. The young shop assistant fidgets a little bit with the lapels and the buttons and goes Ooooh and Aaaah, while your grandma doesn't say a word but cocks her head sideways, squints and studies the appearance before her like she is beholding a work of art in a museum. Then comes the all-liberating 'nod of approval' and the matter has been settled. The transaction can be struck. The payment can be made. That's where I come in...

As I said, Robin, it's really fun, suit shopping with your grandmother. Remind me to take you to Alfredo's when it is time in 15-20 years to buy YOUR first suit. But perhaps we should make it a 'boys only' affair when that day comes.

Wonder if Alfredo will still be there when that day comes, looking menacing in the corner. Or that dog for that matter. Time will tell.

Hugs from

Granddad Faraway

A wedding is about to happen

Hi Robin

If all goes well, in two weeks time you will be packed off to your other grandparents (Opa en Oma Dichtbij) and your Mom and Dad will leave for two days to attend the wedding of your Uncle Alex.

You see, a few years ago your Uncle Alex - in case you don't quite remember which one of your many uncles I am referring to, he is the one with more hair on his chin than on his head - has met this beautiful young woman, who for sake of discretion we will refer to as Auntie T. And your Uncle Alex - an extremely level headed person who is not normally given to mushy romantic nonsense - has fallen for her like a ton of bricks. Guys do that, you know, Robin. I guarantee you, it will happen to you too one day. Mark my word!

So one day last summer uncle Alex took Aunti T on a romantic outing to the Hunnebeds in Drenthe (the Dutch equivalent to Stonehenge) and surrounded by these remnants of ancient Dutch civilisation, he sank to his knee and asked her to be his wife. And guess what? She said YES!!! (Which of course casts some doubts on her powers of judgment...)

Ever since that memorable summer day, Uncle Alex and Auntie T have been really busy, busy, busy... they have planned and organised in meticulous detail this great wedding party on Friday 24 April and that is when they will officially make the transtion from being 'me' and 'you' to being 'us'.

As father of Uncle Alex, I look at that and quietly think: 'Two down... one to go' But I also think what an extremely lucky guy your Uncle Alex is. Because Auntie T is awesome: she is beautiful, she is intelligent, she is kind and she is totally open. And we love her to bits. They fit very well together, and they have everything going for them.

Too bad you can't be there, dear Robin, but you are still a little bit too young and too 'high maintenance' to be a wedding guest at a wedding that will include a sleepover in a luxury hotel and an after-wedding brunch.

I am sure, however, that your other Opa and Oma will do everything they can to make sure that YOU too will have a great day on April 24. Because a great day it will be for sure. Even though we will ALL miss having you around!

Granddad ('Opa Verweg')

Balls are for kicking

Hi Robin

What a glorious spring day we are having here in Brussels. I hope the sun is also shining and Hoofddorp in Holland and that you can play outside. So funny to see you walk. I hope you don't mind me saying so, but when you walk, you look just like a little penguin.

By the way, Robin, there is something you need to know - and your Dad supports me in this: You are a BOY. Get it? A boy! That is the opposite of a girl. Girls, I will talk to you about some other time. But let's for the time being stick to the theme of 'being a boy'.

Among many other implications, that means - even if you are only a mere 15 months old and have just atarted to walk - that if a BALL (you know, those colourful round things) is rolled in front of your feet (like your Dad is doing all the time), you are supposed to KICK the damn thing, not stand there like a pillar of salt and look at it as if it was something that the cat dragged in...

Your Dad is already a trifle disappointed that you have so far not yet been scouted by Ajax, but your apparent disinterest in kicking a ball is seriously depressing him, and we can't have that, now can we?

So, my dear Robin, here is the Official Memo: BALL = KICK!

Get it right from now on, and you will have your Dad eating out of your chubby little hand.

Hugs from Opa Verweg (Granddad Faraway)