I grew up in Edmonton. I remember the houses on our street— some were brown stucco bungalows with charming entrances; some had sunrooms in the front with small, square panes of glass looking out to the yard; some were three storeys tall with mysterious-looking attics. Ours was a wartime house—one of many built for the veterans who’d just returned from World War II. It was a simple, solid, white clapboard house with bedrooms upstairs and a front lawn that led to a boulevard lined with protective elm trees.
It was 1954.
Although I didn’t know the world had just changed, I could see that our street was changing. There was a surge of new people moving into basement suites, upstairs apartments, and spare rooms. Families were arriving from the Netherlands. For us it was wonderful, because there were so many new children to play with. In those days, when I was about five, it seemed as if children played all day long—mostly outside.
The Dutch kids didn’t speak English, so our introduction was a graceful dance of smiling, nodding, and curiously staring at our different sweaters and shoes. There was a girl named Heddy who was my age. Heddy laughed hysterically when my brother made silly faces. She ran to get her sisters, and then motioned to my brother to do it again. He was pleased to have his silliness so happily received.
Before long we were showing them our best climbing tree, or where you could find discarded pop bottles that could be taken to the store and exchanged for candy.
They would point at things, then motion for us to say the English word. When we did, they would repeat it: tree … grass … window. We got them to say Dutch words that we could repeat, not one of which I can remember today.
My dad was a harsh man. His voice was loud. There was also a great sadness about him—a sadness that I didn’t understand at the time. I remember telling him about our new friends. He said he’d been to Holland and told us we were to be good to those children.
Once I overheard my parents talking. My mom said, “You should see the garden—the fences are covered with peas and beans. Every inch of soil in the back is planted; potatoes to the very edge of the alley.”
In a low voice, my dad said, “They know hunger.”
One day, Heddy’s mom said I could join them for lunch. I was delighted. We went to the back door of the house across the street, and as we stepped inside the melting aroma of freshly baked bread drifted up to meet us. The stairs creaked as we descended to their suite in the basement. Their home was two rooms—a tiny kitchen with white and yellow cupboards, a glistening linoleum floor, and crisp yellow curtains separating the kitchen from the bedroom. The small table was set with a sparkling white tablecloth. Everyone squeezed closer to make room for me. We all felt shy that day.
Heddy’s family bowed their heads, and in their language, said a gentle, murmuring grace.
Her mom got up and brought food to the table. Warm, white, homemade bread, soft butter, sliced hard-boiled eggs, a plate of Edam cheese, and a bowl of chocolate sprinkles. I watched the others put together their sandwiches and I followed. I had never tasted homemade bread. I had never seen white cheese. I was astounded that people could be so brilliant as to think of adding chocolate sprinkles to a sandwich! I think they were surprised at the look of pure pleasure on my face. My sandwich was heavenly. And like the day my brother made them laugh, Heddy’s family leaned back in their chairs and laughed out loud at how their lunch had pleased a little girl.
That winter, Heddy’s family moved to a house in St. Albert.
For over forty years, on hot summer nights, my mom would sit on her front steps and watch the world go by. One night we sat together. She asked me if I remembered the Dutch families. I thought about how children reach out innocently, and can touch both the familiar and the strange, the old world and the new.
My mom remembered their garden. I remembered their chocolate sprinkles.
Fort Saskatchewan, Alberta