Chapter 2

Geesje

Holland, Michigan
1897

“Would you like a ride home, Geesje?” one of the other old-timers asks me after the meeting ends. People refer to us as the “old-timers” because we are the few remaining Dutch settlers who first came to Michigan from the Netherlands fifty years ago. But I certainly don’t feel old.

“No, thank you, Mrs. Kok,” I tell her. “It’s such a lovely summer day, I believe I’ll walk. Besides, I need to stop by Van Putten’s Dry Goods on my way home.”

Mrs. Kok rests her wrinkled hand on my arm. She seems frail to me; but then, she must be in her mid-seventies now, nearly ten years older than me. “Are you going to take part in all these parades and things that they’re planning for the celebration, Geesje?” she asks. “It seems like they’re making too much of our town’s fiftieth anniversary, doesn’t it? How did those fifty years pass so quickly?”

“I don’t know,” I reply, laughing. “It doesn’t seem that long ago to me, either.” And yet it has been a lifetime. My lifetime. “I need time to think about all their fancy plans before I give the committee my reply,” I say. “If you’d like, I can stop by your house later this week, and we can mull it over together.”

“That would be very kind of you, dear. Good day to you.”

“And to you, too, Mrs. Kok.” I make my way out of the bank building where the meeting was held and onto the bustling street, glancing up at the new clock tower to see the time. I can’t decide if it’s a good thing to be continually reminded of the hour or a bad thing. We had little need for watches and timepieces in the early days. The town clock is a sign of progress, I suppose, like the rows of wooden poles and the tangle of wires that web the sky above the street. And like the new electric arc streetlamps that have replaced the old kerosene ones, putting the village lamplighter out of work. At least someone had the good taste to use Waverly Stone for the new bank building and clock tower instead of slapping together another wooden and brick structure. The locally quarried stone gives the tower a sense of permanence—although Holland is still a far cry from the beautiful cities I left behind in the Netherlands, with their centuries-old buildings and cobblestone streets.

I wait for a horse-drawn wagon to pass, then cross River Avenue and walk up Eighth Street. For all the progress our town has made, I don’t understand why the streets remain unpaved. Even the ancient Romans had sense enough to pave their roads. The Semi-Centennial Committee had better pray it doesn’t rain during the anniversary celebration or their parade floats and marching bands will be mired in mud.

After making my purchase at the dry goods store and chatting with Mrs. Van Putten about the town’s upcoming festivities, I pause for a moment to watch construction on the enormous wooden and canvas archway they’re building, spanning Eighth Street from one side to the other. The committee showed us a drawing of what it will look like when it’s finished, including a portrait of Dominie Van Raalte on top, high above the center of the arch. How he would have hated that!

I’m sitting in my favorite chair knitting later that afternoon when my son Jakob stops by for a visit, bringing fresh eggs from one of his parishioners. “How did your meeting with the Semi-Centennial Committee go, Moeder?” he asks. We speak to each other in Dutch at home, as our family always has.

I stop knitting, letting my hands and the half-finished sock rest on my lap. “Goodness, what a lot of fuss they’re planning—parades and speeches and marching bands and such. And that ridiculous arch on Eighth Street that they’re wasting money on. Although I do think it’s nice that the local Indian tribe is coming back to be part of the celebration after being squeezed out of town years ago. The chief will be giving a speech.”

“What do they want you and the others to do?” He unfastens his clerical collar as he speaks. He looks so much like his father in that moment that it surprises me.

“No speeches, thank goodness. They want us to ride on one of the parade floats. Silliness, if you ask me. And they want me to write down my story for a book they’re making about the history of our city. Everything I can remember about leaving the Netherlands fifty years ago and settling here.”

“That sounds like a splendid idea. You’re going to do it, I hope.”

“I don’t know. . . . I wouldn’t know where or how to begin.”

“Why not start with why you decided to leave the Netherlands?”

“I didn’t decide. My parents did. I was seventeen years old.”

“You know what I mean. You should tell some of their story, too. Why they left their home and the Netherlands church. It’s important for your grandchildren and the generations after them to know what took place and why we’re here.”

I look away, lifting my knitting bag and checking to see how much yarn is left on the ball, stalling for time. When I glance up at Jakob again, his impatience has made a deep crease between his eyebrows. “Are the other settlers who were here from the beginning going to write their stories, too?” he asks.

“The committee wants them to. But you know I can’t write very well in English, Jakob. It would embarrass me if people saw how poorly I spell.”

“I’ll help you. Joanna and I will make certain it’s perfect before you hand it in.”

“I don’t know . . .” I pick up my knitting and wind the yarn around my fingers so I can finish the row. The needles whisper softly as they slide against each other, as if telling secrets. “I’m not sure if they only want to know what happened during those years and all the hardships we faced, or if I should tell them the whole truth.”

Jakob blinks and sits down on the chair across from me. “What do you mean, Moeder?”

I don’t reply. What I’m asking is: Should I tell the truth about all the times I despaired of God’s love? The times when I doubted and my faith was shaken and I turned away from Him in anger? Nay, sometimes it was more than anger—it was rage. Those feelings are part of my story, too, the part I’ve kept hidden all these years. Do they belong in this book they are making about our past?

“Of course, tell the truth, Moeder. It’s for the historical record, isn’t it?” The crease deepens, and he runs his finger between his collar and his neck again. “Please give it serious thought—if only for our family’s sake. I hope you’ll tell them you’ll do it.”

“Ya,” I say with a sigh. “Ya, I suppose I will tell my story.”

“Good.” Jakob stands again. He never stays long. “If you’d like, I’ll bring you a notebook to write in the next time I come. And some ink and a good pen.”

“I would rather use a pencil.” That way I can erase what I decide not to share.

“Some pencils, then. Do you need anything else before I leave?” I shake my head, and he bends to kiss my cheek. His thick hand rests on my shoulder for a moment. His wooly beard tickles my face as I inhale the clean scent of his Castile soap. “I’ll see you on Sunday, Mama, for dinner.” He turns, and I watch him stoop his head as he ducks through my sitting room doorway. When did the flaxen-haired, barefooted boy I once held on my lap turn into this tall middle-aged man?

I begin knitting again. I don’t want to think about the past just now or stir up buried memories. I need to concentrate as I turn the heel of the sock and start knitting the foot. I should have measured Jakob’s foot while he was here. The socks are for him. I hear my kitchen door open and close in the distance. “Did you forget something, Jakob?” I call out.

“It’s me, Tante Geesje.” I look up, surprised to see the boy who lives next door standing in my sitting room doorway. But Derk is no longer a child, either. He’s a man now, as tall as my son.

“Well, Derk! For goodness’ sake!” I stuff the unfinished sock into the bag with the ball of yarn and struggle out of my chair so we can hug each other. “How wonderful to see you! It’s been much too long—since Easter Sunday, I believe.”

“I know! And I’m so sorry that it’s been that long. These past few months have flown by so fast with all of my studies at the seminary and final exams—and then I started my summer job the day after school was out. How are you, Tante Geesje?” He calls me tante—his aunt—but we aren’t related.

“As good as can be expected after all these years. Come, let me fetch you something to eat. I think there are some cookies left in the tin.” I speak as if he is still the motherless child who used to run errands for me, carrying coal up from my cellar on cold winter days and emptying my ash bucket, not the grown man he has become. Derk and I took care of each other for many years. He would show up in my kitchen at just the right time, when I was feeling lonely and needed someone to talk to, as if God Himself would whisper in Derk’s ear and send him to my door. “Tea or coffee?” I ask. “Or maybe a glass of milk?”

“Don’t fuss, Tante Geesje. I just stopped by for a minute to see how you’re doing.”

“But you’ll need something to drink with my almond cookies. They’re your favorites.”

He grins. “In that case, milk, please.” He sits in his usual place at my kitchen table, his long legs sprawling, his smile lighting up the low-ceilinged room. He has grown to be as solid and good-looking as his grandfather was at that age. Should I write about his grandfather when I tell my story? Wouldn’t my son be shocked! But I don’t think Derk would be.

He opens the cookie tin and chooses one while I poke at the fire and add some wood and move the kettle over where it can boil. “Tell me everything you’ve been doing since I saw you last spring,” I say.

“Well, let’s see. My classes at the seminary have ended for the term—it was a very challenging year, but only one more year to go now. Did I tell you I’m working at the Hotel Ottawa for the summer?”

“Doing what, dear?”

“A little bit of everything—carrying guests’ bags to their rooms, taking care of the rowboats and canoes, maybe giving sailing lessons or excursions around Black Lake if anyone signs up for them. You know how I love to sail.” Derk gulps the milk I’ve poured for him.

We talk like the good friends we have always been as I sip my tea and Derk empties my cookie tin. “May I ask your opinion about something, dear?” I say after a while. “I could use your advice.”

“You can ask me anything, Tante Geesje, you know that. Although I’m not sure my opinion is worth much.”

“It is to me. . . . I met with some people from the Semi-Centennial Committee today, and they want me to write the story of how I left the Netherlands to settle here fifty years ago. They want to put all the old-timers’ stories into a book for Holland’s fiftieth anniversary celebration in August. What do you think?”

“You should do it. I would love to read your story. I was always sorry I didn’t pay more attention to my grandparents’ stories when they were alive. They didn’t talk about the past very often.”

“I don’t blame them. I don’t like to recall those hard times, either. . . . My son Jakob thinks I should do it, but I don’t know how much of the truth I should tell.”

Derk sets down his glass. “What do you mean?”

I blink away my sudden tears. “I can describe how the fever struck, and what it was like to hear the church bell tolling as I buried loved ones in the graveyard. But should I tell how hard I had prayed, day and night, begging God to spare them? Or how I raged at Him for letting them die?” I trace the pattern on the tablecloth with my finger as I speak, not looking up. Derk rests his broad, unwrinkled hand on top of mine, stilling it. My tears break free at the warmth of his touch. “If I’m going to relive my story, I think I should tell all of it, the whole truth, ya? But what will people think when they read it? Young people like you imagine that their grandparents and even men like Dominie Van Raalte were filled with faith, never wavering in what they believed. What will happen if I reveal all the cracks in that perfect picture?”

“I think you should tell the truth, doubts and all.” Derk’s deep voice has turned soft. “If only for your own sake. Write down everything that’s on your heart, Tante Geesje. I’ll read it, if you’ll allow me to, and help you decide what should go into the book and what should stay between you and God.”

I nod and pull my hand free to dry my tears. I pour more tea into my cup. Derk will be a minister someday, so perhaps he needs to know how far away God feels to a mother when she loses her child. He needs to know how hollow his words of comfort will sound to her. I hope he won’t think less of me or my imperfect faith after all is said and done.

“Ya, Derk. That is what I will do, then,” I say. “Thank you.” I sip my tea while I wait a moment for the sadness to lift. “So is there a special girl in your life these days? A handsome, young dominie like you should be married or else the young ladies in your church will be too distracted to pay heed to your sermons.” I expect him to laugh but he doesn’t.

“There was someone,” he says, looking down at his empty glass. “Caroline is beautiful and funny and full of life. I met her at a gathering of young people from three area churches and fell madly in love with her. I asked her to marry me . . . but she said she didn’t want to be married to a minister, and that’s what God has called me to be. Her father is a minister, and she said they never have time for their wives and families. I suppose she’s right. She broke up with me about a month ago. There’s been no one else since her.”

“I’m so sorry, Derk. Forgive me for prying.”

“No, that’s all right. I’m pretty much over it,” he says with a slow, sad smile. “But if you’ve ever had your heart broken when you were my age, promise me you’ll tell me all about it in your book.”

I feel my face grow warm. “We will have to see about that,” I say. “I won’t make any promises.”

After Derk leaves I feel too restless to sit and knit socks again. I’m eager to begin my story and wish I had the new notebook Jakob promised. I rummage through my desk, searching for paper, and find a few sheets of stationery. I also find my daughter Christina’s letter, the last one she ever wrote to me. I don’t need to read it. I know it by heart. She was coming home like the prodigal in Jesus’ parable. But unlike him, she never arrived.

I tap the sheets of stationery into a neat stack and search for a pencil. Then I sit down at my desk and begin to write.