A week in the summer at IJm

Summer holidays seemed endless in the 60s. My mother would try and find all 6 of us a week's holiday with relatives so she and my dad could have a break together somewhere. This usually meant a week at my  mother's parents for me. They looked incredibly old to my eight year old eyes. My Oma dressed in black from head to toe, with her thin yellowing hair in bun above the nape of her head. Her black and gold rimmed glasses perched half way up her nose, so she'd either have to tilt her head back to see, or push her glasses up. She was a quiet, timid woman with pale blue eyes and thin lips, firmly pressed together. I can't remember her ever expressing an opinion on anything. She'd always say something general like' we'll have to wait and see' or 'just do your best.' No wonder she was so careful really, Opa was an authoritarian, opinionated man. He would tell you  he'd done well for himself, starting out as a boy labourer on a farm at age twelve, earning twenty five cents a week. Always aspiring to better himself he had become a delivery boy and eventually  a grocer, owning his own shop. All through hard work, mind you, not like the spineless work shy people now... He'd become an elder in the Church and a councillor in the local government. People gave him respect in the village. If his lack of formal education bothered him, he covered it up well, pronouncing on everything with authority and not allowing discussion. He relished being right and 'putting people in their place'. He lost his temper quickly and often. Oma, by contrast, spent her days trying to avoid conflict and confrontation.
They walked to the Reformed Church at the top of the village every Sunday. In winter granma would wear a little black hat on her head and a black wool overcoat tightly buttoned against the cold and in summer the same hat and a lighter black coat. I don't think my Oma ever wore a colour of any kind. My grandpa always had a suit on, with a waistcoat and a tie. He never went out without a hat. The photograph which in later years had pride of place on the mantel piece, was one of him meeting the queen. He was a great royalist.
They had an old, big house in the High Street in IJm. The steps to the front door were old and cracked, and so were the tiles leading to the gate. Colonies of ants lived behind these cracks and I often left a trail of tiny crumbs for them to find and carry off. The summers were warm then and the house was always dark and cool. My grand parents had lived in the house a long time and had raised their children there, most of the bedrooms now unused but treasure troves of the past. Piles of magazines and books lined the walls of the walk in cupboard which linked the parlour with the backroom, where Opa had his room. To their credit, they did not restrict my access to any part of the house and I was allowed to read anything I could find. They were not used to children anymore and possibly not that keen on my yearly visit but they tried to be welcoming. There were lots of boxes in the attic where I could spend hours sorting through scraps of cloth and old toys.
The best part of the holiday was always 'pancake' day, when Granma would ask two of my many cousins round and make the biggest pile of pancakes ever. The batter seemed to be magic, there was no end to it. There'd be raisin pancakes and plain and bacon ones and apple ones. My tiny Oma keeping three or four frying pans on the go at the same time and tossing the pancakes to general acclaim. Opa could eat seven or eight in one sitting, he was a large man. The cousins maybe three or four and I would disappoint myself with managing no more than two. The kitchen was small, at the back of the house, overlooking her large garden where flower beds and vegetable beds alternated in neat and tidy rows. There were steps from the long narrow hall up to the kitchen and steps from the back door down to the garden. Oma had lettuces, potatoes, kale and cabbages as well as plants and flowers. I can't remember her using cut flowers indoors. Only a few begonias and an aspidistra in yellowing pots. Opa was a smoker. He smoked cigars and judging by the number of wooden cigar boxes he gave me to use for craft projects, he smoked a lot. Opa  listened to the news on the radio but never to music. If there was no radio program worth listening to, the parlour was quiet, except for the ticking of the clock on the mantle piece. Pictures of the Canadian relatives in assorted frames, adorned the side board and Persian rugs covered the tables in time honoured Dutch fashion. A cup of tea was always served at three pm and coffee at five. The evening meal, good hearty Dutch food, was always ready at six, without variation. After evening coffee at eight, it was my bedtime. I have no idea how my grand parents spent their evenings. Possibly they read. Possibly they just went to bed early as well. I had a large twin bedded room with a porcelain wash bowl and jug on a stand. The woodwork was dark, the beds soft and comfy. Oma was not a demonstrative woman. If she loved me, she showed it in making food. We kissed politely on arrival and on departure. We didn't have great chats or shopping expeditions. No night time stories or  tucking in. There were so many grand children that I suspect she found these rotating yearly visits rather tiresome. Then one day, my grandmother asked my mother not to bring all her children when coming to see her on yearly visits. "There are so many of them." My mother was mortified. She didn't hold it against her mother and duly visited with only her youngest two. My holidays ceased however and my mother turned her attention to finding a sitter for family visits and holiday breaks. And that is when tante Diny entered our lives....