School years

As already stated, I first saw daylight in Zuidbroek, Westeind, located along the Winschoterdiep (a navigable canal), only 500 meters from the neighbouring community of Sappermeer. My Dad was born in Borgercompagnie and my mother further north in the town of Slochteren (Harm van der Laan 1868-10916 and Foktje Baas 1867-1945). When they were married (Slochteren 18-05-1892), they initially lived with my mom’s parents near Slochteren, where they had a small agri business with 14 hectares of land. After three years, my grandfather wanted to retire and wanted to sell the business. My Dad was offered the property for the price of 19,000 guilders, but Dad had no appetite for this. I believe that Dad thought the location of the property was not all that attractive and declined to take his father up on the offer.

After much searching, they found another nearby property of 6 ha at a price of 10,500 guilders. But all of that was before my time. It was however very productive land. They would usually grow 0.5 to 1 ha of vegetables such as pole beans, onions, red and white cabbage etc. The rest of the land was typically used to grow potatoes and grains and most of the work was very labour intensive.

Our church membership was with the congregation in Zuidbroek. Church borders were established along the identical lines as the municipal governments. However, since there was no Christian day school in Zuidbroek, we attended school in Sappermeer, the neighbouring community. The school was located across from the small railway station Sappermeer-East. From the train you can still identify its location, however the school itself has been gone for many years already. I have very few memories of my early days in school and therefore not much to tell you.

I do remember however that we forever had altercations and fights with the boys from the public school in the east end of town, the school we had to pass by on our way to our own school. At times we had a brokered peace, but at other times we had major clashes. It always started from their side, since they tended to be in the majority. When, at the right times they outnumbered us, they would always start off by calling us names such as ‘koksejanen’ (a name that identified these kids as followers of one of the founding fathers of the reformation, Johannes Kok) and challenge us to fight. Our response always was a little rhyme that went, “Easter cats jump on lats, catch rats and mice by the hundreds of thousands. They fry them in a pan and share the pieces by the thousands.” This typically evoked a major response and, as they say in Dutch now, “Leiden is in trouble” (referring to the city of Leiden that had a major occupation many years prior that caused major starvation at the time), so we fought our way out from there.

However when you walked to school by yourself, or with another buddy, then you would always try to quietly sneak by the school along the lower path by the canal so that no one would notice you. One time, my friend Hendrik Kalk came by to pick me up early and we tried to get past on this lower ‘jagers pad’ when we were spotted by a group of about 20 boys, which made us run like deer. They started chasing us and when we got under the next bridge, we ran up the side steps and waited for them to come up. My buddy Hendrik said we can handle them from here and, when the first one comes up, we’ll push him back so they will go down like dominoes. Sure enough, that’s exactly what happened and I’m sure some of these guys must have been hurt tumbling down those iron stairs. As you can see, we were not exactly ‘holy beans’, as they say in Dutch.

The school years are not all that memorable for me, but I do remember Ms. Bakker who was a dear young lady, followed the next year with Ms. Spoelstra, an even dearer teacher. The year I was in her class her sister died, which she wrote a poem about, a poem set to music with six verses which she taught us and we then could sing. I remember some of the lines such as; “when I cry bitter tears , it makes my soul not free of guilt”. The next line I have forgotten, but the last line was “through forgiveness of your blood”. All the students loved her greatly and would go “through the fire” for her.

The third and fourth grade did not at all go well for me with Ms. Klaassens. She did not like me nor did I like her. She was an angry person and we had to sing a lot in her class. When I tried to sing bass she would always say “where is that noise coming from” (she called it ‘brommen’), and inevitably fellow students would point at me. So I tried again and tried hard, but still not good enough. She threw a brush at me, which I tried to duck, but it still hit me straight on the forehead, resulting of course in a big bump on my head. My conclusion was that it’s better not to sing and I did just that. When the song was finished she challenged me again by telling me to speak up, “why are you not singing?”  To which my response was that I was not going to chance getting another bump on the head with a second brush. This kind of scared her I think, and that way I escaped further punishment, but she always remained unfriendly if not antagonistic toward me. I was most happy when that year was over.

The following years I spent in the classes of Mr. Maathuis from Zuidbroek. Our oldest children will remember him from later years as a high school teacher in Winschoten. He taught grades 4 and 5 in my school. Those were my best and most enjoyable years. I learned a lot and it turned out that I became one of the top students in my classes.

Illness at Home

During those first five school years we had frequent illnesses at home. My mother had (which I did not know at the time) tuberculosis in her stomach, shortly after my youngest sister, Grietje, was born. (Grietje 1906-1976). One time, when we came home from school (I believe it was on a Friday), I was told by my oldest sister that the doctor had been for a visit and had shared with them that he expected Mom would not get well again and at best had another three to four days to live. The whole family was devastated of course. The doctor would come to the house twice a day to check up on our mother. On Saturday, he brought along a specialist from the city of Groningen who also confirmed the diagnosis made by our family doctor.

In the afternoon Dr. Hekman from the city of Utrecht, who happened to be visiting with his parents in Zuidbroek, also came to check on our mother. He gave mother a thorough examination and asked my Dad if she was still taking medication, to which he responded in the affirmative. The doctor immediately advised that she stop taking this medication, and in fact took the small bottle of medicine and smashed it underneath the pump. “Her body can’t take any more medication,” was his comment, and he prescribed a poached egg with warm milk, fed to her in small doses. On Sunday, the doctor came again, but there was no change in her condition.

The next day Monday, the doctor arrived again prior to his office hours, examined mother and exclaimed to father that “a miracle has taken place here, van der Laan. I think I can congratulate you. Your wife has turned the corner and I expect her to fully recover.” It was in the spring. He then ordered what was called a ‘Tent’ (which consisted of four solid walls with a window and a roof) from the Green Cross, which was then placed adjacent to the house, with a bed, to which mother was then transferred. Night and day she remained there for another eighteen weeks in isolation. Dad’s youngest sister came to help and look after the family.

The same summer that mom was in isolation, my father suddenly had to bring up what was diagnosed as ‘lung blood’, and he too was confined to bed for two months. The neighbours stepped in to do all of the farm work, all at no cost to us. My sisters milked the cows and did all the other things that were part of the daily routine on the farm. I was of course too young to grasp the significance of all that was happening around me. But I do remember that, before and after school, we were allowed to go into the ‘tent’ to visit with mom but were expected to be very quiet. We also went to father’s bed, but by harvest time he was well enough to be able to get back to work.

He was however limited and still weak so that he could not use the hand scythe to cut grain or grass but was only able to handle lighter work. So that also meant we had to pitch in with bringing the grain (sheaves and all) into the barn, and canning the beans into large vats. In the winter my dad always threshed the grain by hand with a ‘vlegel’ (an apparatus that consisted of a long wooden handle to which was attached, by a rope, a shorter piece (5 to 1 ratio) of solid wood, three times the diameter of the handle and which was swung with force on the sheaves lying on the threshing floor—extremely hard work) and was now forced to buy a horse-driven threshing machine, which was huge progress. We had to loosen up the sheaves and Dad wore a red kerchief, covering his nose and mouth to minimize the dust effect.

With the potato harvest, we managed reasonably well. My Dad, with an elderly neighbour lady and my four older sisters, would dig up the potatoes (called ‘rooien’—where on hands and knees between two rows they would first pull off the leaves of the plant, then hand dig the potatoes and put them into a handwoven basket) and empty the baskets into a ‘wipkar’ (a wagon with two wheels at the back and one at the front on an extended beam from the box into which the potatoes were dumped). Then the horse would the pull the ‘wipkar’ to an adjacent canal, where the potatoes were dumped into a barge that would deliver the load to the nearest potato processing factory.

You can well imagine that my mom and dad had an extremely challenging and difficult year. Even at an earlier time, my dad had had pneumonia, and at the time there was no such thing as insurance and everything had to be paid for out of your own pocket. But the family doctors always displayed great generosity and treated their patients with respect and regard for their ability to pay.

The final school years

Let’s return to my school years. As said earlier, those were my best years and I think I was probably somewhat spoiled. Perhaps due to all the illnesses at home, my teacher, Mr. Maathuis, visited my parents often, and I was willing to do anything for him. After that year I came into the class of our principal. Mr. Klevering. which immediately proved to be a bad fit. Especially in the final year, it became very difficult to satisfy his expectations. We considered him quite old as he must have been close to 65, and could tolerate little from the children in his class.

We were brutal in teasing him when we could and made life difficult for him in general, and I certainly participated. Once, I had to sit for two weeks in what was called ‘het strafbankje’ or punishment desk, which was at the front of the class off to one side, from which I had a great overview of the class and could make everyone laugh. He soon caught on that this was not a good strategy and made me move the desk to the back of the room, which was a lot safer.

Another time, I had remained behind to write 200 lines when Mr. Maathuis came into the class and asked me what the reason was for that… to which I simply shrugged my shoulders. He and Mr. Klevering walked out of the classroom, and after a while Mr. Klevering re-entered the room and without explanation dismissed me to go home. I certainly always remembered that incident and concluded that being a teacher was no easy task. I was in the highest grade at the time and considered myself fortunate.

Continue my education?

At one time Mr. Maathuis came to our home while I was outside playing with my brothers and sisters and did not give any thought as to why he would make this visit. The next morning over breakfast, however, my Dad all of a sudden asked me if I had any desire to continue my education. Never giving it any thought I answered “no,” since back then it meant you would become a teacher, which to me seemed just awful! Now my Dad said “I’m glad. That makes me happy, because, once you grow up, you can look after the nursery while I will keep on farming.” This sounded like a plan to me.

The next day my oldest sister, Hendrieka, asked me “why do you not wish to continue your studies?” To which I replied that I had no desire to become a teacher. She said “I understand that, but Mr. Maathuis came to tell our parents that you were a smart young man who learned quickly, and continuing your studies would be a natural, since you had no difficulty taking on more. Also, you don’t have to become a teacher necessarily, there are many other options and directions you can take.” However, it was never discussed further at home and the decision made earlier remained. I was eleven years old at the time.

Purchasing another Farm

My Dad was not very satisfied with the farm he had and wanted to move. Often, he was away without me knowing why, but one day I did ask my mom, to which she replied that, even though I was still very young, she would share the reasons why. Dad, she said, wanted to move away from this area and look at other larger farms, since our current farm was simply too small to provide work for all of us. Today, he is in Smilde, she said. Are there large farms for sale in that area? was my question to her, to which she replied, yes, more than one, which I thought was just great. When Dad came home that night we were already in bed in our ‘bedstee’ (a built into the wall bed, closed off by a door) and with ears wide open and the door at a crack we listened intently to Dad’s conversation with Mom. But soon we heard that this trip was not the outcome Dad had been looking for.

A few days later I threw out my test rod and asked Dad if we were to buy a larger farm, would that not be better for us all? Once he discovered that I too had an interest in a larger farm, it broke the ice with him and he shared his opinions with me but made me promise to keep it a secret yet.

Then all of a sudden he had to go to Vroomshoop where a farm of 14 ha of arable land plus 6 ha of “hoogveen” (high peat moss land which could be developed by removing and selling the peat for fuel, and in turn make the land arable—a very common practice in that part of the country). So this would be a 22 ha farm, which was quite a size at that time. Dad was anxious to take a look, and it was for sale at a price of 16,000 Dutch Guilders (i.e. approx. $4,000), which he tried to negotiate down, but the owner felt the price was reasonable and stuck to his guns. He also advised Dad that he would otherwise auction the land off at a later date if he had no offers for that price.

Two weeks after Dad’s visit, it was listed in the paper for auction, but unfortunately Dad had pneumonia once again and was unable to attend the auction. A few days later we read in the paper that the farm had been sold by auction for a little over fl 15,000 and my Dad now regretted not having bought it.

A few days later, after Dad had recovered somewhat, he had a visit of old Mr. Berg from Sappermeer, a farmer Dad had worked for in earlier years, who started talking about larger farms. Mr. Berg said if you wish to buy a larger farm then I may have something for you to look at. My son, Jan in the city of Winschoten, owns a farm in Westerwolde (a county in the SW of the province of Groningen) that I had a look at with him last week and must say I was pleasantly surprised. It is a 36 ‘deimt’ (approx. 18 ha) farm. Dad’s reply was that he has not heard much good about Westerwolde and most likely would not be interested in moving into the peat colonies, as that region was called. However Mr. Berg’s reply of “it doesn’t cost to look” persuaded Dad to take the time out and make a visit and there they went. Mr. Berg paid for the train to Winschoten from where they took the “brick” [probably a horse drawn coach].

When Dad arrived home that evening, he was quite enthusiastic and told us that he had set another date three days later to go back and visit again, but this time also with Mom. Dad said it was a very nice piece of land with a beautiful house with attached barn. (Called the ‘Renneborg’) There they went, and when they returned they had made the deal for fl 21,000 (approx. $5,500), with the Berg’s arranging the financing for our parents. We were to accept the property in November of 1912 (?) so we put our small farm up for sale immediately. It was sold in a week to a friend who had the adjacent property, at a price of fl 14,400 (approx. $3,600) for the 12 “deimt” of land (approx. 6 ha). This was a very good price at that time. He bought it for his son, who was about 17 years old at that time, so he could grow roses on it. Oh, looking back we should have kept it. If we only had kept it.

So it was on to digging potatoes, picking beans and taking them to the wholesale market in Hoogezand. Everything had to be done before we moved, including threshing the grain stored in the barn. Everything got done on time, close to November 1912 (?) and then we

made the big move by ship and wagon to Vlagtwedde. As children we did not relish the move nor felt very happy initially, and we longed for our old friends and space. Our new next door neighbours, however, who had moved there six months before us, had children of similar ages, and we interacted with them a lot, which greatly helped in our transition. They had moved from Niewolda, and our parents would visit back and forth, giving the children opportunities to get to know each other quickly. Other than that, we did not fit in with the Westerwolder folks. A “gereformeerde” church was not part of the community. On Sundays we would go to the Reformed (the State church) from time to time but, depending on the minister one Sunday you’d get a good sermon and the next a very liberal one, as if the preacher was trying to satisfy everyone. Well, that meant we had to go to the next village of Onstwedde, which was a long walk [original document said 12 hours but that must be wrong since the distance from Vlagtwedde to Onstwedde is only about 8 km, so one can assume] of about 2 hours each way, which was just too far for my mother.

Friendship with family Beekhuis

On one of those church walking journeys I came to see my future wife for the very first time. She would have been about 8 years old and I would have been about 12 and, at that age, we would obviously have had no interest in each other. Our parents, however, immediately became firm friends (The Beekhuis family had moved much earlier to Vlagtwedde from Woldendorp). They visited one another frequently, including the children as well of course, especially since we knew no one else. Jan Beekhuis, the oldest of the children, was about my age but we could not relate to each other very well, since he was so different.  My youngest sister Grietje, on the other hand, quickly became good friends with Dina Beekhuis, once they got to know each other at school. So they came to our place and we to theirs and the first three years quickly passed by with not all that much to tell you about.

Covered in liquid manure

One little incident comes to mind during those early years on the new farm. In the spring, barns had to be cleaned thoroughly and my task was to clean out manure solids and liquids, to be dumped on the manure pile at the back of the barn. First the solids, then finally the liquid. An awesome, heavy task, especially as the pile got higher and the running board for the wheelbarrow got steeper, as well as wet and slippery.

Sure enough, with a load of liquid, I slipped and fell into the manure pile and the wheelbarrow on top of me totally drenching me in the you know what. I hollered and cried until my Mom came and totally stripped and cleaned me up again. That evening she told Dad that was not a job for a young boy like me and he should do this himself since it is simply too heavy for his young son. Well that was the last of it and I was assigned other tasks. At those times I often thought I should have continued my studies.