Only ever published as a postlude
in a limited print edition
of Hinne’s memoirs
for distribution to family
~1992

My father was a capable and responsible man. (speaking of Hinne de Jong, 1896 – 1982)

That can be said of many fathers. Especially from amongst those of our fathers who lived and toiled between the 1900s and 1950s — the pre-war fathers, shall we say (aka the greatest generation). Times were different then. Workers at farms and factories did not earn much and there were few social services. In the depression era, farmers could barely keep their heads above water.

Well, it’s during that time that my father’s career began — he got married, had a family and worked long hours. Such long hours that I saw little of him during the week. We kids had to wait for Sundays to talk to him. But that wasn’t easy either. When we walked to church, he usually walked a few meters ahead of us. That man could walk incredibly fast, far too fast for our short little legs. He walked like that during the week too, because if you walked fast, it made a good impression on bosses. The bosses would say: “That man knows what needs doing.”

Father was born on Terschelling, the son of a poor farmer who had little land — a bit here and a bit there. Father had four brothers — only one of them would be able to take over the farm. The others became baker, butcher and sea captain, while my father ended up as supervisor with the Heidemaatschappij – the Dutch land reclamation company (now world renowned Arcadis NV). Those brothers were all silent men. You had to pull the words out of their mouths.

During the First World War, my father served in the military. He was in the cavalry and had a nice horse. On Terschelling he had learned to handle horses. But while in service he developed pleurisy and got holes in his eardrums. For the rest of his life, he was always somewhat deaf — later very deaf.

It was decided by the family that father should go to the Heidemaatschappij school in Arnhem. That was quite a sacrifice for his parents, as that education had to be paid for. Father could work for the company during the summer months, but that was considered part of his education and did not pay very much.

He got his supervisor’s degree and was put to work in Westerwolde, where a lot of heath land still needed to be reclaimed. The first few years we lived in Vlagtwedde, where I was born, and later we moved to Winschoten, where the regional office was.

Father had to go round to the various projects on his motorbike. He would leave at seven in the morning, come home at six, have a quick dinner and then do administration in the office from 7 to 9. No wonder I was mostly raised by my mother. That worked out OK, because mother had a firm hand and was quick to wield the mattenklopper (rug beater). And so, I grew up to be a well-behaved young man.

During the war, father had to motorcycle all over the province. Supervisors, like him, were dressed in nice green uniforms. Every year he got a new one, so there were lots of old jackets and trousers hanging in the closet. Mother knew what to do with those when there were no more clothes to be had for the family. The green trousers and jackets were taken apart, mother sat down in front of the sewing machine and soon my brothers and I were wearing green suits. They were nice suits, but how we hated the green colour. When we filed into church, people would nudge each other, “Look, here they come again, those green de Jong children.”

Father was easily distracted and often lost in thought. He had to be thinking of all the work that still needed doing. Company foreman Kieviet once told me the following story.

When father went out to survey land using a theodolite on a wooden tripod, he had to have someone with him to hold up the surveying rod. One time, they had to survey and level Zuidbroek. So, father and Kiewiet set off. Father had the theodolite on his back and Kiewiet had the heavy tripod tied to his bicycle under the saddle — two legs on one side and one leg on the other. With that unwieldy tripod on the bike, it was difficult to reach the pedals. You then had to cycle with legs splayed wide apart – an amusing sight, no doubt.

The shortest way to the land they had to survey was along the narrow towpath of the Winschoterdiep canal. It’s on towpaths like this that horses used to pull the barges. (If the skipper was poor and did not own a horse, his wife would pull the ship.) Now, towpaths could be rather narrow, and you had to be very careful when cycling. Father was well versed in that. He motored some twenty meters ahead of Kiewiet, who had to cycle with legs askew because of that cumbersome wooden tripod, and had trouble keeping up with father.

Suddenly there was a deep pothole in the path and Kiewit lost his balance. Of course, his bike just had to fall towards the canal and, yes, Kiewiet plunged neatly into the rather dirty water of the Winschoterdiep.

Fortunately, he didn’t get the bike on top of him — it was still on shore with its wheels spinning. When something like that happens, you naturally give a loud shout, which Kiewiet did — he even gave a very loud shout because he knew father was deaf. But father heard nothing and quietly motored on, unaware of the calamity. So, father arrived at the field that needed surveying, got off his bike and was very surprised that Kiewiet was nowhere to be seen. He sat down and lit his pipe, but after ten minutes got impatient. He wanted to get to work, but without Kiewiet and the tripod he could do nothing.

So, he drives back along the towpath and, finally, sees a speck in the distance. That must be Kiewit. But what’s that! Kiewit is walking and carrying his bicycle. Of course, a flat tire! When he meets up with Kiewiet, father says, “That’s quite something Kiewiet, a flat tire! Well, Kiewiet, we are losing precious time. Just hop on my motorbike behind me . . .” Kiewiet looks at him with big, angry eyes and says threateningly, “De Jong, are you blind? Can’t you see that I am soaking wet?”

 And then comes the answer that brother Kiewiet has never forgotten, “Yes, you’re wet, how come?”

As Kiewiet tells me this, his eyes are still shooting sparks. But then he starts laughing. “Yes, that father of yours, he was quite something. I’ll tell you another story. . .”

“One fine morning I got a phone call from him. ‘Come right away Kiewit, we have a survey to do.’ ‘All right, de Jong, I’m coming. If the wind cooperates, I’ll be there in an hour.’ I lived in Woldendorp, which is long ways from Winschoten. So, I put the heavy tripod back on my bike and set off for Winschoten. But there’s a strong headwind and I only arrive at your house an hour and a half later. Your father says, somewhat grumpily, ‘You’ve taken your sweet time, let’s get going.’ But your mother says, ‘No way! Kiewiet will get a cup of coffee first.’ ‘Well, all right then’, says your father. Fifteen minutes later we get on our bikes and ride out of Winschoten, in the direction of Scheemda. Then I said to your father, ‘Where is that piece of land we have to survey.’ He heard nothing at first. But five minutes later he turns and says, ‘Did you say something Kiewiet?’ ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I asked where is that piece of land we have to survey.’ ‘Just past Woldendorp,’ says your father.”

“Then I got off my bike – I was so angry. But your father kept riding. When he finally noticed that I was no longer riding next to him, he stopped too. ‘Are you having trouble with your bike again, Kiewiet?’ That’s when I gave it to him. ‘You first let me bike from Woldendorp to Winschoten, only to have me bike back half an hour later from Winschoten to Woldendorp. That’s no way to do things.’ Your father laughed a bit sheepishly and then admitted that it was, indeed, no way. ‘I should have thought a little harder,’ he said. ‘Of course, man, I could have saved you that whole trip. But what’s done is done, let’s move on.’ Yes, your father was like that — a man of gold, but always so lost in thought that strange things would happen. Let me tell you . . .”

I said, “That’s enough, Kiewiet, because I know my father even better than you know him.”