I did all of my growing up in Winschoten. My parents rented a brand-new house on the outskirts of Winschoten, the Acacialaan. Indeed, the street was lined with Acacia trees. My first memory of that house was the smell of fresh paint, as I climbed the stairs to the upper floor which held three bedrooms. For many years my oldest brother Kees, my younger brother Sense (Stan) and I would sleep in the front bedroom, which during the winter could turn into such a cold room that our breath would freeze the blankets, and the water in the washbasin would be frozen. There was no central heating in homes at that time, and especially during WW2 (World War 2) the heat from the kachel (which took wood, coal and peat) in the living room would be contained to that room only.

My Dad planted an apple and cherry tree, but they never did well. Above the front door was a small verandah and beside the door a brick flower bed. Later, when the need arose (when for instance all the doors were locked and we came in after 10.00 p.m. from walking the streets of Winschoten in search of girls) we would stand on the flower bed, pull ourselves up to the verandah, and climb in through the bedroom window which could easily be opened from the outside.

Soon I was old enough to go to kindergarten. But deliberations took place to keep me home for another year because I was a sickly child. Often, I had bronchitis or a shortage of red blood cells. Then my skin would become itchy with eczema, a skin disease. Once my parents were told that frequent bathing in sea water would take care of the eczema and my father hauled in two big farmer’s milk containers filled with seawater (on his motor bike, hanging on either side of the back wheel). The doctor told my mother that all these sicknesses would end on my seventh birthday and he was right. It seems that some lives go in seven-year cycles … a Biblical given at that!