Let's talk about People and their Blocking Behaviour

Living in a village loved by tourists, I can not avoid noticing various behaviours.
Let me state first that most of the people who visit us on purpose are those who love the quiet tiny village, the Wadden Sea with it's beautiful views and endless horizons, and the empty Friesian landscape.

Though during this Corona time, we also see people who would not even think about visiting this area in normal times. But now they are asked to stay at home or close to home, they all of a sudden feel the irresistible need to push boundaries and flock the otherwise unattractive quiet outdoors.
Preferable with on line ordered Pick-nick baskets filled by on-line ordered food. Unfortunately a very tiny majority forgot to buy poop sachet on line and left their overdose of WC paper at home, thinking that what once was food, now digested and disposed the natural way, can be left in corners of private gardens and or behind gates hidden under a pile of tissues.
I emphasize, it is only a single soul as the majority is well raised.

Now we see more and more people climbing the dikes for fresh air en stunning views, I can not always keep my usual 5 metres distance and need to stick to the government rules of 1.5 metres.
This is an impossible task when people take the stairs and half way stop to look around. In the best possible case they walk to the top and stay there, completely unaware of their kinsmen following them or those who want to go down. And to no surprise this is causing a blockade both ways.
The dikes are wide and still walkable for those who are fit and moveable. But if one is of a certain old age and less supple, going down a dike is quite a challenge (not talking about myself here :-)).

It often astonishes me that someone can stand in the middle of a passage way, surrounded by other people without even noticing them. Without catching signals of other human beings. Acting like they are all on their own in a large empty world.
Not only something you see with tourists but also with people in shops. Leaving their shopping trolleys in the middle of a gang way, walking back and forth gathering the stuff they need.
Or even worse, meeting someone they know and starting a conversation no one seem to be able to interrupt to pass by.
And if they are finally aware of others (caused by a loud 'Ahum' or a firm push where a gentle touch was of no help) they glare with a spread all over the face look of "Excuse me! I was here first!!"

Being an introvert does not help to wade through a crowd, one reason why I find shopping an almost impossible task. I enter the shop as Mr. Jekyll and leave it as Mr. Hyde. Bless my little country shop which still has quiet moments.
And watching the 'blocking behaviour' makes me scratch the back of my head. Because I do not want to annoy myself, I try to observe it with a somewhat cynical sense of humour.
Like yesterday. I could not pass on top of the dike stairs, it was literally blocked by people who felt a great need to lean on the gate that keeps the sheep separated from the humans (although the difference is not always visible), to enjoy the surroundings. Because there were also people who pushed to reach the top of the stairs, the Dutch 1.5 metres Social Distance was laughable.
I watched and indeed laughed. I told myself there was no need to understand this cattle behaviour so did not even give it a try.

I walked round them in a large circle, feeling blessed with so much space that for some odd reason, no one else had noticed.

At the bottom of the dike I walked towards the space between two fences to dispose the poo bags of my dogs in the dustbin but got blocked by a very tall and broad shouldered cyclist, appropriate dressed to cycle the Tour the France and most likely preferably being in France then in Friesland if the Tour wouldn't have been cancelled.
He stood there like a lost Viking in Cycling gear, legs wide, his massive arms upwards, hands pushed in his waist. He was so fortunate to look over the crowd on floor level and that is what he did. He looked and looked.

Instead of asking him politely to unblock the passage, I watched him from a COVID-19 safe distance wondering when he was going to glance down to notice this 167 cm high lady with the two dogs.
It took a while but all of a sudden he returned to the real world, sounds reached his ears again, his brains caught human signals, his nose maybe the scent of living people.
I smiled, he almost jumped in the air at his impossible napped cycling shoes, said: "Oooh, I am so sorry!" and stepped aside, forgetting that his large body still remained within the 1.5 metres. Then a big smile as if the coin finally landed. And off he went, following the crowd at the stairs.

Photo: Ike Roelfsema

You might agree to the fact that the COVID-19 rules spit out a strange mix of interesting people.
Who are all welcome in our village but who we most likely never see again in 'normal' times, shifted by dislikes for empty horizons, dull blue skies, white clouds which could predict rain, the ever blowing wind and the boring green dikes.

And I am not gong to convince them otherwise!!


Love, Helen xxx

A letter to my Mother

Dearest Mama,

It is Mother's Day, a day you did not care about much. At least not the commercial part of it.
But you appreciated and cared for an extra hug, an 'I love you', a warm embrace, holding your hand.
Just the normal but ever important affection in daily life, not solely on Mother's Day.

Being a mother and wife was your joy, not a duty. Your dream was being a mother of a large family but knew that just my brother and I were miracles with miscarriages in between.
We were so much wanted and even more loved.

Viewing photos of our childhood, I smile. I see the love in the way you hold us, in your eyes looking at us. Watching us when were not in immediate reach, always alert without smothering.

You were also a mother to foster children, our friends, you created a warm and welcoming home for everyone. You loved to cook, especially Indonesian meals for large groups of friends and family.
You were always there for us, answering our questions whenever they popped up. Whether is was about sexual education, political matters or just the daily chores of growing from a happy child to a confused teenager and a grown up human being.

My memories go way back using the beautiful monochrome photos Dad took of our childhood.
To Zaandam where I was born, visiting your parents. Visiting Dad's mother and uncle in Steenwijk.
Long car drives during which I got car sick, a standard procedure. You held me and comforted me.
You and Dad taught me to read and write before I went to elementary school. You understood the importance of being honest about my first operation; the pain, the recovering.

Even more you understood my free spirit and my introversion. Yes, you and Dad set guidelines for a properly functioning household (called the 'traffic lights') but you explained why things were not allowed or better not to do. And thus allowed us to make mistakes in life.
You and Dad drew one line in the upbringing. Dad was often away for his work and you were capable of raising us almost on your own. Of course you discussed things with Dad but you supported each others decision for the one and only reason that they were made in our best interest with all the love you could give.

You confessed you did not sleep when I took the Ferry to the UK at the age of 17, determined to go on holiday all on my own. You told me this afterwards, in fore you were as enthusiastic (and nervous) as I was. You told me that Dad and you knew I was smart enough to know my limits. A trust in me I have never forgotten and which was so crucial for the rest of my life.

I remember our holidays together to the UK where you met my 'second' Mum and Dad, those wonderful Yorkshire people I met in Somerset and who became my other parents. Mum and you both answered when I said: 'Mama', you got on so well together.
These holidays with you Mama, are so precious. I fulfilled your dream and we both enjoyed every minute. Also a wonderful chance to get to know you better since I moved out of the house, being married.

You nursed Dad for 24 years after he got ill at the age of 43, a year in which you battled and survived Breast Cancer. You fought to stay alive and to live a normal as possible life. And never failed to spread care and love.

After both Dads died within a few years time, our bond got stronger. And how happy I was for you when you met an old friend and both fell in love.
And how much we needed each other when this friend died within a year and you were not able to laugh anymore. For a whole year I never saw your beautiful smile which you always kept in the past, no matter what happened. It hurt so much, Mama.

You were there for me when my marriage ended and I had to return home from Sweden. You offered me your love, arms and home. You listened, cried with me and helped me to get back on my feet.
You arranged the viewing of a rental home even before I was back in Holland and you were as happy as I was when I moved to the same village.

You cried for me when I was diagnosed with severe Breast Cancer and refused to cry myself.
You held me when I vomited my heart out during the chemo therapy. I slept in your arms when I was too tired to stand on my feet. You applaud when I refused to wear a wig and loved the shawls I made to cover my head.

Although your body grew old and tired, disabled, you offered me your automatic comfort chair after both my hip operations. You spoilt me with love, tea and healthy food. You finally was a mothering mother again now I was less stubborn and self supporting.

You looked after my wonderful dog when I found a job for which I had to travel within Europe.
We had long conversations via the mobile phone on my way to the airports, happy to share my trips and I was more than happy to share them with you.

Your health deteriorated and I became your part time carer. The rules changed, now I was the one who looked after you and found out of whom I inherited my stubbornness!
You refused to complain, always looked at the bright side. Sometimes taking the wrong decisions, ending in being rushed to the hospital.
I stayed with you whenever I could, holding your hand. But we always laughed, sharing the same sense of humour, able to see the sun shining behind every cloud.

Then came the day the alarm service called me, you had fallen in the living room.
Living so close to you I was there in a minute and knew instantly you had broken your hip in a very bad way. You did not cry, you did not complain although you were in so much pain.
The ambulance arrived quickly and the wonderful paramedics gave you morphine before they moved you. You held my hand, did not want to let go.

You accepted munch sooner than I that the broken hip was inoperable, also due to your heart condition. Medication kept the pain level low but you knew you were going to die. And you smiled, a broad calm smile. We both knew you longed for joining your Heavenly Father, I knew I was going to meet you again. But I cried.

I read somewhere 'A parent always dies too young' and this is true. You want to keep them with you for ever. In good health. But true love does not allow needles suffering and I told you it was alright to go.

I cried at the day of your funeral. I was not able to speak and loved my brother for doing that also for me, accompanied by the sound of heavy rainfalls on the church roof.
I cried when they lowered your coffin next to Dad but smiled when suddenly the sky opened and dazzling sunbeams shone right into your grave. I knew you were Home.

Life moved on. I remarried and became a widow. I moved house to built up a new life.
How much I like to talk to you, to ask you for advise, to enjoy my beautiful little house and the area together. To drink tea, to eat biscuits, to laugh and to love. To even argue with you. To embrace you.

I love you, Mama