Writing Challenge Day 3
Mieke van den Berg, Sint Josephlaan. 1991. Pen and ink drawing.
Bladder check
“Put one in here,” whispered Uncle Bert with cheeky eyes and a big grin as he lifted the lid of the enamel soup pan on the shelf. “Shhhhhhhh, hihihi,” chuckled my dad as he put a teacup in the pan. My dad and Uncle Bert were up to no good again. It would be months before Oma found all the hidden treasures—a prank my dad and uncles pulled every chance they got when visiting my grandparents' house.
I stood in my Oma’s kitchen doorway as I witnessed this ritual. Everything in the kitchen was white apart from the red and white tea towels, checkered drapes, and red appliances. The kitchen was just off the dining/living room, next to the enclosed sun balcony. Big windows overlooked the brown, murky canal, marking the edge of the old part of Utrecht and a large intersection. The canopy of bright green spring leaves from the trees between the car park and the street three floors below obscured part of the view. We had all just recovered from a ripper joke my dad told a few minutes earlier that got everyone in stitches. I smiled, happy that Opa and Oma had moved into this new apartment two years ago.
Their flat wasn’t far from their old house. I cringed as I thought of that place—57 Sint-Josephlaan. A tiny townhouse, two doors down from the train underpass, on the other side was an industrial park with the Douwe Egberts coffee roasting factory. The towering pipes would send aromatic plumes of smooth roasted coffee as far as 10, sometimes 30, kilometres, greeting you through the car vents on the highway. Once parked on the narrow paved street, I took a deep breath, squeezed my lips tight, and held my nose, hoping not to smell the pungent odour of ripened dog poop blending with the fresh coffee. The jarring contrast left an indelible impression that's hard to forget.
My body stiffened as we reached the front door. I crossed my fingers tight and wished with all my might for either macaroni with ham and cheese or chicken soup, the two safest and tastiest meals in Oma’s repertoire. Even though I had gone before we left, I did a bladder check.
A visit to the WC demanded careful planning and was to be avoided at all costs. There was not enough room to stand without the toilet seat touching the back of your legs and not having to lean against the door once you pulled the door shut. Undoing your pants and sitting down involved precise movement, just enough body rotation and timing to avoid bumping your head or knees against the door. I didn’t know how the adults managed it. Then came the flushing… eeeek! A porcelain germ-covered handle dangled from a rusty chain down from the cistern above. The last few actions required perfect timing: a firm pull, a sharp flick of the latch, running swiftly out the door from the chasing sound of the thundering gush of water that could be heard in every corner of the house.
Oma opened the door, and the rank smell of soup with meatballs greeted us. Yuck! Opa and Oma had survived the war and were experts at turning every “dubbeltje” over not once but ten times. The cheapest mince with fatty trimmings was rolled into rubbery meatballs and cooked into half-rendered slimy chunks. Mind to zero, bite it once and swallow was the best technique to eat them. You wouldn’t dare leave anything on your plate. Luckily, Oma walked in with a wooden tray filled with the ultimate dessert, the “vla-flip.” A liberal amount of deep orange rosehip cordial lined the glass. Yoghurt magically danced on the cordial, topped with custard and adorned with a long, wavy dessert spoon.
The conversation moved to the living room, where Opa had immersed himself back into his crossword puzzle. And there it was… just as Oma walked in with the sewer water—I mean coffee. It was far from the inviting aroma of freshly roasted coffee we were teased with on the way over. This coffee consisted of brown dregs from their morning brew, diluted with water and a splash of nasty cold coffee creamer.
Opa peeked over the top of his reading glasses with a detesting look, “Isn’t it time to cut off that hair?” It was his way of stabbing my dad for giving him a granddaughter instead of a grandson and making me feel unloved simultaneously. Inside, I exploded. I didn’t shed a tear when he died.
It was as if Oma was reborn after his passing. She took up dancing, swimming, and playing cards, where she met Ann, also a widow. They became best friends and set off on adventures around Europe. On my way home from art college every few weeks, I’d take a detour for a cuppa and hear about her latest adventure with Ann. She would flip the photos, cackling and in tears, and I’d try to make out what hilarious predicament they had gotten themselves into this time. Now in my twenties, I had a better understanding of how the pieces fit together and no longer took any past events personally. I began to appreciate and enjoy this new side of her, and we developed a newfound bond.
Out of nowhere, a sudden burst of laughter took me back to the apartment. It had been half an hour since my dad’s joke. Her typical response time for getting jokes was usually 10 minutes. It had been over half an hour, so no one expected it. Her hysterical laughter and tears streaming down her face had us all roaring, making it funnier than the joke itself. It is one of my best memories of her, and I feel fortunate I got to know my Oma's happy and funny side.
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