My mother told you about her dear Siem. My story is not about that Siem, but about a man whom I first knew as Papa, and later, when I considered myself too grown up to call him Papa any longer, Pa; and 14 years ago his name changed yet again, and he suddenly became Opa. All three of them, Papa, Pa, and Opa, were dear to me – and I have plenty of good memories of all three.
Is is funny, the things you remember. I’m certain that my father, when I was a child, played with me – on the floor with toys, or just roughhousing on the lawn. But alas, those memories didn’t stay with me. My memories pertain mostly to somewhat less playful occasions – moments in which I learned from my father.
In one of my earliest memories, it was when we lived in Heinenoord, my father was working outside. I was four, and asked him ‘Papa, why are you pulling up those flowers?’ His answer: those are not flowers, they are weeds. That was the beginning of a long childhood in which Papa was always busy around the garden. It would be many years before I myself would appreciate the pursuit of gardening, but nonetheless Frits and I were often deployed to help with garden projects – together, we moved countless wheelbarrow loads of sand, pavers, and bricks. Even though I would admire the final results, I admit to sometimes feeling a bit of a victim of Papa’s gardening obsession.
Another memory: together with Papa, soaking the stamps from envelopes that my oma would gather for us at her job. At first, Papa could get a little grumpy when I would damage yet another nice stamp with my clumsy child’s hands. But soon, I was an avid collector, pursuing a hobby that would occupy me for many years. And during those years, it was always Papa to whom I would show off my latest stamp album full of pride; even though he himself no longer actively collected.
I remember the day that Papa tought me the game of chess – and how I burst into tears when I quickly lost our first chess match – but how a few years later we were a good match for each other, and together purchased one of the early chess computers.
Another few years later, there were the wintery Saturday mornings when we would go out to coppice the ancient willows along the farm fields surrounding the village. It was my first volunteer activity, but for my father it was just one of many ways he was active in matters of environment and community. Those were precious moments – often blisteringly cold, but full of cameraderie, in which Papa and I, each wielding a saw in our separate trees, could enjoy a cooperation on an equal basis.
Computers were a joint discovery, in the early heyday of microcomputers. My passion was programming, while he loved tinkering with application software such as Visicalc, a forerunner of Excel. We often found ways to collaberate; we would work together at the accounting for my uncle Jan’s jewelry store, and later on for Broekhuis Training, using a program I had written to satisfy his specific needs and preferences.
So was Papa always serious, never playful? No, of course not. I remember rowdy romps with our dog Timmy. I was always a bit scared of Timmy, who could growl fearfully, but Papa would throw himself into their play-fights with abandon. And there were silly activities, such as counting three-wheeled cars during our cycling vacation to England. And how else to explain those goats in our back yard? The first one resulted from a sign that said “pygmy goats for sale” at a farm in Brabant, when we were driving back from a visit to my Oma and Opa’s trailer in Westelbeers. That first one came home in a crate, and the empty crate had to be returned to the farmer. But every time Papa went to take back the crate, he would return not with an empty car, but with another goat in that same crate.
Every boy needs a father to whom he can look up, with whom he feels safe, and from whom he can learn life’s skills and wisdoms. Papa was that father for me, and had all those qualities aplenty.
And gradually, Papa became Pa. When I look back now, I’m struck more than ever in how many ways I’m following in Pa’s footsteps. I already mentioned the stamp collecting, and chess, and later on we also enjoyed playing tennis together. My father, as a good socialist, didn’t think much of his sons’ choice to attend high school at the elitist Erasmus Gymnasium; but I made it up to him by pursuing my studies at Delft University, as he had done before. And even though he believed a theoretically oriented field of study such as physics would be most suitable for me, I too opted for Chemical Engineering. Just like Pa, I married an American bride, who gave me two sons, although Amy and I did not stop at two, and eventually delivered Pa his first granddaughter – knowing full well that she would have to watch out for Opa, because he just loved little girls that he could tease by pulling on their long hair. And that Opa, he was a sweet Opa. Even though I cannot remember my own child play with Papa, I witnessed plenty of it when he, as Opa, played with my kids. It is a great pity that Max, Ben, and Lily had the opportunity to enjoy their Opa, who loved them so much, for only a few precious years.
There are qualities that Pa passed along to me: on the positive end, for example, my capacity for analytical thinking, and conversely, my sometimes overly impatient nature, especially where it concerns my own family. But there are also qualities that I admired in my father, which were unfortunately passed down to a much smaller extent. I was always struck by how much my father was in his element when conversing with friends and family: he could always remember those small personal details, even if he could only catch up once a year. He made it a point to really get to know the people around him. And his self confidence, evident in abundance from his decision to give up a fine career at Esso to pursue his dream of running his own company.
It is not until now, looking back at my own life and the role my father played in it, how much Pa meant to me. In almost everything I did, from childhood onward, I did my best to make him proud. And hopefully, I largely succeeded. Papa, let there be no mistake: I will forever be proud of you, and I hope that I, and my children after me, deserve your pride – even though you are no longer here to show it. I love you, Pa – and I will miss you.