Wallpaper

It was a great thought: no more primary school, people would be taking him more seriously. First the summer and after that he would go to school by bicycle in the city instead of going to the small building in the village. There would be new things to study, it all would be fabulous! He really looked forward to have a lot of schoolbooks.

Father took him apart, told him that there was a job in the house that needed to be taken care of. He expected to hear that he had forgotten about polishing the shoes of the whole family or that the grass needed another cut. But no, Father had something special: the walls of the living room were covered in wallpaper that had seen better days. Years of smoking by him and guests had changed the wallpaper's basic white colour into yellow. So he had bought new and it was a man's job to put it on the walls. Father made it sound like a big honour that he had been chosen to help. What made it extra special was that it all was going to happen in the night. No women (he meant Mother and the sisters) would be around.

That night the whole family, except for Father and the boy, went to bed quite early. They dragged all the furniture out of the room and put them outside in the garden at the back of the house. Father got a special table he had kept in the shed, it needed to be folded out and was quite long. Together they put it together and after that he got loads of little rolls of wallpaper. He had it all cut on the right length days before. The boy had never noticed.

He also had a big bucket full of glue, he must have prepared that in the afternoon. The son never noticed he had done this either. There were also two big brushes, not something suitable for a painting. The boy got involved in the next step: he had a pair of scissors tied to a rope. the son had to stand on a chair with the rope while the man draw a line with a huge pencil over the rope. "So we know where to start."
The boy nodded, the man seemed to know what he was doing. He himself had thought you could start in a corner or next to a door, told this to Father. He had to laugh, it probably was a silly thought.

He took a roll, asked his son to hold the end and he straightened it, put an ashtray on his end. After that he put the glue on with one of the brushes, while the boy was just holding the paper till he had wetted it with glue. He folded the wet paper once and got on the chair, putting the paper exactly on the line he had drawn. He pressed it partly and then the younger one was asked to unfold it. He wanted to press the lower bit with the other brush to push some air bubbles out, but had to step aside. Father did that himself. He also cut a bit off, because it was a bit too long. The boy watched and felt useless.

The next roll was hung the same way; while he was cutting the lower end, I asked if I should start putting glue on the next roll. The answer was clear, definitely not. This went on all night, when the day had really started he did the parts of the wall where the sockets were. That needed extra care: he pinched holes in the paper and cut around it, so the electric wires were visible. He had taken the electricity off, of course. He remembered when they had done the wallpaper in the old house, he had been 6 or 7 years old and very curious. The nice red, blue and green wires could give you quite a shock, he had experienced. He never told his parents about this and would not do so that day either.

The work was finished when Mother came downstairs. She was very pleased with both of them: it looked great, the boy thought so too. She was going to make breakfast after they had put the furniture back. Father put two deckchairs on the empty spots in the garden. He sat down in one and gestured the son to sit next to him. Mother brought sandwiches and a glass of buttermilk. She told Father that the coffee was in the make. He gave her the thumbs up. The man and the boy ate in silence and he drank his buttermilk. After that Father stretched out on the chair and fell asleep. Mother came with his coffee, saw him asleep and put her finger on her lips. "Shh."

The boy got up very carefully, not to wake Father and went to his bedroom. While he heard his sisters going downstairs, he got into bed. The windows were open, it was going to be a glorious day. He tried to sleep, envied Father: the man could sleep everwhere at any time. He could hear children playing in the street and kept turning around in bed until he had enough of it. He got up and went downstairs. Father and Mother were drinking coffee together. He told them he could not sleep and was going to play a bit of football if his mates were around.

Father stopped him: "Thanks for helping out. We did a great job together. Some day we'll do it again."
The boy nodded: "Sure", but a little voice in his head told him it would never happen again.
"Bye now!" He ran off to the street.
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Old People

In my younger years I have been flying a lot, but nowadays there is a lot I don't like about it. I very much dislike the uncomfortable chairs in planes and the unfriendly security on airports. They treat you like you probably will let the plane explode: so they let you sweat shoeless in spaces without airconditioning, try to have your trousers sinking to your knees by forcing you to take your belt off, make a mess of your luggage if they can and dispossess any liquids you want to take along on a flight.

In reality nowadays the danger is lurking from within the plane, technical failures and manic depressive pilots threaten your life. To add to the danger there are misinformed military who will shoot rockets to try to bring you down. All in all enough reason for me to travel by cruise ship. Maybe I'm an old moaner, but it's a lot more pleasant. Of course there still are security checks, but they are done discreetly and with much patience and friendliness.

On the ships is good food and quite good entertainment. We love the classical music they provide and always attend the recitals. The music is very relaxing and that shows in the position of the audience: often you see the majority of the people asleep on their chairs or almost nodding off. You can't really blame them: you really have to have a thorough search before you can find passengers younger than 65. The listeners probably are used to having a little kip in the afternoon.

After a piano recital we decided to stay in the room, which was transformed to a venue for Afternoon Tea. Next to us an elderly couple took seats and while we were enjoying the little sandwiches, the small cakes and scones, we had a conversation with them. Like always, soon there were the exchanges of experiences and the comparing of cruises of different companies.

I asked them: "What do you think of SAGA?"
Answer: "Not something for us! These ships are always full with old people."
I almost choked in my coffee, but managed to keep a straight face.
We waited until the couple was gone before we had a big laugh and looked around us. I don't think there was anybody younger than 70 in the room. We cheered: "Wow, we really are young people!"
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Overners

The rain was supposed to continue the rest of the day, but suddenly stopped and the sun brightened everything. We decided to escape from the house and have a walk after all. It's a short drive to St.Helen's, to the Duver and because we like it, we went over there for some fresh air.

Everything was wet and soaked, it caused the seaweed on the beach to be less smelly. Normally there is an odour of rotting when the tide is ebbing, but even with an amazing low tide the air now was as clean as it looked fresh. In the blue sky the full moon was visible, always a strange sight during daytime.

From our island we could see the mainland on the other side of the Solent, the winter sun shone on Portsmouth and made reflections of the Spinnaker Tower, so it looked like it was a source of light.
In the distance four "parked" freight ships were on the water, together with the ferry that moved quickly along, on it's way to Brittany. Far away to the right the Condor came in sight, this ferry coming from the Channel Islands.

Seagulls were bobbing on the water, a group of geese flew over, some crows were searching for food next to a bin, sanderlings ran over the beach, frequently pecking in the sand. A few people were walking their dogs on the beach. All in all, there is always a lot to see on and near the Solent. We were standing still, just admiring the sight.

"What a lovely sight, isn't it?" An elderly lady was standing on the edge of the car park, looking at the same things as us. We discussed living on the island. We had been living there longer, but I stated that - of course - this didn't make us Islanders. We all agreed, we were Overners in the eyes of the Islanders. It's hard to become an Islander, it's impossible. You have to be born on the island to be one. It's also hard to become really acquainted to Islanders, it sometimes even looks like that you only get more words from them when there is a profit to be made, the old lady joked.

So we agreed again that it was really lovely to live on the island and that it was important for Overners to be friendly and communicate with each other. We told her we should resume our walk and after exchanging names said goodbye to the friendly lady. She was going to search for her husband and their three rescue dogs.
"See you next time!"
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Everything for the Blues (In Memoriam Mariëlla Tirotto)

We discovered that the smallest venue in my hometown had a blues afternoon every Sunday afternoon, organised by the Dutch Blues Foundation. Of course we had to be there and we became regulars, went even to Theater Borra on horrible rainy afternoons. It always was a pleasure to be there. Most people were our age and I found myself foot stamping and thigh hitting along with the music, just like the other men. I once wrote a little article about it and it found it's way into the magazine of the Foundation.

Most peculiar were in my eyes the moments when the fans recognised and or admired a song: they would run forward with their cameras and smartphones to the stage and made a picture. I never understood that. How can you arrest the feeling for a song in a picture? My wife sometimes made videos of songs, these can still be found on YouTube. In my mind that is the only way to keep a song that was sung in a great way alive forever. 

After a few sessions there was a show by Mariëlla Tirotto and her band, the Blues Federation. She was absolutely fabulous and I felt she really deserved a far bigger venue than this small stage in a bar.
We saw her a few times, got to know Mariëlla a bit. During breaks we sometimes would sit outside with her on a small wall or just the kerb of the street. She needed to smoke and smoking indoors was not allowed. She apologised for smoking to us. No need for that of course, but she went on. Stopping was too difficult for her and according to Mariëlla the smoking was also needed to maintain her voice. "Everything for the Blues!", she said. "Of course", we laughed.

One day we got an invitation for a far bigger concert with two supporting bands in a venue called "De Kelder". At the end of that afternoon some of the musicians joined together in an "all star band".
They played "Window of my Eyes", a Dutch classic, originally a song by Cuby and the Blizzards.
There was a sort of electricity in the air, the whole audience was flabbergasted. The regulars even forgot to take pictures. Mariëlla was unbelievable. After the song was finished there were even a few seconds of silence before the ovation started.

We were sort of living in two countries at the same time, living in the Netherlands and the UK.  Mariëlla and her band were very interested in possibilities doing gigs in the UK. We had some connections and there was a bit of contact, but it soon became clear that doing a tour in England would be quite costly for the band. The idea was dropped.

After we moved permanently to the UK, we kept being in contact at first. We bought the latest CD. Like all contacts it became less and less. At a certain moment we heard that Mariëlla was very ill, she got cancer. It was very surprising how soon she died. 
Of course we still have that CD, but the feeling we got listening to "Window of my Eyes" on that Sunday afternoon can never be retrieved.
I can still remember Mariëlla saying: "Everything for the Blues", which she did.

                                                Mariëlla Tirotto
                                                (19-3-1960 - 04-01-2017)   

Cheers

On the net I got in contact with the very gifted American singer/songwriter Reni Lane. (Nowadays she is part of the band Fever High). There was a big surprise when I read that she would do a gig in my home town and the surprise got even bigger when I saw that she would do her show in the smallest venue available, Theater Borra.

The weather was quite bad and I even doubted to go, because it would mean a trip through the rain on my bicycle. In 15 minutes on a bike you can get really soaked. At the last moment I decided to go anyway; I sort of promised Reni that I would be there, so she at least had one fan attending the gig.
When I entered she was sitting behind the piano and I thought I was too late. Maybe my watch had drowned in the rain?

It was not the case, she managed to wave at me and guitar player David Patillo told me that she was "sound checking". I could have sworn she already had started, it sounded magnificent. There were a few other people, mostly sitting at the bar drinking their beers. Nobody but me seemed to pay any attention. Reni Lane seemed to get more and more lost in her adventures on the piano; to me it sounded like she was writing a new song. At least she was getting ideas for one.

When the moment arrived that the gig should start, David went up to her and told her so. She nodded, David signalled the rest of the band and they took their spots.
The concert was great. I remember the owner, Willem Borra sitting at the - for him- wrong side of the bar and giving a deep sigh: "That girl is far too good to play in a dump like this!" I did not totally agree with him, because the bar really is very nice.

After the gig the band busied themselves, they had to clear out their instruments and PA system. Reni had played the piano so had nothing to do and ended up sitting next to me at the bar. She asked me what I would recommend to an unexperienced drinker. I think I ordered a Kriek beer for her, which she really liked.
"I'll tell you a secret", she said, "this is my first beer ever. I would be breaking the law at home, in the US. Cheers!" Because of her very experienced way of performing I never thought anymore of her age. She was only 19 at that moment. The way she talked was not really like a teenager.

I was about to leave when she offered me a drink, David Patillo joined us and the three of us drank together while the bar slowly became more and more empty. When Reni had to go the toilet I asked David what her parents thought of her travelling the world with a band. He shrugged, not giving an answer on this, but stating that experiences like this one would be good for her to develop her talent even more and to become more resilient.

After the tour Reni Lane kept a bit in contact although it became less and less. Once in a while I would see something about her popping up. I know she broke with David Patillo, joined the band Fever High and wrote a film score. Later I discovered that she unfriended or unfollowed me on the social media. Maybe that small gig in my home town and the guy who was there was not a welcome thought anymore. I will never know, but I really like the idea to have been there at the beginning of her career.

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Insecure?

My wife and I admired a painting in an art gallery, regretted it already had a red dot next to it. The price was very reasonable and we both liked it a lot, but it was sold. We still discussed it when two men came up and remained standing in front of it too. They were both about our age, very grey, but both were very slim.
My wife could not help whispering to me: "Do you think they have been ballet dancers or such too? I would dare to bet that they are gay. They are great looking guys."
I nodded.

"You're not from around here, I think. Am I right?" My wife had to find out, of course curiosity won.
"No, you heard that very well. We're from Dallas, Texas. Had a great holiday on your lovely island, but we have to fly back tomorrow", the slimmest of the two answered.
"But you are not from here either", he added, pointing at me. (Even after years in the UK, I can't conceal my Dutch origins.)
I admitted that I was from the Netherlands and he was delighted, had been in Amsterdam twice in the seventies. And I could add to our connection that I had visited Texas, had been in Dallas once.

It resulted in a nice conversation between us, while the other man first listened to what we were talking about, later seemed to get bored and eventually started to look like he was irritated.
It was not my problem.
The slim guy and I went on a bit longer until the other man said: "We should go; we don't want to miss the ferry, don't we?"
"You are right. Of course you are right!", was the reaction with a big smile.

He patted me on my shoulder, shook hands with me and said goodbye: "It has been very nice talking to you." I agreed on this, I had the same feeling and wished him a safe journey home. He thanked me and followed his partner.
My wife asked me if I had observed the other guy. He had been really irritated.
We both thought he showed a bit that he had a controlling character, was very insecure in this relationship. If you are already feeling like this when your partner talks to a straight man, how will it be when he gets in contact with a nice gay person? Not exactly a guarantee for a long life together.
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Uncle

My father's older brother was a bit different. As young children we already were aware he was not considered to be a normal person. He lived in an institute near the house of a sister of my father. Often he would visit and bring things from his allotment, like green beans. He would bring bicycle bags full of them or other vegetables and my aunt would be embarrassed. She would thank him, but after he would be gone, she would complain to us. She had no idea what to do with these vast amounts.

Once he came over to my family. It was not clear to me if he was invited or came spontaneously. He was chatting a bit with my parents, but often disappeared to the bathroom. He came back with wet hands and red eyes. He constantly had the need to clean his hands and his eyes, because they were dirty according to himself. When we were sitting together and had our evening meal, he hid his hands under the table and knocked.

"They are here already! They are coming for me!", he moaned full of fear. We whispered to another that it was himself who was knocking. My father went to the door, opened it wide.
"Nobody! You see!"
Uncle nodded, but the same scene was done again during the meal. My father showed again that there was nobody.
He started moaning that they were observing him through the windows. (The curtains were closed.)
My parents started talking about other things and distracted him from his fears.

The man went to bed even before I went and my parents talked about him.
"We can't do this with the children...", I heard my father say.
I was sent to bed, just like my oldest sister. Way before our normal time to go upstairs.
The next morning I woke up because of a van driving up to our house.
Two men in white nurse outfits came out and I ran downstairs, because I was curious.
The men came to collect my uncle; meekly he went along with them.
"I know, I know, I have to serve my life sentence. Will I ever be released?"
My father seemed to be on the brink of tears when uncle was put in the van.

Years later it became clear to me what was wrong with him.
During the Second World War the Germans wanted to build a defence line along the Belgian and French coast: the Atlantik Wall. From all over Europe people were put to work on it and my uncle had been one of them. Work was hard, food was bad, treatment was also bad. People died during the building and it was not even finished when the Germans lost the war. During the fighting workers were killed as the Allies attacked the defence line while the building and repairing went on.
When finally the fighting was over, the workers were allowed to go home.

Because there was no organised transportation my uncle had to walk most of the way between the North of France and the Netherlands. Maybe once in a while he got a ride from a farmer; how he got his food while on his way is not clear either.
He must have seen awful things and must have been forced to do awful things in the North of France. That is why he constantly wanted to clean his hands and his eyes. So sad that he never was able to talk about it.
I can still hear his words: "When will my sentence be done, when will I be released?"
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