Marieke’s youth

(translated with Google translate)

I was born at home on July 30, 1961, and yes, I was born in what is now the kitchen in the farm. The kitchen was my parents' bedroom at the time. I was the 4th in a row (girl, boy, boy, girl), after me there was another sweet little sister. According to my mother, I always rubbed her tummy and then said "how sweet”.

And then… .. you “suddenly” have five children on a farm. My father had a number of cows and at some point had to decide to become a full-time farmer and expand or take a job next to it. Through my grandfather, he was able to work during the day in the gardens at the Hartekamp. The Hartekamp was a house for mentally handicapped people.

So …. In the morning it was early for my father, I'm not sure, but he must have been in the barn around 5:00 am to milk the cows. Not a machine, just the old-fashioned way by hand. The milk went into milk cans and they were put on the road and collected. Then he went to work in the Hartekamp and the ritual was repeated in the evening with the cows. No wonder he really often took a nap in his smoking chair in the evening.

And my mother, who cared and who cared. In the morning, in the freezing cold winter, she cleaned the milk stuff with boiling hot water and chlorine. I can still see her in her blue overalls with red hands from the cold.

You could say that we learned to work in our youth. We never sat still.On Saturday morning my father and my brothers were outside and my mother, my two sisters and I were inside. My favorite anecdote is “the soup”. Getting parsley and celery from the vegetable garden, as a little girl do your best to cut it so fine that you thought it really couldn't be better and yet… my mother thought it should be even better.

And yet… what a nice memory I have of my childhood. My mother who always made the yard beautiful with hollyhocks, flowers and plants. Saturday evening after church, whip cream of real cream by hand (yes, that's possible :) and then add such a delicious thick dollop on the homemade apple pie from the apples from the orchard.

My mother was far ahead of her time… cappuccino… it was made with fresh milk and then very hard, but then beating really hard with a whisk. That way you got nice foam for a delicious cup of coffee. If you hadn't knocked really hard, my mother's comment would be “the coffee was not made with love”.

Love, we really got that very much from our parents.

How will you reconnect with your loved ones? Or spend more time with your love?

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