An Unexpected Visit from Mom

Mom stopped by the other night.

Josy and I were in a house somewhere along the west side of Hood Canal, packing our things. We were about to move. We were either relocating or just gathering everything up after a long weekend.

For some reason, I needed to go to go uphill through the town. To get something out of the car or pick up something at the store. Josy continued putting things in our bags while I headed out.

The small town was laid out not unlike the hillside smattering of homes, hotels and roads near the ferry landing on Orcas Island. Our house was at the bottom of the hill, near the water.

I walked outside and up the steep roadway. Not far ahead in the distance, just beyond the shops and cafes that lined the street, and a forested hillside immediately beyond, the Olympic Mountains rose high in the air. This was one of those quaint towns that had both sea-level waterfront and a mountain range in its backyard.

The weather was great. Not a cloud in the sky. Warm. One of those picture-perfect Pacific Northwest days that Seattlites long for during those long, grey, wet winter days and relish with zeal in the summertime.

As I passed by an outdoor café with umbrellas shading small round tables with bar stools, I saw Mom and Dad. They had decided to surprise us. Our eyes met and they both had big smiles on their faces.

I walked up to greet them, a feeling of happiness rising up at the unexpected visit. We shared the moment with big grins all around.

A second passed and I realized this must be a dream. After all, Mom had died just over a year ago.

She looked fantastic. Like she did the year before she got sick. I told her so and she just smiled.

I looked at Dad and he was smiling too. As I turned my eyes back to Mom, she was no longer there.

I glanced back at Dad. Instantly, we both knew that Mom wasn’t here and yet had been here.

The main feeling at this moment was not one of sadness. Instead, there was an overriding sense of warmth tinged with a hint of longing.

It was so nice to see her.

Not long after moving to The Netherlands, I’d get the impulse every now and then to give Mom a call. As if time had gone by and somehow I’d forgotten to pick up the phone and check in with her.

This cognitive dissonance always surprised me. The sense, all at the same time, that I needed to give her a call and yet I knew she’d been dead nearly a year.

For months, the urge to call her would hit me. Not unlike other times when I’d lived overseas and would make the trans-Atlantic update every week or so.

And the realization she was dead would always follow, by roughly a second, the desire to call. There would be this fleeting moment in which I missed her, was looking forward to catching up and didn’t yet know she wasn’t there anymore.

While reality would hit me with sadness, the brief surreality in which Mom was still alive would leave a lingering aftertaste of happiness.

I would come to treasure these moments, despite their reminders of grief.

Nowadays, about five months after the anniversary of her death, those moments happen less and less often.

But her surprise appearance the other night reminded me how much I loved her. And how much I love her still.

What’s in a Game

When our friend Leslie visited back in the fall, she introduced Ben and Sophie to the wonders of the “I Spy…” game. Ben’s figured it out. Sophie’s invented her own unique variation.

The latest edition of “I Spy…” unfolded at dinner the other night while Josy was working late at the office. It began the way the game is supposed to be played:

Ben: “I spy…with my little eye…something blue.” His eyes fix on the ball outside on the patio. I pretend not to notice.

Sophie: “Is it…the plate?”

Ben: “No.”

Matt: “Is it the chair?”

Ben: “No.”

Sophie: Looking outside, “Is it the ball?”

Ben: “Yeah, that’s it!”

And so the game goes. The person who starts picks an object in the room, tells the color of it, and then the others have to guess which object it is.

But Sophie has her own way of playing…

Sophie: Her eyes wandering around the room, “I spy…with my little eye…something purple.” Her eyes continue to wander.

Ben: “Is it…the balloon?”

Sophie: Mulling it over, eyes scanning the kitchen and moving toward the living room…”No...”

Matt: “Is it your stockings?”

Sophie: Looking around the dining room, “…No…It’s round and there are animals in it and it’s got triangles…”

Ben: “Is it the bowl?”

Sophie: Still looking…“No.”

Ben: Pointing to the bookshelf, “Is it the book up there?” There’s nothing on the shelf that’s round, has animals or has triangles.

Sophie: Turning around to see the bookshelf for the first time, “Yeah, that’s it!”

Ben: Starting to get bored, “Let’s play Simon Says!” We had just introduced them to Simon Says a few days earlier.

Sophie: “Yeah!”

Ben: In a clearly older sibling, I’m-in-charge way, “Okay, I’ll start.”

“Simon says…Touch your nose.” Everyone touches their nose.

“Simon says…touch your ears.” Everyone touches their ears.

“Simon didn’t say touch your ears!” says Ben.

Matt: “Yes he did, Ben.”

Ben: “No, he didn’t.”

Matt: “Yes he did.”

Ben: “NO! He didn’t!”

Matt: “Ben, here, I’ll show you how it goes…”

Sophie: “It’s my turn! My turn!”

Matt: “Okay…”

Sophie: “Simon says…touch your nose.” Everyone touches their nose.

“Simon didn’t say touch your nose.”

Matt: “Yes, he did Sophie. You just said, ‘Simon says touch your nose.’” I demonstrate the game a few times, taking pains to obviously show when Simon says and when Simon doesn’t say. “The trick,” I tell them, “is when you tell people to do something but don’t say ‘Simon says’ first. You want to trick them.”

Ben: Triumphantly, “Okay, my turn! Simon says…touch your arm.” Everyone touches their arm.

“Simon didn’t say touch your arm.”

Sophie: “I want to play the ‘I spy…’ game.”

Something tells me it’s too soon for Monopoly or chess…

Late Winter's Weekend in Berlin

While I was away on a business trip, Josy and the kids hopped a train for a long weekend with her brother Marnix, his wife Lucy and daughters Helene and Lizzie. Much fun was had by all, as this short photo-movie will attest.

The Pied Pooper of Hamelin

Had a relaxing long weekend getaway with Josy's brother and his family the other day. After a bit of Internet sleuthing to find a location in between Amsterdam and their home in Berlin, we settled on a ferienwohnung ("fairy-en-voh-noong" or vacation rental house) in northwest Germany. In a little town called Molbergen.

Rolled in after dark on a Friday evening. Passed through a picture-perfect, quaint German village just before reaching our destination. The one stoplight in town brought momentary confusion, as each part of the intersection had its own stop sign as well. Does one stop no matter what? Or just go with what the light says? If the latter, then why the need for stop signs? We cautiously approached the intersection, noticed that other cars just obeyed the light, and did the same.

Not far from Molbergen is the town of Hamelin, the setting for the Grimm's fairy tale about the Pied Piper. No rodents spotted en route. Perhaps no surprise, since the Pied Piper had lured all the rats away and supposedly drowned them in a river. Or had he merely escorted them beyond city limits, to the chagrin of nearby villages that became new homes for the vermin? Unsuspecting hamlets like, oh I dunno...Molbergen?

The vacation house was part of a larger complex of several dozen houses in a semi-enclosed park-like area, complete with restaurant, gift shop and swimming pool. Neatly-kept grounds and a large playground signaled that this place might not be too bad.

Lovely setting.

But then we opened the car doors and it hit us. The unmistakable, potent odor of cow manure. And not just a whiff. An overwhelming wall of stink. There must have been a large dairy farm nearby, or at least not far away upwind.

Made the industrial "Aroma of Tacoma" back home seem like a fresh ocean breeze by comparison.

Fortunately, between the super-insulated German construction of the vacation house and the rain that started that evening and lasted the weekend, we soon forgot the secret eau de cowlette that had greeted us so unceremoniously.

All in all, a great weekend. Kids had a blast together. Lots of time in the pool. And nice catching up with Josy's brother Marnix and his wife Lucy. (Photo-movie here.)

We made sure not to let the kids wander off with any strangers playing musical instruments.

And we never did see any rats. But that bovine odor was so powerful, its source must have been massive in scope. So perhaps it shouldn't be news to anyone that the area might have its share of rodents. What with all those tasty cow pies to choose from...

Cleanliness, with All Due Gravity

I’ve resisted the temptation to tell the story of the washing machine. Not because it’s unworthy of telling. But because so many expats come to Holland and end up complaining about this random thing or that, which is different from The Way Things Are Back Home. And you just have to wonder if any of them have ever ventured beyond their borders before, to discover the world out there where people Do Things Differently.

The washing machine story, though, has grown from a mere Cultural Difference to an Unmistakable Bizarreness. And the impulse to relate the tale has shifted from Quaint Curiosity to Downright Moral Obligation.

The washing machine, you see, is a thing unto itself. It’s a German-made Bosch Something-or-Other, model number WOL-Whatever. Not unlike many other European washing machines, our trusty Bosch is compact, has a centrifuge drum that rotates through a central area that fills with water for pre-rinsing, washing, rinsing and spin-dry. It tends to use far less water than its U.S.-made counterparts, both due to its smaller size and design.

Thing is, the Bosch comes with several other Features that elude its marketing materials or owner’s manual:

1. The I-Can’t-Believe-It’s-Not-a-Jackhammer feature

After the final rinse cycle, the Bosch begins the spin cycle to force water from the clothes inside. The spin utilizes the machine’s centrifuge function, whereby the drum containing the clothes rotates at high speed like a hamster wheel and the water is effectively compelled out.

The unadvertised Feature here is that, once the spin cycle starts, the machine literally begins an ever-escalating process of bouncing, rattling and whopping in place. The Bosch’s four tiny leg supports slam with increasing frequency and force on the floor tiles, generating an incessant, rapid, whamming din that’s something of a cross between a jackhammer and automatic small arms fire.

As the parents of small children, it’s not unusual for Josy and me to need to throw in a load of laundry later in the evening. Or to multitask while working in the home office, in the room next door to the Bosch. And, needless to say, firing up a jackhammer at 10pm is a wonderful way to build close ties with your neighbors. It’s also quite handy for background noise while on the phone for work – “Matt, good to hear from you. Say, how’s that remodel going…?”

So we figured we’d do something about it...

2. The “Hey-ho, Weigh the Thing Down!” feature

Had no idea what to do, really, until we caught sight of a large concrete block in the attic. “Look, honey, a large concrete block. Seems odd they’d store a large concrete block up here on the top floor. Now, what on earth would this be used for... Hey, wait a minute!”

After a bit of trial and error, we seem to have largely perfected our Bosch stabilizing mechanism. The method goes something like this. Lay a plastic non-skid pad on top of the washing machine. Place the lid of the wicker laundry hamper upside-down on top of the pad. Inside the lid, gently heave one spare concrete block weighing approximately 30 pounds.

Be sure to adjust the washing machine’s quirky centrifuge cycle so that it rotates at 800 rpm. The danger here is that the higher 900, 1000 or 1200 rpm settings have been proven to result in the non-skid pad losing its non-skiddiness.

In turn, lack of non-skiddidity causes the upside-down wicker hamper lid to wiggle off the washing machine. The lid flips in midair. And the concrete block plummets to the unsuspecting tile floor below. An unmistakable nick in one tile bears testament to early quality assurance testing of this method.

But we’ve got it all figured out now. Slow rpm’s. Nice and easy. After all, who wouldn’t want the ability to control with surgical precision how fast their washing machine spins?

3. The “Crash Cart to the Laundry Room – The Washer’s Died Again!” feature

Every now and then, the machine just dies. All its lights go off. Its motion stops. And it becomes fully unresponsive. Did I mention that it also locks shut, effectively trapping any clothes inside, regardless of how far along the wash cycle its gone?

The first time this happened, we were shocked but also a bit relieved. Finally, we could have a mechanic come troubleshoot the crazy machine, at the landlord’s expense. Who knows, maybe they’d just haul the thing away. Well, no luck.

I called the local Bosch service center, clumsily navigated through the endless phone tree in Dutch, pressing “1” and “2” and “0” until I eventually managed to reach a human being, described the problem and made an appointment.

Just as I was about to get off the phone with the appointment scheduler, she asked nonchalantly, “Meneer (“muh-near” or sir), have you tried resetting the machine?”

Resetting the machine?

A washing machine that needs to be reset?

What was she talking about? Rebooting? It’s not like the thing was running Windows Vista.

I asked what she meant. She explained the highly complex reset process. While the quantum physics and molecular biology that underlies this action would require hours to fully explain in layman’s terms, let me attempt to paraphrase. Step 1: Unplug the machine and wait 15 minutes. Step 2: Plug the machine back in and run a new load. Step 3: Hey, look, there is no step 3.

To our dismay, it worked. Dashed were the dreams of getting a mechanic to validate on site that our machine had Features beyond what it should, all on our landlord’s tab. And the scheduler was right about everything except the 15 minutes. It actually took more like an hour. But, hey, who’s counting?

This reset process has continued to come in handy. And, with increasing frequency, the machine has needed to be rebooted several times in the last month. Who knows, if this pattern keeps up, maybe we’ll get our wish for a freebie on-site mechanic after all.

4. The “Hey, Man, I’m on European Time” feature

Last but not least, as many folks who’ve lived in Europe will tell you, European washing machines tend to take a wee bit longer than their counterparts in the New World. Sometimes up to four times as long. You think I’m kidding.

Imagine if you will… It’s the weekend. The kids are going nuts from being held captive indoors all morning by their cruel and unusual parents. You’ve made breakfast, tidied a bit around the house and just need to do a couple quick loads of laundry before taking the rugrats out to the park to let them blow off some steam. Maybe throw in a load, shower and then throw in another one. Good plan, right?

You start the load, shower, get dressed, return to the laundry room and notice the load’s still going. Well, fine, it’s just being thorough. Sure.

You spend some quality time with the kids. Read a story. Turn on some a CD of kids music with songs so catchy you’ll end up humming them all week, no matter how you try to shake them. Make a snack. And check the laundry again.

Washer’s still going.

An hour goes by and the wash is done at last. Good thing you put the machine on the “Snel” (fast) setting. The other settings actually take longer.

Because with a machine with this many Features, who wouldn’t want to savor every moment?

In a strange adaptation of The Stockholm Syndrome, whereby hostages develop empathy for their captors, we’re starting to feel a creeping fondness for the old Bosch. Never before have we had such an involved relationship with our washing machine. And even though it forces us to lay concrete on top of it in an upside-down wicker basket lid, unplug its power cord every week, and wait a full hour for each wash load to get done, these are the things that patterns are made of.

Patterns lead to habit. Habit leads to comfort. Comfort leads to the Dark Side.

Maybe we need to bring it back to Seattle with us.

Yes, Mr. U.S. Customs Officer? What is this machine among our household goods? Why, that’s a Bosch WOL-Whatever, compact, water-efficient washing machine. It’s quite something, really. Let me just tell you about its Features…