After the sad moving away of my first love ‘Marga’ to Utrecht, never to be seen again except in restless hand- fantasies, the days of touching and viewing of her roseate breasts were over. Little could I have known then it would be years before any girls would feature again, well after that fateful day in my V8 Ford to Woy Woy with devastation of Willy Willy storms, tempests and a very tough unyielding female friend.
I was terribly crestfallen, immensely sad and understood how Napoleon must have felt after being banned to Elba. When my parents were planning to migrate to Australia I almost wished for a change of heart. I was ready to embrace Siberia instead and totally related with the music of Schubert and his Lieder with his longings for a grave in the deepest and coldest of oceans. I just about ruined my father’s wind up record player with over and over again listening to music plumbing the depths of despair, tragedy and the morbidly supernatural. My head was at a downward slope and acute angle to my chest, not unlike the swans featured in the songs of Schwanengesang D957. I relished it when I learned he had died at just 32.
My mother noticed my listless poking around at the mince and spuds. “What’s the matter Gerard?” “Oh, nothing mum, I am not hungry”. “Why don’t you read a good book?” This is of course one of the most damaging and maddening questions a mother can ask but she did love her kids. “I am sick of reading” I skulked, hoping she would not ask if my hands were kept above blankets at all times.
I did try, and had rigged up a small globe attached by some clever wiring to a square battery allowing me to read numerous Jules Verne books underneath the blankets. On some mornings the most magic of frozen patterns on the inside of the windows would greet me, totally symbiotic with my mood. Winters were never as cold as then. An icy wind would blast a wounded soul steeped in a ridiculous juvenile self-pity.
But, as often happens when young and down, another world opened up. It became the world of soaking postage stamps off envelopes and cards and sticking them in albums. It was the perfect hobby on cold winter evenings. It became a hobby that so enthralled me, I became manic, going around the neighbourhood asking for stamped envelopes.
I had started this some years before but with the advent of first sexual twinges and a twirling Marga I had thrown the album somewhere in a box together with my collection of leaden soldiers and horses. During imaginary games of war with friends, I rigged up my mother’s spring loaded wooden cloth pegs and with rubber bands had fashioned primitive cannons. Wet props of paper as cannon balls shot down opposing soldiers and their horses on our corridor’s wooden floor.
The time between adolescence and adulthood were turbulent and with migrating plans now well on their way, (We had seen numerous Australian Government promotional movies with postmen joyfully leaping over sun-drenched white picket fences with waving brilliantly white toothed gleaming happy neighbours intermittent with white crested surf and golden tanned girls on Bondi beaches) my parents decided I might as well leave high school and start work earn some money to help our start in Australia.
We would land with the clothes on our backs and traveling trunks filled with linen and pillows or with whatever could be shipped over (my dad’s only suit and neckties, with polished shoes). We would need beds and mattresses first, my mother declared somewhat teary. We can’t land in Australia on the 11th of Febr, 1956 and sleep on the floor somewhere. As it was we ended sleeping on kapok mattresses and proper beds but in Nissen huts. (I can hear readers sighing, not the bloody Nissan huts story again)
The boat trip was still some months away. I managed to get a job with a fruit and vegetable shop. They were high class and delivered to most embassies in The Hague. My job was to deliver whatever they ordered and did this on a heavy-duty push-bike. I pedaled as never before with a solid cane basket fastened above the front wheel and suspended from the handle bars.
I handed my wages over to parents (for 8 beds and mattresses.) but I kept tips which I decided I would save for a camera that I had spotted in the window of a nearby camera shop. It was an Agfa Clack. Numerous times while cycling past, I would stop and stare at this camera.
I learned the cultural habits of those different countries that I delivered the fruit and veggies to by the size of their tips. A limited perspective I know, but I had as yet not developed better criteria. The most outstandingly generous, and I am donning my cap here, was the US. I would get tips more than my entire weekly wages. My Agfa Clack was as good as in the bag within a couple of deliveries to the US embassy of Kipfler spuds and hot-house grown Muscatel grapes…
God bless America- Land that I love etc.
Not only tips, the staff in the kitchen gave me packets of Camel cigarettes (I was smoking) and fed me chicken soup, piping hot. “Sit down buddy”, “you’re shivering, here get this into you”. A most cheerful lot of people and I practiced my school English on them. I never forget their generosity and joviality.
The most miserly were the rich Dutch living in Wassenaar which still is a kind of snobbish enclave on the edge of The Hague with huge houses hidden between oak trees with pinched-up nosed inhabitants. After knocking on the door they would spy me through a little hole in the door first. “Just push the stuff through the opening” they would say in a peculiar ‘high-Dutch’ accent and the door would be opened just enough allowing the vegetables to be pushed through the gap. I must confess that a delivery to an address to Wassenaar involved me snitching grapes or an apple away from their delivery. Served them right, I can hear a chorus of approval from you, the readers.
Thank you for reading…
Therese Trouserzoff said:
Gez, what to do with a few long forgotten stamp albums, kept not so carefully ? Do people still collect stamps ? My kids could not care less about philately. Their lives have moved too fast from the outset – to even think about stamps and imagine far flung provinces and strange sounding places like Magyar Post. Is there any supply of stamps now that Email floods our lives ?
I remember that they used to advertise stamp kits on the back of Phantom and Marvel comics and I waited with barely suppressible anticipation of the postman bringing a half a pound package of stamps still on envelope fragments – for soaking, drying, sorting and sticking in albums with those fiddly little removable “stamp hinges”. I remember the excitement of the occasional Weimar republic stamp with a denomination in the gazillions of Marks and tons of really poor quality Indian and Chinese stamps, and gorgeous stamps from African potentates and Caribbean isles.
Thanks again for another great article.
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gerard oosterman said:
My album is still around, H assures me of this each time I ask. It was given to me when around 10 or so by my parents.. It has some stamps dated ‘first issue’, on its own dedicated envelope, probably worth a small fortune.
The album has/had individual pages that were fastened by bolts and nuts. I wrote the value on each page. The yearly catalogue kept me informed of their value and was glad that each year they increased in value, something that has stayed with me. Odd, because I don’t see myself as an incurable materialist.
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vivienne29 said:
I had a stamp collection including stamps collected while travelling the word as a youngster (!). Like so many things, my not dear departed mother chucked it out. Oddly enough the one thing she didn’t chuck out was my rollerskates (she gave them to me although what I really wanted was a bicycle). My school magazines went too (I was on the magazine committee) along with a precious tea set my father gave me.
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gerard oosterman said:
Some mothers don’t seem very nice. I always thought mothers were soft, caring, and loving. Why did she chuck your things out?
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vivienne29 said:
I wrote a bit about her in another story very recently. She was a Liberal and a hater. If you don’t think her way you are a goner. She hated my father too. They separated when I was 16. It is a long story Gerard. She kept up the hate, on and off but mainly on, until she died 8 years ago.
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helvityni said:
Talking about mothers, Viv, I just finished reading a very intriguing book about mothers and daughters. It’s by Alice Sebold, called “Almost Moon”.
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vivienne29 said:
The story I prefer is my current real life one with my daughters (29 and 26). It is the best in every possible way. (PS, they knew my mother, last face to face contact being when they were nearly 16 and nearly 13. Their last phone contact left them in tears. Enough said.)
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Rosie said:
Oh Gerard – I had settled down with a glass of red to read this and you leave the story up in the air. It won’t do – I want more! Please?
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gerard oosterman said:
Thanks Rosie,
Your response ensures I will write more. Thank you for your kind words, enjoy the red.
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sandshoe said:
We were only six when the little boy in my class came around for a supervised stamp swap-meet, his albums carefully tucked under his arm. He was so incredibly aware of the value of his stamps! I knew from the way he carried them alone! Matey, Gez, he was like dealing with a fully grown, ruthless, mature, hard hat broker! I recall it so! Count me in! I will read your wonderful piece later, Gez. It must, surely be about me.
The crestfallen philatelist,
Warm regards
‘Shoe.
;D
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gerard oosterman said:
Thank yoy Shoe. I always had the latest cataloque which I used to value my collection of tsmaps which as the years went by steadily increased in value. I still have this album which consists of pages that were screwed in. I kept tally of the value and my school writing in them still gives me a kind of choking back. ( of the years having gone so quickly.)
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ytaba36 said:
I’m waiting to hear if you got that camera …
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gerard oosterman said:
Yes, I did and took so many photographs it filled many albums. It was a simple camera. I bought a yellow filter with it in order to see clouds in them as well or snow.
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hph said:
Thank you for writing.
It’s a joy to read your beautifully expressed memories. In some of the sentences, I see myself.
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gerard oosterman said:
Thank you hph. We all have memories and with aging to become more relevant. ( I think)
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