Holland
(August 21, 2008)

Holland is the travel hub of the world. I know it, you know it, the Mongols knew it.

At Amsterdam Airport, there are more connecting flights to more places than anywhere else in the world. When planning my vacation, I could not make a decision as to which exotic place to visit. So I decided to let the airport be my travel agent and pick it for me. My vacation plan was to fly to Amsterdam and then wait at standby to some exotic location. Lisbon, Tokyo, Bangkok it mattered not. Whichever exotic standby fight I could get would be great.

However, when I arrived at Dutch customs my fool proof holiday quickly became a holiday plan fit for a fool.

“You can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Security reasons. You haven’t been able to do that since 9-11.”
“But what am I to do? My returning flight to Canada doesn’t depart for a week.”
“Looks like your vacationing in Holland.”

I stood there dumbfounded. What was there to do in Holland? I’ve seen windmills, I’ve seen vast amounts of Van Goghs and I don’t find wooden shoes stylish or comfortable.

“Listen, you’re Canadian right? I recommend travelling to Holten – there’ll be lots of Canadians there this week.”
“Why?”
“It’s May 5th.”

Again I stood dumbfounded.

“It’s Dutch Liberation Day!”

Although disappointed, the customs agents kindly elaborated. Apparently, Canada liberated Holland from the Nazis in World War 2. Who knew? I never learned this in Grade Nine History class.

As I stood in line for a taxi to the train station, I saw a bus with a giant red maple leaf painted on its door parked to the side. There was a posse of senior citizens surrounding the bus. Sensing fellow Canadians, I approached.

“Excuse me, are you Canadian?”
“Why yes we are.”
“Could you tell me how to get to Holten?”
“Tell ya? Heck, we’re show you. That’s where we’re going too!”

Mrs. Eager-Beaver-to-Holten interrupted.

“Maybe we should ask our tour guide first?” He seems a bit finicky about money and might not appreciate giving people free rides. Here he comes now.”

“Ham! Can this young Miss get a lift with us to Holten?”

From behind the bus appeared a man with a bright orange shirt.
“Darn it, you got to be kidding me.” I whispered to myself as I turned away.

“What’s that Hal?”
Hal repeated the question.

“Sure we could give this person a ride but it wouldn’t be fair to you nice folks who paid.”
“Oh we don’t mind.”
“Really? Well, I don’t know…”

I turned to reveal my true identity.
“Thanks Ham!”

“Suzy? Darn it, you got to be kidding me. Wait, let me emphasis the “No” of my last statement.”
“No way, you said “know” not “no”, I know the difference of “know” and “no”.”

Ham explained our past history. I corrected his inaccuracies in the story. The seniors didn’t care – they were just happy that we knew each other and boarded the bus.

“I should have known it was you when I saw the pack of seniors. It’s So ‘your’ demographic.”
“Actually you should have known because I sent you an email, oh I don’t know, six months ago – telling you I would be in Holland.”

“Email eh?”
“Yeah, an email Suzy. After Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium and The Other Boelyn Girl bombed, I spent the first four months consoling Natalie. Before I left Canada, I emailed you to watch over World of Ham while I was away. Who’s running World of Ham?”

“Well, since I’m here in Holland on holidays, I guess no one.”
“But you were running it for the past four months right? Lots of stuff has been updated on the website right?”
“Umm… okay.”
“Okay? What type of answer is okay?”

There is no need to repeat the remaining twenty-seven minutes of our argument. All that’s fit to print is that I obviously won the argument and we boarded the bus.

I wanted to sleep on the journey to Holten but Ham kept stopping the bus to announce unpopular historical sites. He always had a microphone in one hand connected to a little speaker in his other hand. I began to despise the mic with the little speaker as it was rather quite annoying to my sleeping plans.

At semi-popular sites, the bus would stop and everyone would go outside to read a little plaque. Still trying to sleep (and not really caring about a semi-popular plaque), I would close my eyes and pretend to sleep. No one would bother me as they exited and returned to their seats.

However at one such stop, as I nestled up to the window, I felt a poke. I remained in my fake sleep. Then another poke. Then three more quick jabs.

“Come on Suzy, I know you’re faking.”
“Seriously Ham, can’t a girl fake sleep in peace?”
“You don’t want to miss this stop. Trust me.”
“Why, where are we?”
“Holten Cemetery. Home to 1355 Canadian veterans.”

Our posse of seniors strolled through the rows on rows of graves of Canadian soldiers from World War 2.
“Ham, why are the graves so well kept? This many relatives can’t travel here each year. Can they?”
“No, it’s the Dutch that maintain the cemetery. They volunteer their time.”

Then I noticed that each grave had a candle placed in front of it.
“And the candles?”
“Every Christmas Eve, the local school children travel here to light a candle for each grave. This way no fallen soldier is alone for Christmas.”

I heard sobbing from the posse.

We turned back towards the bus. Then Ham made an unexpected stop in front of one grave.
“I want to point out this grave – the grave of A.E. McCreery. A.E. McCurdy was in fact Reverend McCreery, padre for the 22nd Canadian Armoured Regiment. You’ll notice by the date of his death he almost survived the war… dying a mere forty-eight hours before the cease fire. But those two days is only an estimate for no one knows when he really died. You see, the good padre heard about some injured Nazi prisoners of war stationed up the line. Even though they were the enemy, he went to help. We has later found dead.”

We boarded the bus.

By evening, our tour was complete and we arrived at our lodgings in Holten. Dinner was served in a nice little café with a giant wooden shoe for a sign.

Slowly, after dinner but before sunset, the posse began to retreat to their rooms. Ham and I sat at our outdoor table drinking tea and eating stroopwafels (honey wafers). Before long, seeing that we were Canadian, we were joined by three Canadian veterans. Having had many spirits, the veterans were in quite good spirits. They relived the celebrations of Dutch Liberation Days past to us.

“When we drove into town we had to stop the vehicles because these little narrow streets were packed with people celebrating the end of occupation.”
“And it was people of all ages – children...”
“The elderly dancing in the streets like they were twenty years old.”
“And speaking of twenty year olds – there were lots of women.”
“Oh yes, lots of women.”
“Lots of pretty, single women.”
“I don’t know about you guys, but I tell you I have never been hugged and kissed by so many pretty women in all my life as I did that day we liberated Holland.”
“I agree.”

“Not for me. There was this one time when I was working in a lumber camp near Kapakasing. Why when I entered town from a long week at the camp, I had three hundred women swarm me.”
“Three hundred women. Charlie, you told me that story when we were lying in a dyke pinned down by some Nazis some sixty years ago. And it was thirty women back then!”
“Sounds like you’re still jealous that all the Dutch girls hugged me first.”

The three veterans laughed and held up their beers.

“A toast!”
“A toast to the women of Holland.”
“And the three hundred women who swarmed Charlie there in Kapakasing.”

Shortly after the toast, the veterans had filled their drinking quota for the evening and were carried up to their rooms. Ham left to call Natalie as he was still worried that she was sad from making too bad movies in a row (trust me – avoid Mr. Magorium). Enjoying the atmosphere, I stayed outside relaxing under the stars and devouring stroopwafels.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a senior citizen wearing a sign board, talking to strolling Canadian veterans. On her sign board was a picture of a Canadian solider circa 1945 and a picture of a women. Between the photos were giant hand written bold letters “Please help. Looking for my Canadian Father.” The woman had to be about sixty years old.

After talking to the wandering veterans she approached us.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m looking for my father.”

I gave a puzzled look so the sign board lady elaborated.

“My father was a Canadian soldier who helped liberate Holland. My mother met him during the celebrations. Before long, my father returned home and my mother was pregnant.”

“That scoundrel. Are you sure he wasn’t American?”
“No, no – it’s not his fault. He didn’t know. My mother didn’t even know until after he had left.”

“So why didn’t she write him?”

There was a pause. It was obvious that they hadn’t known each other too well.

“It happened a lot here that May. There are abnormal amounts of Dutch citizen born in February of 1946. Most having Canadian fathers they do not know. I’ve tried looking for my father but it is really like finding a stroopwafel in a windmill. My only hope is to find someone that knew him. That way I can at least get his name. Luckily he left my mother his photo. I have a website but veterans are not too internet savvy. The best I can do is spend every Dutch Liberation Day, walking through the town with my signboard hoping, praying that I meet him or a member of his platoon. It’s the best I can do.”

I read the sign board lady’s… sign board.

“Why cover me with honey and stick me in a waffle and call me a stroopwafel, your father mentioned Kapakasing to your mother?”

“Yes, he told her she was the prettiest girl she had ever seen and he had seen a lot because this one time when he was working at a lumber camp near a town called Kapakasing, forty-seven women swarmed him as he returned to town…”

“Forty-Seven, eh… that number did get bigger with each passing year. Let me help you.”