Sisterchicks in Wooden Shoes! Read online

  It seemed a good time to pray. I thanked God for bringing me safely to Noelle’s home. I thanked Him for orchestrating this crazy, last-minute adventure and blessing me with such a great start with my longstanding pen pal.

  I looked out the window again and thought I should ask God for something. But what? Had I ever asked Him for anything for myself? I had spent most of my life praying for others. For my husband, for our children. I had asked for finances, wisdom, direction, and lots of health needs on behalf of others. What if I asked God for healing?

  What came to mind was the biblical account of Hezekiah, one of the kings of Judah. As he lay dying, languishing on his bed, he turned his face to the wall and prayed that God would spare his life. God healed him and gave him fifteen more years.

  Should I ask God for fifteen more years?

  Suddenly I realized I had jumped from the denial stage of grief to the bargaining-with-God phase.

  Stick with denial. That’s where you want to stay this week. You can jump around to the anger and bargaining after you get home. For now, just enjoy this trip. Look how Noelle is going all out to make this a wonderful visit. Don’t ruin it, Summer.

  I read the Whittier quote again, taking in the first line: “Drop Thy still dews of quietness, till all our strivings cease…”

  I wanted my striving to cease.

  Then turning my face to the wall, or, more accurately, the window, I watched the day slowly inch her way to center stage as the curtains of darkness were drawn back. I felt the quietness that filled the room. I took small sips of the “unfolding grace” of the coming dawn.

  And I didn’t ask God for anything.

  Jelle suggested we make a list,” Noelle said as she unloaded the dishwasher later that morning.

  “A list of what?” I sprinkled a spoonful of granola over a bowl of strawberry yogurt.

  “A list of things to do and see while you’re here.”

  In spite of my having been an early-morning audience to the new day, I somehow had managed to float back to sleep while I was propped up in bed and had slept until almost nine o’clock.

  Noelle rinsed out her coffee mug and placed it in the dishwasher. “I told him we might enjoy our time together more if we didn’t have a schedule.”

  “Either way is fine with me. I don’t have anything specific in mind. Well, actually, that’s not true. I do want to see a few things, if it’s convenient.”

  “Let me guess. You want to see a windmill. And a field of tulips, of course. I’ve already thought of the best place to go to see those.”

  “Yes, those are my wished-for tourist sights. But I also would love to see the Kitchen Maid

  “The kitchen maid?” Noelle made a sweep with her arms in the tidy space all around where she stood. “That’s me! You’re looking at the kitchen maid of this house.”

  I laughed.

  Noelle smiled. “It is so fun to hear your laugh. I never imagined it being so light. It makes me want to laugh when I hear you laugh. So, what is the joke about the kitchen maid? I’m afraid I don’t get it.”

  “I was referring to the painting by Vermeer. You saw the original painting at a museum when you first came to Amsterdam and sent me a postcard of it.”

  “I did?”

  It surprised me that Noelle didn’t remember.

  “Yes, it’s a beautiful painting. I kept the postcard on my refrigerator for years and years. It got so crumpled I finally put it away in the box where I’ve kept lots of your letters.”

  Noelle looked at me with an expression of amazement. “You’re kidding. You still have the postcard I sent you way back then?”

  I nodded.

  “I don’t remember what postcard I sent you, but I do remember sending one. At the time I was afraid you wouldn’t want to be pen pals anymore once you found out I had flown the coop, so to speak.”

  “Of course I still wanted to be pen pals. You only made it more exciting to correspond because your letters and postcards now came from the other side of the world.”

  “Yes, but do you remember when we were in high school and we had that whole string of letters planning our big move to New York?” Noelle asked. “We were going to be roommates and start careers in modeling.”

  “You were the one who was going to pursue modeling. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do, aside from find a job and marry someone who was fabulously wealthy.”

  “Right. I remember the fabulously wealthy plan. We both were aiming for millionaires, weren’t we?”

  “I remember rehearsing how I was going to explain to my parents why our plan to move to New York was a good idea. None of my practice attempts were very convincing. So in a way I’m glad you stayed here. I never had to make my pitch to my parents.”

  “Glad that worked out for you, then.” Noelle had a wry grin. Her blond hair was tucked behind both her ears, and with her fresh morning face, she looked young. Younger than I felt at the moment.

  “Did your parents ever understand your choice to marry Jelle and stay here?”

  Almost immediately Noelle’s expression changed, as did her posture. “No.” Her grin vanished. “They didn’t approve or understand.” With her chin up she said, “Enough of the past. We have some living to do today. You want to go to the Rijksmuseum, then. We can do that. Today, if you like.”

  “Is that where the Vermeer painting is on display?”

  “Yes. I think a number of his paintings are. The museum is in Amsterdam. I haven’t been there in a long time, but I can look up the information easily enough. Do you like Rembrandt? Many of his works are there as well.”

  I felt a little unexpected flutter. “Rembrandt? Really?”

  With a grin over her shoulder, Noelle said, “He was Dutch, you know. Van Gogh, as well. We’ll definitely go to the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam. I can check on times. Should we go today? Or would you rather see the tulips first?”

  The sudden realization that I would have a chance to see original artwork by greats like Van Gogh, Rembrandt, and Vermeer caught me off balance. “Yes!” I said, not having paid attention to her question.

  “Which one? Tulips or Amsterdam?”

  “Either. I don’t know. What’s the weather supposed to be like?”

  “Cool. Partly cloudy.”

  I hesitated, not sure what to suggest.

  “Was anything else on your list to see?” Noelle asked. “The town of Gouda is kind of fun for tourists. They play up the interest that visitors have in the cheese, of course, so you might enjoy that.”

  “A cheese tour wasn’t on the top of my list. Now, if you want to take me on a tour of a Dutch chocolate factory, I wouldn’t mind. Especially if they give out free samples. To be honest, I don’t want to run around trying to take in a whole bunch of tourist spots. I would love to go to the museums in Amsterdam and to the tulip fields, and if it’s convenient, I would like to go to Haarlem.”

  Noelle gave me a surprised look. “Haarlem? Really? Why there?”

  “I’d like to see the Hiding Place.”

  “What is the Hiding Place?”

  “It’s the watch shop and house where Corrie ten Boom lived and where her family hid the Jews during World War II. Have you ever been there?”

  “No, I haven’t heard of her.”

  Now I was the one with the look of surprise. “You haven’t heard of Corrie ten Boom? She was Dutch. She and her family were sent to a concentration camp for aiding the Jews. Many of her family members died there, but she was released and spent the rest of her life traveling around the world talking about her experiences as well as writing books.”

  Noelle shrugged. “We hear a lot of stories about the war here. Everyone still remembers. It affected that entire generation in a way that…” She drew in a deep breath. “How do I explain this? It’s not like we have war celebrities here, you know? Too often it turns out that the people who brag about having family who were heroes during the war actually are covering up something. The ones who really did figh
t the Nazis hardly ever talk about it.”

  “That’s interesting because in the U.S. we have a strong tendency to go looking for people we can lift up as heroes. Wayne says we put anyone on television who has something to brag about.”

  “Here it’s not like that. A true Dutchman will give and show kindness in quiet ways. He doesn’t want anyone to know about his heroic or generous acts. I think it goes back to the Calvinist roots and the verses in Matthew that say when you give, do it in secret. Don’t let your right hand know what your left hand is doing.”

  “Doesn’t it then say that God, who sees you in secret, will reward you?”

  Noelle nodded. “That’s very much a part of the culture here. You know, if you want to see a World War II museum while you’re here, the Anne Frank Museum is interesting. That’s also in Amsterdam. We could go there, if you like. I don’t know if it’s similar to the house you’re talking about in Haarlem, but it’s extremely moving.”

  Just then the phone rang. Instead of the ring I was used to at home, Noelle’s phone had a dull buzzing sort of ring. Instead of a brief “hello,” Noelle answered by giving a short greeting in Dutch. I was pretty sure she inserted her name into the greeting.

  I looked out the window and saw that the clouds were beginning to clear. A few feet away, on the other side of the backyard fence, Noelle’s neighbor stood on a ladder, trimming a tree. He made eye contact with me but didn’t wave.

  I looked away and carried my dishes into the kitchen. From where I stood by the sink, a bush with bright purple blossoms blocked part of the view out the window. I realized it also blocked the neighbor’s view into that portion of the kitchen.

  Our home wasn’t large, but our back lot and front yard combined would encompass the entire compact block where Noelle’s home was situated with five other houses. We never considered our home and yard to be very big or especially valuable compared to the newer homes that went in up the road. Some of those houses had tennis courts and swimming pools. Our yard contained some nice trees and a lot of grass that needed to be cut all too often this time of year.

  Having space to look out on an uninterrupted view felt normal. I didn’t know how I would feel having to live with common walls where two families were carrying out their lives on either side of my home, only inches away through the dry wall and insulation. The hushed tone of the dinner and soft music from last evening made more sense.

  Noelle hung up from her call and joined me in the kitchen. “So, what did you decide? Tulip fields today?”

  “Sure. We could go to the tulip fields. The weather looks like it’s clearing.”

  “Good. I need to make a quick phone call. I’ll be ready to go in about ten minutes. Be sure to bring a coat in case the weather turns on us.”

  I went upstairs and gathered what I needed for the day. When I returned to the living room, Noelle was on the phone, speaking in Dutch and smiling. She hung up and gave me a big grin.

  “What are you smiling about?”

  “I have a surprise for you.”

  “You do? What is it?”

  Noelle laughed. “It wouldn’t be much of a surprise if I told you, now would it? I have a little treat for you tomorrow. There, that is all I’m going to tell you. No more hints. Today we’ll go see the tulips.”

  “And a windmill,” I reminded her.

  “And a windmill.” Noelle linked her arm with mine and led me to the front door. With a smug grin she said, “Today will be good, but tomorrow will be fantastic.”

  “You’re a brat, you know.”

  “Me, a brat?” She laughed. “I haven’t heard that word in ages. I can’t believe you just called me a brat!”

  “Well, what would you call it in Dutch if your friend had a secret surprise and took great delight in taunting you with it? Surely you have a comparable term.”

  Noelle thought only a moment before popping out the Dutch word, “‘Oen.’ And you’re right, Summer. I’m being an oen. And I’m loving it!”

  “Oen,” I spouted as we exited the front door, our arms still linked. A neighbor getting into her car turned and stared at me.

  Noelle unlinked our arms, looked away, and pressed her lips together as she unlocked Bluebell. As soon as we were inside her car, she burst out laughing. “I can’t believe one of the first Dutch words I taught you is oen, and that’s what my neighbor heard you call me!”

  “Is it a bad word?”

  “Not really. Not here. It might be considered rude in the U.S. I don’t know anymore.”

  “Are you saying that oen is more derogatory than the term brat?”

  “I would guess so. Yes, a little.”

  “Great!”

  Noelle laughed delightedly. “Let me see. What other questionably rude words can I teach you?”

  “Don’t even think about it. I’m withdrawing my enrollment from your school of Dutch lessons. Obviously you’re only safe when we’re both speaking English.”

  “I know some German.” She glanced at me sideways as she backed up the car.

  “Not interested.”

  “A little French perhaps?”

  “No thank you.”

  “You’re spoiling all my fun.” Noelle put on an exaggerated pout. “You just wait until tomorrow. That will be fun.”

  “It will be more fun if you tell me what we’re going to do.”

  “All right, fine. Since you’re so insistent, tomorrow we are going to…” Noelle continued her sentence with a long trail of Dutch words and a coy grin from ear to ear.

  I shook my head at her. “Not fair.”

  “Yes, well, if you had stayed in Dutch school and worked on a few nouns here and there, you might have been able to pick up enough to figure out what we’re doing tomorrow.”

  “I’ll willingly settle for being a dropout and remaining in suspense for the next twenty-four hours, especially since my ignorance seems to bring you such glee.”

  Noelle reached over and squeezed my arm. “Having you here is what brings me glee.”

  I felt the same way, but I didn’t say anything. I was too busy taking my turn at being a brat. Or should I say, oen, whatever that meant.

  Noelle drove about a mile with the playful expression still clinging to her lips. Suddenly she blurted out, “I almost forgot! I have another surprise for you.”

  I rolled my eyes in an exaggerated attempt to look put out. “And exactly how long are you going to make me wait for this surprise?”

  “You don’t have to wait. I’m going to give it to you now.” She reached forward and pressed a button. “Ready?”

  “My surprise is that your car has air conditioning?”

  “No, wait for it. You certainly are impatient in person, you oenie!”

  “‘Oenie’? What is that?” It sounded as if Noelle was saying “moonie” without the m. Before Noelle could answer, I caught myself and said, “No, don’t answer that. You’re tricking me. I’m a Dutch language school dropout, remember?”

  “I’m going to answer you anyway. An oenie is my own softened version of an oen.”

  Before I could offer a playful rebuttal, a song came on. Noelle turned up the volume. I burst out laughing, and so did she. The song included her longstanding nickname for me since junior high: Summer Breeze.

  “Makes me feel fine!” Noelle’s voice was off pitch and higher than the song on the CD.

  I laughed and called her my longstanding nickname from our high school years of letter writing. “Nicely done, Noelle-o Mell-o.”

  “Wait!” She pushed another button. “Wait for it.”

  The tune that had inspired her nickname came on in all its “quite right” funk, and both of us broke into a fit of giggles.

  “I burned this CD for us. Do you like it?”

  “Love it! Can you make a copy for me?”

  “Sure. At least I think I can. This was my first attempt. My daughters do this sort of thing all the time. I’m just figuring out the technology. Wait. You have to hear the next
song.”

  Noelle pushed a button and nothing came on. We kept driving and listening, but no happy sounds came from the CD player. Noelle pressed another button and turned up the volume until right in the middle of the song, John Denver’s voice filled the car with a Rocky Mountain high that nearly blew out our eardrums.

  We laughed, and Noelle quickly tried to adjust the sound. She pushed the Start button again, and a Rocky-Mountain-high note that seemed capable of rattling the windows blasted us. The volume seemed ineffective with John Denver’s vocals, so Noelle turned off the CD, mumbling, “Okay, so my technology skills are a little questionable.”

  “However, your choices for travel music were superb, Noelle-o Mell-o.”

  “Thanks for trying to put a nice coat of varnish on my mess.” Noelle pulled back into the flow of traffic and didn’t try the CD again. She said it was too dangerous when we were on the road.

  While we were still rosy from the afterglow of the gigglefest, Noelle said, “Not only are you the sole woman in the world who can get away with calling me an oen in front of my neighbor, but you are also the lone woman in the world who has ever called me Noelle-o Mell-o!”

  “Really? Noelle-o Mell-o is such a great nickname.”

  “That may be true for you and me, but believe me, you are the only one who can call me that. And until this moment, that nickname had only appeared in writing in your letters. I still have the letter where you drew the picture of what was supposed to be me with a very mellow expression.”

  “You do? I remember drawing that picture. I was in my room listening to my brand-new transistor radio. Remember those? I was stretched out on my bed writing the letter to you, and that song came on. I drew the little sketch and wrote ‘Noelle-o Mell-o.’”

  “Quite right,” Noelle echoed in a low voice.

  I chuckled. “Crazy, isn’t it, the random moments in life you can remember decades later?”

  “I’m simply glad your inspiration was that particular song. I shudder to think what my nickname might have been if you heard something else on the radio at that moment. Something like… ‘Rocky Raccoon or ‘Yellow Submarine’ or…”