by Carol Weston
I hope things are getting back to normal again. When things feel wrong, it makes me worry that Dad might have a point: Maybe I don't appreciate it enough when things feel right.
I wonder if Anne Frank appreciated her life when she was ten and a half. In her diary, she tries so hard to have a good attitude. She says their hiding place is “a paradise compared with how other Jews who are not in hiding must be living.”
And she really appreciates the friends who help them and bring them stuff. She wrote, “Miep is just like a pack mule, she fetches and carries so much…. We always long for Saturdays when our books come. Just like little children receiving a present. Ordinary people simply don't know what books mean to us, shut up here.”
It makes me wonder: Was Anne Frank ever just an ordinary person? Did she ever visit Haarlem or have a fight with her best friend?
I'll tell you this. We are appreciating Haarlem because it is soooo pretty! Dad took a ton of pictures of the brick alleyways and antique-y street lamps and the flowers in the courtyard of the Frans Hals Museum. Cecily liked the museum. I didn't because it was mostly full of portraits of old fogies who have been dead forever.
We did see one painting we all liked so much that we bought Mom a postcard of it. Jan Breughel (Yahn Brew Gull) painted it around 1640 and it's called Allegory of Tulipomania. Tulipomania sounds like a disease but isn't. It was when people got so excited about tulips that came in new shapes or colors that they spent gazillions of guilders (old Dutch money) to buy bulbs. Someone once paid as much for one bulb as it would have cost to buy an entire house!! But rich people liked having fancy tulips in their gardens because then everyone could see how rich they were. Meanwhile regular people thought they were out of their minds, and ministers gave sermons about how it's wrong to spend so much on flowers.
Well, in the painting (and postcard), dozens of monkeys, not human beings, are buying and selling tulips and bulbs. One monkey is peeing on tulips! (That cracked Matt up.) Dad said that was Breughel's way of making fun of rich people. He also said that Breughel's father and uncle were really famous painters. (I'd never heard of them.)
We are now in a church that is around five hundred years old. I'm sitting down because my feet feel five hundred years old.
Mozart played the organ here when he was ten. Can you believe he was famous when he was my age? (I have heard of Mozart!)
I am now going to shut my eyes and try to imagine what his organ concert sounded like. I am also going to try to picture him wearing one of those white wigs with a ponytail attached.
If my signature is funny, it's because my eyes will be closed.
Do Re Mi—
(Sand Fort)
Dear Diary,
I got in trouble.
We three kids wanted fast food, but Dad said no, so we went to this tiny fancy place and ordered pork chops and stamppot (Stamp Pot is mashed potatoes and mixed-up vegetables). Dad also ordered a beer by saying, “I'll have a Heinie” (for Heineken). I felt like hiding under the table!
My pork chop was good except it had gristle and fat on it, so after I ate everything I liked, I pushed the disgusting stuff to one side of my plate. But even there, it was still grossing me out, so I spooned up the gristle and fat and dumped it onto Dad's plate.
Okay, fine, I realize I don't have the World's Best Manners. But first of all, they're not as bad as Matt's. And second of all, I always separate yummy stuff from yucky stuff and transfer the yucky stuff to Dad's plate, and he never minds. A lot of times he even thanks me! At home, when we order in fried rice, I transfer heaping spoonfuls of egg and onions to Dad's plate, and he gobbles up my rejects, happy as can be. (He is a Big Pig, after all.)
The problem was that this time when I transferred the food, I accidentally splashed sauce onto Dad's new striped shirt.
Next thing you know, his striped shirt was polka-dotted with brownish-orangeish specks. Dad quietly checked the damage and took a deep breath. I expected him to start ranting about how after wearing the same dirty shirt for days, he finally gets to put on something clean and new and I go and make a mess of it. Or how my table manners are atrocious and I should be ashamed and wait till Mom hears about this. Or something.
Maybe it was because the restaurant was tiny, but Dad stayed quiet. I looked at Cecily and Matt to see if they were smiling or making faces, but they were both staring straight down.
I almost wanted Dad to just start yelling because, well, imagine knowing a volcano is going to explode but not knowing when.
Finally, it occurred to me to say, “Sorry, Dad.”
Using his inside voice, Dad said, “Thank you for apologizing, Melanie. But I do not want you to use my plate as a garbage can anymore. Is that clear?” He was rubbing bubbly water on his shirt.
I nodded, but Dad repeated, “Is that clear?” so I said, “Yes.” I even said “Sorry” again because I was.
My eyes were burning and I was hoping I wouldn't start crying with Cecily right there. But then I did start and I had to keep dabbing my eyes with my napkin and hoping no one noticed even though everyone probably did.
Pathetically yours,
Dear Diary,
Anne Frank wrote in her diary, “Am I really so bad-mannered, conceited, headstrong, pushing, stupid, lazy, etc., etc., as they all say? Oh, of course not. I have my faults, just like everyone else, but they thoroughly exaggerate everything.”
I want to keep reading, but our train is slowing down.
Time to get off! Holland is so small that we're already here at the North Sea. Sea in Dutch is zee.
Dear Diary,
Oh my God, I mean gosh! Mom may be seeing Rembrandts and Mondrians and de Koonings or whoever, but guess what we're seeing? Half-naked people!!! A lot of ladies on this beach are not wearing tops!!! They're wearing bikini bottoms and nothing else!!!
It's pretty embarrassing!!!
I wonder if Mom would even approve of Dad's taking us here—especially without her. Well, too late.
Here we are.
Dad is not concentrating on his guidebook. And when we got changed into our new bathing suits, he forgot to say one word about sunscreen. Usually he and Mom are obsessed with sunscreen. Usually they put sunscreen on the part on the top of my scalp, for gosh sake!
I have to admit that the beach ladies are pretty distracting! You can see their you-know-whats, which, if you ask me, is completely inappropriate. And some of the ladies are, well, ancient and saggy-baggy.
Matt keeps whispering to Cecily and laughing uncontrollably. But she isn't laughing along. In fact, she walked over to me and away from Matt.
Matt just asked Dad, “Why are the ladies showing off their boobies?” Instead of getting mad, Dad answered that customs and culture are different here and that many Europeans are more open and comfortable with their bodies than many Americans.
Comfortable?! All I can say is, their comfortableness makes me uncomfortable—and I don't mean because I have sand where I wish I didn't.
I broke the silence between me and Cecily. I said, “Cecily, how would you rate this beach? PG-13 or R?”
“I think PG-13,” she said. “It's like National Geographic.”
“Ja. I think you're right,” I said, and we halfway smiled at each other.
In shock,
Dear Diary,
Dear Diary,
At the canal house, Mom saw Dad's shirt and said, “What happened?” Dad looked right at me and said, “We had a little lunchtime incident. We've talked about it.” Fortunately, Mom didn't ask any more questions (not in front of me anyway). We gave her the monkey-tulip-peepee postcard and told her about the half-nudie beach and she looked at Dad
and sort of laughed. That was good. I thought she might get mad.
Dinner was mussels and a mushy vegetable stew called hutspot. It is pronounced like Put Spot but with an H. Good thing there was also bread on the table!
Anyway, Cecily is talking to the rest of my family and they're talking to her, and she and I are
talking a little, but things are still messed up between us. It's as if we haven't been properly introduced.
Sometimes I feel mad at Cecily and I think it's her fault. Other times I feel like I'm letting her down even though I don't really know how.
Right now Cecily is in the shower. Mom just came in with a coffee-table book of still lifes—paintings of gorgeous flowers surrounded by bugs buzzing and butterflies flying. She asked Matt to pick any page.
He picked a page, but the book was dusty, so he sneezed and then said, “Bless me!”
Mom smiled and asked, “What do you think the artist was trying to say?”
“How should I know?” Matt said. I stayed silent.
Mom went straight into Art-Teacher Mode. “Tomorrow these flowers won't be quite as beautiful, and soon their petals will fall. Even the insects will die. See?” I sort of saw. “I think the artist is saying,” Mom continued, “‘Appreciate being alive. Life is beautiful and delicate and fragile and it does not last forever.’”
Then Mom shut the book and tucked us in and said she'd be back in a minute to say good night to Cecily too.
Well, I don't know about Matt, but her little spiel kind of creeped me out. Who wants to think about life and death stuff when you're on vacation?
I hope I don't have bad dreams.
Dear Diary,
I didn't have bad dreams but I didn't sleep that well because Cecily kept mumbling and tossing and turning and accidentally kicking me. Once, her entire arm splatted across my face. I had to pick it up and drop it back onto her side of the bed. When I woke up, I was scrunched waaaay over on one side of the bed. It was a miracle I hadn't fallen off.
Tiredly (Is that a word?),
Dear Diary,
The more I read Anne Frank's diary, the worse I feel about complaining about Cecily, Matt, Mom, and Dad. I mean, Anne was stuck with her family (two parents and one sister), plus another family (two parents and their teenage son), plus an old man dentist who shared a room with her! And they definitely weren't on vacation—they were in hiding!
Even though I wrote “I can relate,” I think I've been clueless about her life and how depressing and scary it was. Anne wrote that sometimes she thinks of other Jewish children who were taken away and feels “wicked sleeping in a warm bed.” Well, I feel wicked for being a kid on vacation who forgets how good she has it and whines about stupid stuff.
Anne also wrote, “Would anyone, either Jew or non-Jew, understand this about me, that I am simply a young girl badly in need of some rollicking fun?”
I would! I feel so bad for her!
She would have loved to be in my shoes.
Dear Diary,
Mom told Dad that she was going to Rembrandt's house, and that Dad should rent a canal bike with us, stay away from topless beaches (!), and meet her in two hours at the Rijksmuseum. (She knew 2 museums in 1 day would be 2 much 4 us.)
“Kids, be good,” Mom said.
We said we'd try, but I think being good might not be my specialty.
A canal bike is a boat that you pedal with your feet.
I thought pedaling down the canals would be as fun as clip-clopping down the streets. But our bike-boat was a four-seater, and Matt immediately said, “Cecily, sit with me.” Cecily looked right right right at me. It was like she expected me to say something, but I didn't know what. I almost said “No, sit with me!” but I didn't want her or Dad to say “Matt asked first.” Well, she sat with Brat Boy, so guess who got stuck in the second row with Dad (no offense to Dad or anything)?
This is not how I pictured our trip!
Matt started pretending he was a tour guide (ha! a shrimpy one with freckles and a loose tooth!). He was talking with a Dutch accent and making stuff up about every bridge. Under one, he said, “Zees is a luffly example uf Dutch archeeetecshure.” Cecily encouraged him by laughing her head off.
I didn't laugh once. To be honest, I ignored Cecily and I called Matt a nitwit. I even whispered that the canals were full of starving pointy-toothed alligators that, if Matt fell in, would take bites out of his heart and eat his guts right up.
Matt looked scared, and said, “You're mean,” and for half a second I worried that I was. But then Cecily mumbled something to Matt, and he said, “Alligators like hot places, not cold places,” and he smiled at Cecily and stuck his tongue out at me. Then he made his hands into snapping alligator jaws and started pinching me, saying, “My fingers are pinching machines.”
I don't know how much longer I can stand this! Matt is a dumdum and Cecily is part bunny, part tiger, and I had an urge to push them both overboard into the alligator-infested (not) water.
Well, I wanted to go to Pizza Hut, but Dad said no, so we went to a fish restaurant and I had spaghetti and it was okay, but my tomato sauce had too many lumps in it.
P.S. That's my name without the L and that might be my personality too.
P.P.S. Did I tell you that our luggage didn't come this morning either? This is day four!! Even Mom and Dad seemed surprised.
P.P.P.S. Matt saw my P.S. and P.P.S. and started making peepee jokes.
Dear Diary,
Cecily and I just had the
We had it in the Rijksmuseum, which is like the Metropolitan Museum back home. It is a “must-see” that is huge and quiet and full of tourists and old paintings.
It is not a very ideal place to have a fight, but it's not like I started it on purpose.
Here's what happened.
We met Mom in the entrance or ingang (In Hahng),
which is spelled like “Come in, gang!” Then we headed upstairs to the Rembrandt section. Mom was talking about how Rembrandt was the greatest painter who ever lived and how he kept getting better and better and how she was glad she saw his house and sketches and how he painted piles of portraits of himself, from when he was young to when he was old. Mom said that some of his self-portraits are so honest, you almost feel impolite when you look away. She said he left a whole “autobiography in paint.”
I said, “I wonder if an artist who paints self-portraits is like a writer who keeps diaries.”
I thought Mom would like that question, but she just said, “They didn't have cameras back then, so painting was a way to record what people and things looked like.”
She showed Cecily and me this “masterpiece” of Rembrandt's mother reading the Bible. The mother's face is all ghosty, so I said, “It's not all that good.”
Cecily disagreed. She said to look at the tiny wrinkles on her hand and the gold threads on her bonnet. She said she thought the painting was “haunting.”
Haunting? Pleeeease!
Next Mom showed us this other masterpiece of these guys who ran a clothing business. I said, “What's so great about six funny-looking men with funny-looking white collars and funny-looking black hats?”
Cecily said to look at them looking at us. “It is hard to turn away from them, isn't it, Miranda? They seem so real, I half expect them to start talking to us.”
I almost said, “If they start talking, maybe they'll tell you to stop talking.” (I didn't say it, though. I just thought it really loudly.)
Finally, Mom took us to see the most famous masterpiece of all, this giant painting called The Night Watch. Mom said a bunch of soldiers hired Rembrandt to paint them, but instead of doing a group portrait with everyone all the same size, he painted an action painting with some soldiers big and up front, and others small and in the background. “Unfortunately,” Mom said, “the soldiers did not like it at all.”
“Me neither,” I said. “And it's too big.”
Mom looked so exasperated that I almost felt bad for her. It was like she couldn't figure out where she'd gone wrong raising me.
Cecily loved the painting. “Check out the man's hand!” she said. “The light on his palm and his fingers makes his hand stick out like it's 3-D. It's like he wants to shake our hands!”
“Exactly,” Mom said. It was a miracle she didn't add, “Melanie, why can't you appre
ciate Rembrandt like Cecily? And doesn't she look lovely in royal blue?”
Well, I looked around and I did appreciate some of the other paintings, like The Holy Family at Night and The Jewish Bride. I was even about to say so, but just then Matt came running over. He said that he and Dad saw a cool painting of children teaching a cat to dance (“Jan Steen,” Dad said) and another of bundled-up skaters (“Avercamp,” Dad said), but his favorite was of this guy's chopped-off bloody head served up on a tray. (Gross!)
“This guy,” Dad explained, “was John the Baptist.” Mom smiled. She loves when Matt and I pay attention to art—even if it's only because a scene is bloody or a statue is naked.
She led us to a small room that had paintings by Jan Vermeer in it. While Mom dug out paper and colored pencils from her backpack, she told us that Vermeer painted in the 1600s and died when he was 43. “He painted really well but also really slowly,” she said. “There are fewer than three dozen of his paintings still around.”
“How many is that?” Matt asked.
“Thirty-six,” Cecily said oh so helpfully.
Mom told us to sit on the floor and pick a painting and draw it.
Well, two were of ladies reading letters, but I didn't choose them.
Matt picked The Little Street, which shows a brick building on a quiet street with ladies sewing and scrubbing. I chose The Milkmaid, which is a lady calmly pouring milk into a bowl next to a bread basket while light streams in from the side. I hoped that looking at that calm lady might calm me. And I figured that would be a good thing.
Cecily chose The Milkmaid too.
“Great choice,” Mom said. “Look how serene she is.”
“What I don't get,” Dad said, “is how Vermeer could paint such inner peace when he had eleven mouths to feed.”
