Although I don't remember seeing any, we were aware that the Spakenburg locals would occasionally don traditional costuming and look--for all the world--like something right off the street in Orange City (during Tulip Festival, that is). It does seem to me, in retrospect, that we were aware of such manifestations, and that, should such costuming have appeared, we wouldn't have been terribly surprised. I don't think we did.
The Spakenburgers love of the old days was another indication that we were dealing with immensely conservative people, who, oddly enough, lived in a country and culture thought to be among Europe's most progressive. When we descended from the church balcony and reentered what seemed Noorderkirk's expansive social hall, we'd become celebrities. Among those conversant only in the Dutch language, we were, most certainly, the only young couple from America, with a real Dutch name too yet, and a Professor, in fact, at a Reformed college in the U.S. And we'd just come in off the street. We were a phenom.
I suppose it happens to any American ethnics: you return to the country of origin, look around at the people, and can't help but think you know them, not because any are blood relatives, but because Irish-Americans, like Greek-Americans and Dutch-Americans, host resemblances in their DNA.
See that picture above? I picked it up off the internet, but if I were to name those Spakenburgers--from the left: Mrs. Kramer, Mr. Huisinkveld, Mrs. De Jong. The little boy is of Mrs. De Jong's daughter, Emily; and on the far right is Mrs. Van Kampen--chances are, you would believe me.
The Schaap family, highly celebrated right then, was, oddly enough, quite sure that we were surrounded by relatives. In a sense, we felt like home. We weren't home, and there was this language problem; but I'm saying it felt as if we should know all of the people in that church--and their kids.
It wasn't a Sabbath, but the church was full of people, most all of whom had left their youth some time earlier. They were terribly proud of what was going on right then. They led us into yet another big room, this one full of stuff ("stuff in the basement" stuff) for sale because the church was raising money for a mission somewhere in west Africa. Sound familiar? We'd walked into a church fund-raiser. No, Toto, we weren't at all far from home.
I told Barb and the kids that we really couldn't leave without buying something and thereby proving our inherent righteousness, as well as thanking them for their hospitality. "If you see something you like," I said, and then nodded.
Just so happens that lying right there on a table in front of me was a neatly folded (you'd expect not?) work shirt, the style with two bulging pockets. I picked it up, admired it--it had to have been hand-made. Wherever we went by then, we drew a crowd. "Mooi," I said, or something similar--"beautiful." I tried to make clear that I liked it, and I did. I swear one of the women just about tore it from my hands. She wasn't angry, but she was serious, even insistent. "Niet voor een prof," she said, or something similar.
What she was saying was a work shirt like that simply was too blue collar. A professor required something more professorial. I honestly got the impression that a work shirt like that, for me, was off-limits. Something like this--
But last week, wind chills got ferocious--minus 50 for several days in a row. So I dug out the super-warm clothes, rooted around a bit, and came up with a pair of gray wool socks whose story I'd almost forgotten until I picked them out of the corner of that box. Just in case you've forgotten--here they are, the Spakenburg socks.
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