Our village operates on an easy but set schedule. There is a rhythm to life here that is seldom interrupted and appears never to veer off tune, though flourishes are sometimes apparent. Though bells from the Catholic parish and the Evangelical church ring out the time continually throughout the day, one could just as easily mark the passing of hours based on the ebb and flow of the people’s activities.
Each morning, I escort Bop and Log to the bus stop. As we approach the lamppost on the street corner, I watch the gentlemen across the street water the flowers in large urns in front of the guesthouse he owns. He waters them methodically and in the same fashion each day making two trips to refill his cans. Perhaps it’s the careful watering that has enabled the weather beaten blooms to withstand the near to freezing morning temperatures.
After seeing Bop and Log on the bus, I then take Littlest to her kindergarten. There is perhaps ten minutes time between my arriving at the kindergarten and its opening. As we wait by the canal, I watch ‘Johanna,’ the town’s bright yellow ferry, slowly eek its way across the foggy canal to the opposite bank where the same three cars drive onto the ferry. As the last car boards, the same lady wearing a white fleece coat comes stumbling by as her chocolate Labrador relentlessly pulls her to the grassy area by the canal. It’s at this time that the porch light of the kindergarten flickers on. Room by room, and always in the same order, lights from within are turned on and the day begins. Littlest, Matty and I enter the building through a series of doors and set about settling Littlest; only the subject of conversation with the teacher varies.
Kissing Littlest goodbye, Matty and I go home. Turning the corner, I look up to see the same gentleman sitting in front of his window wearing (always) an earth colored turtleneck as he sips from a mug. As I enter our building, the air in the hall is thick with the perfume of one of our neighbors who exits the front as we enter through the back; the perfume lingers and the scent is always the same.
Whether or not Matty has school, my days are preoccupied with a routine of my/our own. Late in the afternoon, the flow of the day continues as Littlest, Matty and I set out to walk to the bus stop to wait for Bop and Log. Shops that were closed for the afternoon siesta pull up the shades and open courtyard gates as the village becomes abuzz with people flitting to and fro on bikes and foot; intermission is over.
On days where the weather is obliging, we often turn in the direction of the canal front and go for a walk to further explore the intricacies of life here. My favorite routine that can be counted on those few and far between sunny days is a group of elderly gentlemen (all of whom wear tweed newsboy caps) who gather to play bocci ball on spot near the canal. After each bowl, scores are carefully tallied on a board pegged to a pole. I like to sit on a bench at the base of a burm capped by a stone wall and watch the game as the kiddos play.
In fact, it was as I sat on ‘my’ bench during a lull in the game one afternoon that I noticed a memorial to German soldiers who died in the ‘Great War’ tucked away in a cobbled courtyard. There are but four headstones marking the graves of men whose bodies managed to find repose in his ‘Heimat.’ Those who never found their way home even in death have their names inscribed in a stone wall in memoriam; the list is lengthy, and I cannot imagine this tiny village losing so much lifeblood in the war. The inscription above the wall reads, “Lived for the people, died for you.” A somber stone monument of a soldier in uniform bows his head, helmet in hand keeping reverie. The base of the soldier’s statue simply reads, “Fatherland.” The monument as a whole is discreet and doesn’t court attention though it invites remembrance.
Also visible from my bench is an older gentleman who sits in a lawn chair in front of the marina where one can also rent boats. This past summer, the big draw for the kiddos at the marina (aside from the Magnum ice cream) was a crate of ducklings that the gentlemen hatched. This gentleman (he has yet to tell me his name) is proud of the fact that he speaks very good English: a byproduct of his brother who now lives in Canada and whom he visits frequently. In fact, this gentleman is the only person in the whole of the village who absolutely insists on speaking English with me. For that reason, I sought him out on purpose one day after a heady day of German.
Six in the evening, the church bells remind shopkeepers to once again close their doors, and shades are drawn, shutters are closed and gates locked. The kiddos and I begin our song and dance of dinner, homework, baths and a bedtime story. Sometimes, smells from the kitchens below us waft through the stairwell; I think one of our neighbors below us favors Italian and Indian food based on the mouth watering, spicy smells.
After putting the kiddos to bed, I like to bundle myself and step out onto our loggia to watch chimneys begin to sputter smoke as evening fires are lit. The village fills with a woody, deep smell that makes me think of campfires, s’mores and home. My day ends with a book and a corner chair…always.
I don’t know how winter and severe weather will change the song this village sings daily, but I can’t wait to learn the harmony.
Each morning, I escort Bop and Log to the bus stop. As we approach the lamppost on the street corner, I watch the gentlemen across the street water the flowers in large urns in front of the guesthouse he owns. He waters them methodically and in the same fashion each day making two trips to refill his cans. Perhaps it’s the careful watering that has enabled the weather beaten blooms to withstand the near to freezing morning temperatures.
After seeing Bop and Log on the bus, I then take Littlest to her kindergarten. There is perhaps ten minutes time between my arriving at the kindergarten and its opening. As we wait by the canal, I watch ‘Johanna,’ the town’s bright yellow ferry, slowly eek its way across the foggy canal to the opposite bank where the same three cars drive onto the ferry. As the last car boards, the same lady wearing a white fleece coat comes stumbling by as her chocolate Labrador relentlessly pulls her to the grassy area by the canal. It’s at this time that the porch light of the kindergarten flickers on. Room by room, and always in the same order, lights from within are turned on and the day begins. Littlest, Matty and I enter the building through a series of doors and set about settling Littlest; only the subject of conversation with the teacher varies.
Kissing Littlest goodbye, Matty and I go home. Turning the corner, I look up to see the same gentleman sitting in front of his window wearing (always) an earth colored turtleneck as he sips from a mug. As I enter our building, the air in the hall is thick with the perfume of one of our neighbors who exits the front as we enter through the back; the perfume lingers and the scent is always the same.
Whether or not Matty has school, my days are preoccupied with a routine of my/our own. Late in the afternoon, the flow of the day continues as Littlest, Matty and I set out to walk to the bus stop to wait for Bop and Log. Shops that were closed for the afternoon siesta pull up the shades and open courtyard gates as the village becomes abuzz with people flitting to and fro on bikes and foot; intermission is over.
On days where the weather is obliging, we often turn in the direction of the canal front and go for a walk to further explore the intricacies of life here. My favorite routine that can be counted on those few and far between sunny days is a group of elderly gentlemen (all of whom wear tweed newsboy caps) who gather to play bocci ball on spot near the canal. After each bowl, scores are carefully tallied on a board pegged to a pole. I like to sit on a bench at the base of a burm capped by a stone wall and watch the game as the kiddos play.
In fact, it was as I sat on ‘my’ bench during a lull in the game one afternoon that I noticed a memorial to German soldiers who died in the ‘Great War’ tucked away in a cobbled courtyard. There are but four headstones marking the graves of men whose bodies managed to find repose in his ‘Heimat.’ Those who never found their way home even in death have their names inscribed in a stone wall in memoriam; the list is lengthy, and I cannot imagine this tiny village losing so much lifeblood in the war. The inscription above the wall reads, “Lived for the people, died for you.” A somber stone monument of a soldier in uniform bows his head, helmet in hand keeping reverie. The base of the soldier’s statue simply reads, “Fatherland.” The monument as a whole is discreet and doesn’t court attention though it invites remembrance.
Also visible from my bench is an older gentleman who sits in a lawn chair in front of the marina where one can also rent boats. This past summer, the big draw for the kiddos at the marina (aside from the Magnum ice cream) was a crate of ducklings that the gentlemen hatched. This gentleman (he has yet to tell me his name) is proud of the fact that he speaks very good English: a byproduct of his brother who now lives in Canada and whom he visits frequently. In fact, this gentleman is the only person in the whole of the village who absolutely insists on speaking English with me. For that reason, I sought him out on purpose one day after a heady day of German.
Six in the evening, the church bells remind shopkeepers to once again close their doors, and shades are drawn, shutters are closed and gates locked. The kiddos and I begin our song and dance of dinner, homework, baths and a bedtime story. Sometimes, smells from the kitchens below us waft through the stairwell; I think one of our neighbors below us favors Italian and Indian food based on the mouth watering, spicy smells.
After putting the kiddos to bed, I like to bundle myself and step out onto our loggia to watch chimneys begin to sputter smoke as evening fires are lit. The village fills with a woody, deep smell that makes me think of campfires, s’mores and home. My day ends with a book and a corner chair…always.
I don’t know how winter and severe weather will change the song this village sings daily, but I can’t wait to learn the harmony.
Littlest at the bus stop
Matty at the bus stop
Matty at the bus stop
The boat house (and the gentelmen in his lawn chair)
Log and an anchor near to the Marina
Bocci Ball
Bop by the river
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