alien

Now I don't feel 'old' but it feels several lifetimes ago that I was born in an upstairs room at my great-grandparents' home in the Netherlands. My parents named me Margo Janet after my grandparents Margje, Marrigje and Jan, but when my dad went to city hall to proudly register his first born, the name Margo did not appear on the 'list of approved names'. Seriously. He was forced to officially have me written down as Margot.

the house on the right

From there, I spend a happy childhood (in spite of the added t) in various towns and cities and onto my last Dutch hometown Utrecht, where I went to college. And yes, for those of you who wonder about this, I did learn to walk in wooden shoes called klompen.

Utrecht, Oude Gracht

Thijs was born there, a few blocks away from where his paternal grandfather was born.  All at home, yes.

Utrecht, achter de Dom

My love and I  like to travel and explore. So we started moving to other countries. First, Germany, where Vera and Emma joined our family (unfortunately not born at home, a decision I will regret forever). To be honest, I was not thrilled about moving to Germany. Yet I loved it there and was very,very sad when we moved on to the next country, the United States. And that's where we stayed. Life has been good to us here. At first, we were poor. That was euphemistically speaking 'difficult'. I learned a lot.

Dutch flag with orange wimpel

We've met people from all over the world. We've adapted dishes and customs into our household. Still, what is most familiar to me after all these years and exposure to many cultures, is the Dutch landscape and experience. We've been back, and things do change, but in the end, I'm Dutch. 100%, I believe- I have not found any other ancestry in either line of forefathers/foremothers.

Enschede

If I could have been a dual citizen, I would have become one a long time ago. It makes sense, for example, to be able to vote where I live. And now I can. I became an American. On paper. And I will forever feel ambivalent about this. I wonder what my dad would think about this, and I think he really wouldn't like it. But this he would like: I was given the opportunity to change my name, and I took it. My American name is what my parents intended to name me, Margo Janet Ramaker.

August

It is the month in which my dad was born and it is the month in which he died. I'm infinitely sad today. I so wish that he could have enjoyed life for many more years.

And selfishly, I wish he could have enjoyed his grandchildren far longer, could have seen them grow up into the awesome people they are.

The summer around here has been different than recent years and now I see the leafs turning in the middle of the summer season. It has been less hot and humid, but I am not complaining.

My love and I have spent some time outside in the morning this past weekend- before my day shift started and before the mosquitoes moved in. I made nut bread, and we are gradually rearranging the left-over things after the young adults have picked and chosen what they need in their new abodes.

I tried a recipe for crusty bread that has been circling the social network sites- the dough will ferment over 18 hrs or so, and then you bake it in a cast iron pot. Yum, it tastes a little like sourdough in San Francisco.

And so it goes. Life goes on and needs to be enjoyed while I can. People say all kinds of things to you when you lose a loved one, such as ' he will live forever in your heart'. While that may be true, is it also true that missing my dad keeps hurting. Even though I am lucky to have 39 years of memories, many more years than the kids in my grief group have had with their loved one.

I finally bought a frame for my original art piece 'nine lives' that I won way back when- I may post a picture in the near future. I got a chance to go to the big store in the big city when my 'baby girl' Vera moved out of here and into an apartment there. She needed somewhat more than picture frames. Bittersweet days, in August.

short story about love

Once upon a time, I worked in a classroom with a fabulous team and a very special group of kids. I really loved that job, and the students even more- one in particular. And I tried and I tried, but in the end, I could not save him, and he died.

So that is why I have to keep trying every day. The end.

the eye of the beholder

Recently we had the pleasure of meeting (artist) friends of the girls over dinner. They had just returned from their cross-country road trip together and I had made them a more or less healthy meal (tortellini, broccoli, bell pepper, tomatoes, and rosemary bread) that was well received after all the on-the-road PB&J sandwiches and such.

After dinner they were hanging out a little bit, and one of them wandered our home. (I'm tempted to do some name-dropping here because I have been told she is kind of a big deal in the art community, but I will refrain). She found my love and me reading in our family room, and she said :"You have a beautiful home. Usually you think, wow, you have a beautiful home but it's boring, but your house isn't like that at all! You have art everywhere, it is really cool".

detail of Vera's 8x4 ft AP art project

Now I can tell you that personally, I feel quite different about our home on a regular basis. Most furniture we selected as much for the price/deal than appearance, and there is more than one purchase I regret. But after her compliment, I began to look around to try and see things in a new light. Indeed we have art everywhere, courtesy of my girls and some art we collected over the years. Indeed our taste is not what most people like (judging by what is commonly displayed in stores). I am feeling a bit better about my home right now.

I have been thinking about appearances more than usual lately due to national and local cases of profiling, judging, putting people/things in boxes. But also, I see more and more artists/photographers/people questioning societary ideas of beauty- a girl with cancer who was so incredibly beautiful shining from the inside out, pictures portraying children with various disabilities in all their beauty and strength.

It pains me to read that a local preacher is instructing kids not to wear hoodies. I dislike what I have to wear to work in order to appear professional (or what people perceive as such). No, these two are not on the same level, and yet, they are. I also severely dislike that I am guilty myself in judging people/things by appearance. I am not really hopeful that the ideal of 'the melting pot' will happen anytime soon, and perhaps it should not be a (boring?) melting pot at all, but rather a celebration of differences. And I think art has a large role to play in this challenging process.

a week in the life of a social worker...

There are two books in the series 'Days in the life of a social worker', and I read the first one when starting my 'american degree'. I wonder how I would read them now, I bet with a very different focus. Stories versus reality-

 In spite of continuous changes and difficult to swallow news, the daily roller coaster just keeps rolling at work. I can't tell you any details - just that, at the end of the day (which seems always a perfect time for major crisis to erupt) I feel that the moments that I have a sense that I am making a difference are outweighing the frustration of not being able to 'fix' things. Over the course of a week I meet many wonderful families and get to work with the most dedicated team members, but also with the less positive variants of each.

Sometimes people ask me what I actually do. I tell them 'it varies' and describe the wide range of possible services that are neatly tucked into my job description as 'psycho-social interventions'.

I had dinner with a group of women whom I did not know, and it was great fun. The young adults whom I apparently gave birth to long ago (at times I have difficulty connecting the 'all grown up' with the baby I remember) and who are now independently roaming the country are keeping in touch by texting as a sign of the times (even though the spell check on my laptop does not recognize the word texting!). My love and I try to adjust the grocery volumes accordingly.

I am working full time at the moment. And enjoying it and thus my evenings and weekends with my loves (human and feline) all the more. The chores still don't fit into those off-times, at least, not when I am taking time for my favorite things.

I went to the library today, one of my very favorite activities (second in line to actually reading the books). I bring home as much as I can fit in my (very spacious) bag and way more than I can read. I love driving with the moon roof and windows open. (yes, it would be better if I could actually bicycle there and back again, however, this is just too perilous an undertaking over here).

I spent some time in the yard, and some time uncovering the couches from cat hair- Right now Charlie is undoing this effort single-body-dly.

Gus kept us company on this most gorgeous day. Mila made an appearance (she just comes home whenever she pleases it seems) and Homer misses his girls so he spends his nights plastered to my love's side. Yeah, this could have been the week in a life of anyone perhaps. Signing off now, I've got a tower of books waiting for me.

a time and a place

I'm curious - am I the only one to feel this way about certain chores? I was just vacuuming at 9.30 pm (21.30- Thijs put us on military/European time) and I just feel that this is not the time for that particular chore, certainly not on a Sunday evening.

On the other hand, ironing feels to me like a typical evening chore. Then I started thinking about this whole time and place thing, and it occurred to me that my mom would mostly iron in the evenings (at least, as far as I recall) and do the vacuuming in the mornings (per example, there are other chores of course).

Last Thursday was Independence Day and my love and I celebrated this together (our first one without kids) with a nice walk and lots of relaxing. I worked the next two days, which made for an non-traditional weekend experience. I felt that I had a lot of catching up to do today, hence perhaps the odd timing of vacuuming and all. But really, it is not like I do all that much on a regular Saturday...

Still I managed to finally finish my two-at-a-time-upside-down socks, and I enjoyed watching fabulous tennis matches on TV (while taking up my lazy knitting blanket again).

The girls keep us somewhat updated on their cross-country adventure, and the news is all positive so far. Thijs has been spending time with his girlfriend, various friends, and work, and we don't see him all that much either. So we are getting some practice in this empty -and quiet- nest thing.

dream. plan. go.

There are days that I do dream of living elsewhere. It can't be helped, I think. Mostly I end up doing some arm chair traveling, by book or tumblr or blog-surfing.

by Quint Bucholz

My love and I have done our more than fair share of real travel too. Ever since we met we have enjoyed exploring together, by foot, by bicycle, by car, by plane. (Bicycle being my favorite means of transportation but not travel). Saving up money to make another trip.

internet picture

Even when we had very little means, we went places, and even with the kids (although, admittedly, travel did slow down considerably since their arrival and when they were younger). And I guess we set an example of some sort. At a young age, my love taught them to pack their own bags. We showed them where we were going on maps. They researched things to do at the places we went.

internet picture

Perhaps then it comes as no surprise that the girls have been dreaming of a cross-country road trip for years and are now realizing their dream. They planned, they packed, they organized, they booked, they are taking chances...and they are taking our trusty (I hope) old van loaded with friends and luggage.

How exciting for them!