Dutch Immigrant Hugh Timmerman

Hugh Timmerman
Dutch Immigrant
Volendam
IMMIGRATION
The Timmermans Family
Story
The Preliminaries:
The question might well be asked, why
emigrate in the first place? Some background
information in this regard may be useful in an
attempt to explain the postwar exodus of so
many Europeans to countries like Canada,
New Zealand and Australia. One needs to
understand what havoc war can wreak upon
oppressed peoples - in this case the Dutch that may ultimately have led to their
departure. The Netherlands had been
plundered and its citizenry persecuted by the
Nazis. Much of the country lay in ruins as a
result of the fighting in its liberation that
severely affected its infrastructure, but other
factors also played a role.
The country was in an early phase of switching from a predominantly
agricultural to an industrially based society. Farmland was scarce. Their
holdings had been split too often in order to accommodate grown sons
wanting to farm. They were left trying to eke out a living on tiny parcels
of land, usually scattered about that were too small to support a family.
For a farmer’s son, entering the workforce was viewed with scorn and
considered out of the question.
The Dutch government of the day was only too glad to see them leave
and in fact went to great lengths to promote emigration through
advertising, sending agents abroad on fact-finding missions, and
establishing regional emigration offices. Misleading government
propaganda may have been a contributing factor in enticing people to
relocate. Canada became a prime candidate, as it needed agricultural
workers in great numbers. Another, often overlooked factor, was the
unsettled situation in Eastern Europe, including the formation of the
USSR that ultimately gave rise to the Berlin blockade in the later 1940s,
the resulting massive Berlin Airlift, and the onset of The Cold War. These
were scary times! An uncertain future loomed that generally speaking
caused a great deal of anxiety among certain segments of the population.
The War had not been kind to us as our farmstead had burned down,
our livestock been killed, and we were left with not much more than the
clothes on our backs. Restarting proved an almost insurmountable task,
as everything seemed to turn against us. Living in a revamped, cramped
henhouse with 10 persons for three years didn’t help matters much
either. Our new farmstead, purportedly the first post-war one of this
type,
built in 1947, didn’t do much to ease the discontent. My eldest brother
Leonard reasoned that emigration was the only option open to him and
he therefore applied and was admitted to Canada to the province of
Quebec as a landed immigrant in 1949. The Nysssen family, neighbours
of ours, also left for Quebec that same year. Their oldest son Jan (John)
was my best friend. Although only 18 at the time I, Hugh, had set my
sights on Canada as well as I had little desire to ‘waste’ 2 years of my life
as a conscripted soldier in her Majesty’s Army of the Netherlands.
Consequently, heads were laid together and emigration of our entire
family discussed, agreed to (albeit grudgingly by some of my sisters) and
an application filed. The decision was not made lightly but as mother was
to write later: "Leonard’s message of dissatisfaction of life in Quebec and
his planned return, only hastened our resolve." As I now ponder the
question of emigrating to a distant foreign land, not knowing its
language, customs or food preferences, I wonder if I dare take that step.
My parents did. They weren’t quite as old as I am now, but had passed
the 56-year mark when they set sail for Canada.
English lessons were organized at our house that also included other
aspirant emigrants. 3-Day courses were attended at "Ons Erf" in Arnhem
to gain valuable insights in what might lie ahead of us in a foreign land.
Our 40-acre farm was spruced up and equipment painted in hopes of
fetching a decent price. Word that a Canadian sponsor had come forward
really set things in motion. The farm sold and an auction sale was held.
We were to report to The Hague for a health inspection by a Canadian
medical doctor. It entailed simple tests for physical abnormalities or
transmittable diseases and we all passed with flying colours. Because of
its currency crisis, the Government did not allow foreign exchange (US or
Canadian dollars) to be taken out of the country. Only $100 per person
was permitted. Instead, it advocated converting our Dutch money to
durable goods to be taken along for that would boost the local economy.
As a result of this decree, most early immigrants brought with them this
enormous crate filled to the bursting point with all manner of things –
some useful while others proved unsuitable for the Canadian
environment.
Some unscrupulous venders aware of this kept hounding my parents to
buy more of their goods and it would not surprise me if one of them, a
chap just starting up in business, was thus single-handedly elevated to
prominence by my folks! Seven brand-new bicycles, leather jackets,
furniture, and tons of clothing - you name it - all disappeared into that
huge, 14 m3 crate when the movers came. It also included my 120-bass
accordion in its custom-made wooden case and my very own, duly padlocked, small wooden box that held all my personal ‘treasures.’
May 15 1950, the date of our departure, loomed large. The atmosphere
must have been like a pressure cooker while awaiting the bus from the
Pelikaan [Pelican] Bus Line that was to pick up father, Knelis (Cornelius)
56, mother Doorke (Theodora) 57, sons Jan (John) 22, Hubert (Hugh) 18,
daughters Betsie (Betty) 20, Maria (Mary) 17, Benny (Bernadette) 15 and
some others to the Holland America Line quay at the port of Rotterdam.
The eldest daughter Nel (Nelly) and her husband Jan (John) Hofsteede
with their two infant children, Doortje (Dorothy) and Cornelia (Lia) were
to follow us in about a month. Son Peter stayed behind temporarily while
awaiting to be married first and he and his wife Woutera (Tera) came a
year later.
It is strange how memories fade from
one’s mind over time but two things I do
remember clearly to this day. One: as we
were about to leave our homestead, a
taxi drove up and an elderly man, my
grandfather on my mother’s side, alit
from the vehicle. My mother and her
father had been at loggerheads with oneanother for several years over a family
issue that had caused a deep division
between the two. At long last the time
had come to mend fences as I watched
mother kneel before her father and beg
forgiveness for whatever might have gone
wrong way back then. They embraced
and grandpa was to write several letters
to his daughter the following three years
before passing away at age 83. Two: the
other thing that I remember is that once we got underway, father started
saying the rosary for the good outcome of our undertaking. I remember
little else of the bus tour, the places we passed through, whether we
stopped anywhere along the way and things like that.
Further enquiry brought the following tidbits to light, however.
Apparently, we weren’t the only passengers on that bus. Joining us along
the way were other local people that were emigrating to Canada, among
them the Dings family Willem and Nel and their three young children,
one of them being cared for underway by an acquaintance, Sien van
Nuenen, as the child had suddenly become quite ill the night before.
Willem’s brother Jan had come along to see them off. Two bachelors,
Frans (Frank) Hansen and Jan (John) van Loon, accompanied by his
father Naris and brother Cor also came aboard. Brother Peter and John
Strybosch, at whose place he would be boarding in the interim, brotherin-law John Hofsteede, a wartime acquaintance, Mrs. Holleman, as well
as sister Betty’s friend Tonia Aarts and her sister Mien tagged along as
well to see us off. Also accompanying us, all the way from our house to
our final destination, was a reporter of the 'Katholieke Illustratie', a
Dutch magazine. His name was J.W. (Will) Hofwijk (pseudonym for Will
Kint). It was his task to document the voyage and initial settlement of
our family. He had picked our family at random with the toss of a dart on
a pegboard with several names on it. Ours happened to score a ‘bull’seye’ I guess!
At the quay, the expected hustle and bustle was in full swing with people
mingling - their emotions running high. Some 1300 Emigrants were in
the process of boarding the vessel plus a contingent of marines,
numbering well over a hundred that was to sail with us to pick up a
Liberty Ship at Boston in the U.S.A. Well-wishers waved to the ones at
the railing on board the S.S. Volendam, the ocean liner that was to take
us across the Atlantic to Canada. Among them we spotted several of our
wartime friends that had often spent time at our farm during those years
to ‘fatten’ up a bit. There were the Hofsteedes, van de Laars, de Lorijns,
and the Scheepstras, especially Jaap Scheepstra, a boy from Rotterdam
who had spent the entire war years with us. All were frantically waving
their goodbyes at us as the boat pulled away. It was a heartrending scene
that inevitably brought on the tears. My sisters, especially, suffered more
than us boys from homesickness and shed many a tear. They rather
would have stayed behind! Brother Peter and John Strybosch followed a
ways in a small boat, all the while waving like mad.
Sea Voyage and Train Trip
My eyes saw little of the ongoing commotion aboard the ship and down
below, as they stayed trained on the distant horizon where adventure
beckoned. I was eager to get moving. When will this ‘tub’ ever leave port,
I mused? Finally, at about 7 o’clock in the evening, the Volendam cast
off. Soon, the figures on land grew smaller as the pilot set course for the
New Waterway toward Hook of Holland and the North Sea. As the Dutch
coastline grew dim I remember someone starting the familiar tune
"Vaarwel mijn dierbaar vaderland" "Farewell my beloved Fatherland" and
soon everyone joined in the singing. Many a tear was shed then, I assure
you!
For many, seasickness set in early. I was fortunate in that I was spared
this malady, but my mother hardly left her bed during the crossing as
she felt badly out of sorts. We slept in dormitories ‘tweendecks that could
accommodate large numbers of individuals with men and boys separated
from women, girls and small children fore and aft. If there were cabins
aboard, then I failed to see them but one report stated that about 300
passengers slept in 16-person cabins, located amidships where motion is
less noticeable.
Other than shuffleboard or badminton, there was not much to do for
excitement on board the ship, so time passed by slowly. With upwards of
1700 passengers and crew milling about on board the ship there simply
was no room for it. As we ran into much foul weather, the ship pitched
and rolled and seasickness took its toll with many absentees at
mealtimes. Looking at nothing but the giant curvature of the Atlantic
Ocean can be very boring. Here and there conversations were struck up
among the passengers and some interesting tales surfaced such as the
man who brought five hundred lighter flints with him, thinking that
these might not be available in Canada. Or, so I’m told, of the gentleman
who brought his "moeskei" the nice round rock that used to hold down
the lid on his sauerkraut crock. Still another one lugged a small metal
strongbox along that he claimed he intended to fill with money in
Canada, because it was ‘easy picking’ there!
My brother John and I stood guard over our two younger sisters as they
were being ogled a plenty by those marines. Once we caught one in the
act of embracing and kissing Bernadette, my youngest sister, and
threatened us if we dared interfere. "I can knock down two men," he
shouted at us. Bernadette got upset with us too for the intrusion, as it
was her first attempt at flirtation. Now that I have broached the subject
the thought reappears - in fact it has never really left me - why the
combination of ships, sea and salt water seemed to affect the fair sex’s
libido. There was a lot of hanky panky going on aboard the ship. One
woman in particular drew a lot of attention from onlookers for her
unbridled fondness for one of the marines while her fiancée awaited her
arrival at dockside. Her amorous petting drew the ire of some. I watched
her kiss her ‘man-of-the-hour’ goodbye on arrival only to jump straight
into the arms of her fiancée, in a clamshell embrace. A sordid sight
thought those who had watched her antics during the voyage.
Everyone’s seasickness had stopped pretty well on seeing land. And what
beautiful land it was a picture postcard setting! Everyone stood in awe at
the sight of the majestic coastline, the white houses with their colourful
roofs bathed in the early morning sunlight. My recollections of the actual
disembarkation and processing by immigration personnel at Pier 21 are
few. We docked at 8 o’clock in the morning on Thursday, May 25 but
soon learned that we wouldn’t proceed further until about midnight.
While waiting to get off the ship, I watched crates being hoisted up from
the holds.
After being cleared through immigration and having obtained our landed
immigrant identification documents, there was ample time left before we
had to board the train that was to take us to our destination. This gave a
group of us youngsters a chance to stroll down the broad avenue of
downtown Halifax. We entered a small park where I had my first chance
to try out my high school English in a conversation with some older
people enjoying the sunshine on a park bench. Much to my surprise, it
went better than expected which boosted my self-confidence
substantially. As darkness fell, we marvelled at the extravagant lighting
of the street, especially the moving theatre lights.
A train, its two locomotives belching steam and smoke, stood in front of
the immigration building, ready to depart on the stroke of twelve and the
dawning of the new day, Friday May 26. In fact, there were two trains,
one for southern Ontario, the other for the Midwest. It was the former
that left at twelve sharp. As it turned out ours, a Canadian Pacific
Railway train with 14 coaches left an hour later at 1 a.m. All personal
luggage had been
stowed on board
and its
passengers been
seated. A 72-hour
journey in a
dusty, coal-fired
train to Portage la
Prairie, Manitoba
with enddestination Curtis
followed.
Because of the
darkness we did
not get to see
much, if anything at all, of Nova Scotia or New Brunswick and because of
the late hour, most tried to get some shut-eye on the wooden benches,
some of which could be pulled out to make a crude bed. As we passed
through Maine, USA, no one was allowed off the train. At some point, it
was shunted onto a siding where it sat for two hours in the heat of the
day. Fortunately, ice-cold water could be had by pulling small, pointed
paper cups from a tube and filling them with water from a container that
was kept cool with ice blocks. We were all immigrants, aliens, in an
immigrant train and that apparently was reason enough for keeping us
confined to the train. It being coal fired locomotives; they had to stop on
occasion to take on water. Because of a single line track, the train
sometimes had to move into a siding to let another train pass by in the
opposite direction. If in the heat of the day, windows were opened, a
cloud of coal dust entered the compartment. Food could be purchased in
one of the cars. I remember father returning triumphantly with a big
sausage in his hand. It smelled so powerful of garlic, an ingredient
unfamiliar to us then, that no one wanted to eat it and it likely ended up
being tossed out the window.
The train re-entered Canada at the Quebec border at dusk and arrived in
Montreal at 8 a.m. the next morning, Saturday, May 27, where several
coaches were uncoupled while we were to carry on westward. I turned 19
that day but little mention was made of the fact other than a hurried
"proficiat" - congratulation! After some delay, we departed again on what
seemed an endless journey through the countryside with a mostly
heavily treed landscape, interspersed here and there by small
settlements. I do not recall ever getting off the train nor do I care to
remember how much coal dust we sniffed along the way. We arrived at
Portage la Prairie, Manitoba in the evening of Sunday, May 28, the first
day of Pentecost. A stalwart man wearing a wide-brimmed, western-style
hat met us at the station. He was our sponsor, Mr. James Tully, who
proceeded to give each one of us a firm handshake and then motioned us
to take a seat in his car for the 16 km trip down a gravel road to Curtis
and his 750 ha farm (over 1800 acres). The postal address actually read
Oakville, a short distance further up the road, as it was the rural mail
delivery post office for the area.
Because of the darkness, we didn’t really get a good look at our living
quarters until morning. Mr. Tully (called Lee by those who knew him)
had seen to it to provide some groceries that were sitting in boxes on the
floor. As it was late and all were dead tired from the long journey we
opted to head straight for bed. Our lodgings consisted of two separate
shacks it turned out. Sleeping quarters for my three sisters and us two
boys were in what had been a horse stable beforehand. It was a oneroom log structure with several steel bunk beds that lacked a partition
for privacy. I shall never forget that first night when I scrambled up to
the top bunk, exclaiming loudly to my sisters: "through what hole do I
crawl under the blanket," as it was riddled with rather large holes.
Morning brought the truth of our decrepit abode starkly to light. With no
electricity, running water or indoor plumbing, the housing provided
resembled a hovel unfit for human beings. It differed so starkly from the
bright, roomy home we had left behind. My parents must have suffered
extreme humiliation at the sight but bore the disillusion bravely. What
were we to say? Who could we turn to to voice our dismay? To my
knowledge, there was no government agency in place back then to
inspect living conditions of newly arrived immigrants. Water had to be
fetched from a well and had a bad odour to it. As for sanitary provisions,
an outhouse had to do.
We soon discovered that we were not the only ones living on this farm
but were in the company of several other families. Two families were of
Japanese descent that had been forcibly removed from the west coast
during the War. One of them, the Mizuno family, was our next door
neighbour. Two Dutch
families, the Bisschops
and Harbers, lived there
already and when a
month later my eldest
sister Nelly with her
husband John
Hofsteede and two small
girls arrived, we
counted four Dutch
families. I don’t
remember any first
names but some of the
Mizuno household like
Jim, Hero, Aiko and George have stayed with me. They became real good,
loyal friends. Jim especially helped me along with my English by candidly
explaining what ‘words’ not to use.
Our first morning, Whit Monday, became a real eye-opener. At 7 o’clock
we all had to report in front of the big repair shop to await orders for the
day when Lee’s three burly sons, Lorne, Jack and Cal, would come out
and Lorne would point at two or three among the group, saying: "you,
you and you." "What about us?" someone would ask. With cocked head
and a hand to his ear, he motioned the rest of us to go home and sleep.
This first morning happened to be the second day of Pentecost, a day on
which we normally would have attended church services, so a real
damper was put on our spirit that day. As it was, we could only attend
church services every other Sunday when one of the Bisschop boys could
use the boss’ truck. It was a flatbed truck, so we all had to scramble on
top for the 16 km trip to Portage la Prairie and back again.
This arrangement proved unsatisfactory so Dad, John and I hitchhiked
to Winnipeg one day to look for a car. We ended up buying a 13-year old,
1937 Chevy 4-door sedan with a dented rear fender for about $800 - a
steep price we found out later. It enabled us to attend church on a
regular basis, shop for groceries and sundries, and enjoy a rare outing to
Delta Beach on Lake Manitoba.
We soon discovered that there was little work available for so many and if
lucky enough to be picked, the pay was only 40 cents an hour. We were
there for one purpose only - to look after Tully’s 300-acre sugar beet
crop. This was before the advent of precision seed drills or automatic
harvesting combines. Seeds were planted in a continuous row that by the
time the plants emerged had to be thinned out with a hoe. Once grown to
maturity they needed to be topped by hand. Pay was $10 per acre. We
worked from 7 a.m. till 7 p.m. with an hour for lunch. Working as hard
and fast as possible, the best that I have been able to accomplish was ¾
acre in a day. Some of the Japanese folk managed an acre per day. I
accredited this to their sharp eyesight and steady hand with the hoe.
It was here that I first tasted Coca Cola! I liked it so much that thereafter
I walked the two miles (3.2 km) up the gravel road to Newton and back
once a week to
buy a carton of
Coke from my
meagre allowance
and hid it in a
hole dug in the
clay beneath a
trapdoor in the
living room. Six
bottles of Coke at
5 cents each plus
2 cents deposit
(refunded on
return of the
empties) was all it
cost. After work, I sneaked down that cubbyhole for my pick-me-upper,
only to be scolded by my brother for being such a spendthrift by ‘wasting’
all that hard-earned money!
Our contract had stipulated $75 per month for the head of the family
and $45 for working members. It became obvious that this stipulation
was not being adhered to. To sit idle at home earned us nothing. There
was no such thing as unemployment or medical insurance, nor
workmen’s compensation or pension benefits back then! With the sugar
beet thinning over, there would be that long wait till fall for the harvest. I
was not prepared to wait that long and found employment on a small
cattle farm closer to Portage la Prairie. What a change! With a room for
myself, running water, a real bathroom and $100 a month, I felt like the
gates of heaven had opened up for me. I was treated like a member of the
family, even joining them at table at mealtimes.
My parents reasoned that if our sponsor did not adhere to the terms of
the contract, they were not obliged to either. As the only one who spoke
English quite well at that time, I was given the task to explain this to our
sponsor with the message that we planned to leave his employ. "You
can’t do that," he protested, "for you have contracted to work for me for
one year." I explained firmly that if he could break a contract, so could
we. Surprised at my persistent stance, he then said something that I
shall never forget. "All right! (Expletive!) Get going then as all I have to do
is pick up the telephone, call the field man and in a month another
Dutch family will take your place. I considered this a rather unbecoming
remark that smacked of modern-day slavery. I do not wish to criticize Mr.
Tully too harshly as he was merely a product of his time. The War and
government policy may have influenced his attitude toward ‘outsiders.’
To his credit, however, I hasten to add that he paid up to the last cent
and also loaded our big crate with all our worldly possessions on his
truck and delivered it to the train station for us. It took whatever we had
earned together in 3 ½ months to move to southern Ontario.
On September 14, we pulled up stakes and left for Blenheim, Ontario.
Mother had been able
to contact Father
Otgerus, a Capuchin
priest who hailed from
our birthplace Asten.
He had promised to
get us resettled there
and had already found
a spot for my sisters
at a hospital in
Chatham. Brother
John had gone
footloose in August
already, hitchhiking in
his wooden shoes. It took him six days and 22 rides to arrive in
Blenheim. On their first attempt to travel by bus to Chatham through the
States, Betty and Mary were turned back at the border, as they did not
have the required visas. They had better luck the second time, however,
when they went by train through Canada. The others, except brother-inlaw John Hofsteede and I, later went by train also.
As the only one left now with a ‘valid’ driver’s licence, I had to drive our
car there. Brother John had been the designated driver up until his
departure. I had driven the car twice by then, once to gain some initial
experience and the other time for my driver’s licence test in Portage la
Prairie. Neither John Hofsteede nor I had visas that would have allowed
us to take a shortcut through the USA so that we had no other choice
but to travel through Canada. I fully expected to return to my new
employer, leaving clothing and my small, padlocked wooden box with
personal belongings in their care. (Later, on learning that I would not be
coming back after all, they were so kind as to send it to our new
address.)
Our journey by car to Ontario was an extraordinary one, best described
as an obstacle course. To begin with, we had not ventured far away from
home up to this point, knew little of the country, its cuisine, lifestyle and
a myriad of other intricacies. John spoke hardly any English at all, while
mine was of the workaday variety and therefore limited in scope. To say
that I was apprehensive
about the prospect of
driving that far in a strange
country is putting it mildly.
Our route took us along
Hwy 1 through Portage la
Prairie, the city of
Winnipeg and across the
Ontario border with a stop
at a tourist information
centre in Kenora. Here we
were advised to ensure our
tank was full of gas as
there were no gas stations for the next 120 miles or so (192 km) on Hwy
70 (now 71) to Fort Frances and the road was gravelled. This had been
good advice as we were the only ones travelling that road, along beautiful
Lake of the Woods with its breathtaking views. We did not see a single
human being or car, only a porcupine crossing the road. To this day I
shudder at the thought of what might have happened if something had
gone wrong with the car along this lonely stretch? A further impediment
was that I had not been taught that you could gear up or down in
climbing and descending steep grades. I was afraid that the car would
start rolling backwards immediately when shifting down to a lower gear.
Consequently, we made every peak in high gear with the gas pedal to the
floor, chugging along at about 20 m.p.h., both of us tensing up in our
seat in a feigned attempt to coax the car over the top, only to rush down
at great speed on the other side. We made it to Fort Frances and Hwy 11,
the road that was to take us across northern Ontario.
John was the ‘financier’ I the driver! Why I wasn’t entrusted with money
has remained a mystery to this day, unless it was my Coca Cola
‘splurges’! We stopped briefly at Kakabeka Falls for a look see, then went
into a garage in Port Arthur (Thunderbay) to have the oil changed as the
odometer reminded me this ought to be done precisely every one
thousand miles (1600 km). We were told that the rear spring shackles
needed replacement, so we had this done. John paid. If only they had
checked the steering too! I’ll get to that later. We motored up to
Geraldton and spent the night there. Not in a hotel or motel, should
these have existed at the time, but in the car. We nearly froze to death as
the temperature dropped below freezing that night and we had little
cover. We awoke stiffer than a board from our cramped positions. We ate
our meals in the car too as we did not dare to go into a restaurant. Too
pricey! A loaf of bread (at 17 cent!), some butter and ham or cheese, was
all we needed to survive.
Close to Hearst, just as we went careening down a hill, a screeching
sound alerted us to problems under the hood. A quick inspection
revealed that the cooling fan was hitting the radiator. We were able to
coast down to a garage at the intersection of Hwy 11 and a road leading
into the Hearst town proper. As we stood out front, waiting for help to
arrive, we noticed a late model Ford car approaching rather fast. Two
women were in the front seat with the passenger appearing to motion to
the driver that perhaps they should have turned here and so she did,
rolling the car over into a ditch at the intersection. John and I rushed
over to extricate the women from their precarious position through a
window. Both appeared unhurt but the driver of the vehicle was very
distressed as she did not have a driver’s licence and had taken the car
without her husband’s knowledge. They never learned the names of their
rescuers!
It took about half a day to have the water pump replaced and be on our
way again. An alert repairman might have spotted the excessive free play
of the steering wheel and taken a closer look to find the cause. My
memory of road conditions is vague, only that the roads were narrow by
today’s standards, winding, and with many ups and downs. We gave
Toronto a wide berth, skirting around it on secondary highways, so as
not to get snarled in heavy traffic. The various roads that we took have
long since vanished from my memory.
One incident, however, clearly stands out in my mind to this day as it
could have cost our lives. All along, we had travelled at about 40 mph (65
km) until we came closer to Blenheim when I stepped up to 50 mph (80
km). (Like the proverbial horse that smells its stable!) When about 10
miles (16 km) from town, on either highway 3 or 40, I suddenly lost all
steering. Quickly I motioned to John "look", as I spun the steering wheel
left and right without any effect. Just then we careened close by a hydro
pole and slowly braking, slid into a shallow ditch. The steering
connecting rod had dropped off. A person standing near there across the
road refused any help or even a piece of wire to tie the rod back up in
place. Going down the road, I was able to break off a piece of fence wire
by repeatedly bending it to and fro and used this to fasten the rod in
place. We were able to reverse the car out of the ditch under its own
power and with John pushing with all his might. The remaining distance
to Blenheim was covered at 10 mph (16 km) where we left the car at a
GM dealership. The last 2 miles (3.2 km) into the country we had to walk
on foot, arriving to a happy reunion. We had been gone a week and
covered roughly 1700 miles (2,720 km) in what could best be termed an
obstacle course.
****
Our stay in Blenheim was short lived. Someone else had meanwhile
already taken our place. John and Nelly with their little ones did manage
to get a job at another farm there, however. George Dorner of Tupperville
near Wallaceburg could use extra help though, as another Dutchman,
Adrian Groot, was about to leave his employ there to start a farm of his
own near Strathroy. Brother John had ended up here too after his
gruelling hitchhiking ordeal in wooden shoes all the way from Curtis,
Manitoba and was already earning his keep gathering tomatoes. The
housing provided by Mr. Dorner proved inadequate to accommodate us
all, but this was not a real problem as my three sisters all found work at
the hospital in Chatham, living ‘in residence’ there. Before long, brother
Leonard drifted down from Quebec too. He stayed long enough to help
top Mr. Dorner’s 10 acres of sugar beets; then got a job in Cookstown at
a brick and tile yard. Did he ever return to the Netherlands as initially
planned? Indeed he did but only long enough to find himself a bride,
Tonia Aarts, in early 1952.
A relatively small number of Dutch immigrants, including Frank Hansen
who had come with us, opted to return to the Netherlands and of these,
some soon got cold feet again, only to return to Canada a second time. As
Mother was to write so eloquently in her short Memoir, written in her
93rd year: I have not regretted our move for a single moment. Quite the
opposite! Once again, we chose the hard way but then, the strongest
steel is forged in the fire. Most immigrants who moved to another country
or continent were imbued with the drive to forge ahead come what may.
When you have burned all bridges behind you, there is no need to fret
over past good times. It has been said that the best, the bold and the
resolute were leaving the country. They sure represented an enterprising
lot!
Our stay at Dorner’s place lasted roughly half a year. That winter Dad
and John went looking for a farm in the Strathroy area. They found a
100-acre farm with a good house but no outbuildings in Adelaide
Township, across the road of Adrian Groot. On February 17th 1951, just
nine months after leaving the Netherlands, we moved onto it. Not all our
Dutch money was spent on goods as the government had wanted but
brother Peter had been able to have a small amount converted into US
dollars on the black market in Belgium. He had cleverly hidden it in the
handle bar of his bicycle before crossing the border. It was then sewn
into John Hofsteede and Nelly’s infant cradle pad and brought to Canada
this way when they followed us a month later. Together with our
combined earnings, it had made for a sufficient down payment for the
farm. We had pooled our hard-earned money according to good old
custom of the time 'hadn’t spent a nickel of it on trivial things' and
carried on this way long enough afterwards, mostly at jobs no-one else
wanted, in order to erect the outbuildings that were lacking, buy our first
tractor and plough, our first livestock, chickens, pigs and things. We now
owned 100 acres instead of the 40 we had left behind in the Netherlands.
The menial jobs referred to above consisted mainly of seasonal manual
labour for others such as: priming tobacco leaves, thinning and topping
sugar beets, picking beans and tomatoes or husking corn. In winter,
there was no outside farm work and little income to look forward to. My
sisters all found employment as domestics, brother John got a job
working in a tobacco stripping room and laundry while I found work just
down the road from our house at a repair garage, whose owner also sold
TVs and installed TV aerials with masts to a height of 100 ft. It was my
job to release the snubbers at the corner stakes in the cold of winter
when hoisting up those masts. He saw to it that I became registered as
an automotive technician apprentice. It ended up in a lifelong career!
Brother Peter had become an electrician in the Netherlands and joined
us in Canada a year later with his wife Tera. One of the first jobs he
undertook was to bring electricity and pumped water to the house to
everyone’s delight. Slowly, one after the other took wings, leaving home
and getting married. Two sisters, Betty and Mary, married farmer sons,
John Spruyt and Tony Vanderheyden respectively. Bernadette married
the son of a carpenter, Adrian Roes, who in turn started his own
company, employing many men. Leonard and John Hofsteede remained
labourers for the better part of their lives, although both took a crack at
small-scale farming. That left me, Hugh, as the last one to get married
and will be the subject of a closer analysis a bit further on.
My parents aspired to see all of us become farmers so it must have
disappointed them somewhat that only one of the boys, John, became a
fulltime farmer, albeit a very successful one. Through hard work and
dedication the 100-acre homestead farm that he acquired later to add to
his 200, expanded to 550 and remain in his family still. Although many
of the earlier immigrants came with the best of intentions to become
farmers, a substantial number of them did not. The necessity to find
employment of whatever description in order to save up some money saw
many placed in a different work environment than they had been
accustomed to on the farm back home. For some, this became an
irresistible challenge that just couldn’t be turned down. The fact that by
comparison far fewer restrictions were placed on trades people here than
in the ‘old country,’ may have facilitated their move to a different way of
life. The possibilities in Canada seemed endless and the opportunities to
exploit them unlimited. Several of my closest friends and acquaintances
became involved in a trade or occupation that had little or nothing to do
with farming. They became carpenters, bricklayers, electricians, welders,
mechanics, insurance salesmen, shopkeepers, bank clerks, and the
whole gamut of occupations. To become established in business for
oneself entailed far less red tape than they had been accustomed to back
home. Many thrived and became wealthy entrepreneurs.
As the last one to leave the nest, my wedding day came at age 27 on
August 15 1959. That line was easy to write but to achieve that goal took
a lot more doing. You see, the girl of my dreams lived across the Atlantic.
It had started quite innocent enough through a letter in broken English
by a girl in a boarding school in the Netherlands who wished to
correspond in English with someone living in Canada. Helena or Helen,
as I call her today, was the only daughter of the van de Mortel
blacksmith family of St. Oedenrode and we became pen pals. At some
point we fell in love (I believe it was her picture that set my heart on fire)
and five years later, in 1955, I decided to return to the Netherlands in
order to become better acquainted with her. Our rendezvous turned into
a fiasco and I thought this to be the end of our relationship. I then
started dating a girl from Vlaardingen that I knew from wartime visits to
our farm and took a job in a garage in Schiedam. When the boss asked
me to get registered, I never gave it a second thought but as a result
found myself in uniform within a week as a recruit for initial exercises
with the military. The draft I had tried to evade had caught up with me
after all. Six weeks later and with great difficulty was I able to convince
the Ministry of Defence at The Hague that I was there for a visit and not
for military training. I was released from army duty and advised to
hightail it back to Canada, as "this is not a safe place for you to be." My
girlfriend chose not to accompany me, as she had no desire to emigrate.
The following year, I received a letter from Helen asking why I hadn’t
even sent her a birthday card and my answer started the letter writing all
over again. A couple of years later and a bit older and wiser, she looked
forward to a second rendezvous. So in 1958 I set sail again for the port of
Rotterdam where she stood waiting for me at dockside. By then she was
in her final year in nurses’ training
at a hospital in Nijmegen. This
time things clicked and she agreed
to accompany me back to Canada
on board the S.S. Seven Seas. In
1960, a year after our marriage,
our first son, John, was born in a
London hospital. On learning that
her mother suffered from an
incurable ailment and as we
hadn’t married under the best of
circumstances, we offered to return to the Netherlands, an offer that was
gratefully accepted. We lived and worked there for five years. Since I was
a Canadian citizen by then, I required a work permit as I was registered
as an alien. My work was that of a technical translator, while Helen took
on the duties of running the family hardware store. Three more children
were born there, a son Case, and two
daughters, Petra and Marlene. All three
were registered at the Canadian
Embassy in The Hague as Canadian
citizens born abroad.
Helen’s mother passed away in 1965 and
the following year we returned to Canada
permanently. Our children had only
heard Dutch up to then. However in
Canada, as the two oldest would be
entering school, we opted to speak
English only in order for them to pick up
the language quicker. By doing so we
hoped that they would not fall behind
the others in class. All went on to earn
their degrees or diplomas and by now
have found their niche in their chosen
professions. Isn’t it strange how things
tend to come full circle? Petra, the odd
one of the family and a self-professed
‘career-student’ returned to the
Netherlands in 2002 to study at the University of Amsterdam. Since
then, she has also re-learned the Dutch language.
Canada, the land of opportunity, proved its worth when I was able to
establish myself upon our return as a general repair garage operator on a
minimal capital investment for the ensuing ten years, from 1967 to 1977.
While at first living on a shoestring budget, I was able through hard work
and long hours to feed and clothe my family and see them through
school. And yes! We too tried our hand at farming when we sold our
garage business and bought a piece of Canada - one hundred acres of it
in northern Ontario to establish a modern sheep enterprise.
My parents continued to run the farm after we had all moved on until
they retired at age 70. Then for 29 years they lived in a private "granny
flat" in the spacious house of my youngest sister Bernadette and her
husband Adrian Roes. They celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary
surrounded by all of their offspring, posing for a photo-op in front of the
Delaware church and celebrated their 65th at their home. They saw their
family of eight children grow to 49 grandchildren and 95 greatgrandchildren. A true asset for the country they came to love and
adopted as their own. Dad lived to be 95 and Mom almost 102.
All eight of us children are still alive and tacking on the years with two of
us now past eighty and the others in hot pursuit. We’ve all had our swing
at life and not done too badly by all accounts. This year (04) my ‘pen pal’,
Helen, has been at my side for 45 years. This concludes my story. What
else can I say, but Canada - what a country!
1947 newly rebuilt farmstead
The author at age 19
Ditto at age 72
The S.S. Volendam, the ship that brought us to Canada
A large crate being lifted from her hold at Halifax Pier 21
In front of railway car at Pier 21 with sister Betty, ship travel companion
Irene Mascherin, Mary and Bernadette
Our ’37 Chevy on an outing to Delta Beach on Lake Manitoba. L to R:
Mary, Aiko with her little brother (?), Hugh, Bernadette, Father, Betty
with Dorothy and brother John
Here on the Delta Beach
In front of the small house in Tupperville on George Dorner’s farm. L to
R: Father, Leonard, Mother, Trien and Arie Groot – our future
neighbours – and me
John lifting sugar beets on Dorner’s farm
Leonard, Father and I topping them
My Father in 1956 - a resolute immigrant!
Author’s family 1989
Mom and Dad’s Golden Wedding in 1972, presenting their contribution
to the Canadian way of life in front of the Delaware R.C. church
Mom’s Centenarian celebration. Rear: John, Peter, Leonard, Hugh;
Middle: Nelly and Betty; Front: Bernadette, Theodora and Mary