After climbing out of the car, I zipped up my parka, pulled on gloves and wound my scarf around my nose and mouth. Still the wind bit through my clothing, turning my bones to ice.

In the way of mothers around the world, Mom tucked the scarf into my collar, even before adjusting her own.

“This is it. It’s the only way to get to the village.” Dad’s words slurred as his lips grew numb from the cold. “Sir, are you going over?”

“Ja, of course. I’m not standing here for my health!” The elderly man in his worn coat and hat spoke around his pipe, making his Dutch rather difficult for me to understand. “All tickets are for return trips.”

Dad paid the man the pittance he requested, and my elderly parents and I climbed aboard for the short ride over the canal to De Woude, the North Holland town where Dad worked as a teenager.

First stop was the now-empty restaurant/bar. We went in to gain respite from the wind, and I looked around curiously. “Dad, was this here when you stayed in the village in 1946 or so?”

“Yes, and it was just as cold and empty then! They do have a couple of guest rooms upstairs. I slept there once…I had to.”

Too fascinated with our surroundings to ask him to explain, I braced myself against the howling wind and went outside, walking in the only direction we could. As I gazed at the picturesque homes, I tried to imagine my father at 16-years-old. I’d seen photos, but this was where he’d actually lived!

It isn’t a very big place, being hemmed in on four sides by water. We soon found ourselves walking along a canal.

Dad pointed out a small rowboat. “I remember taking a bull in a canal boat just like this. I did it more than once.”

I rolled my eyes. “Dad, I’m not going to believe that!”

Dad chuckled. “It’s true. One of my jobs as a farmhand was to take the bull from his pen to visit the cows in the field.”

My forehead wrinkled. “Uh, wasn’t that dangerous? I mean, bulls are known for being vicious.”

“Oh no, he was happy. Smiling all the way. You see, he knew where he was going.” Dad winked at Mom.

I shook my head, deciding to ignore both of them.

Just then a couple of blond children accompanied by a young woman emerged from one of the houses.

“Oh, such sweet children!” my father enthused, stopping to speak to the younger girl, who gazed at us all with big blue eyes.

He was answered with total silence. 

When he turned to me with raised eyebrows, I laughed. “Dad, you need to speak Dutch. They don’t understand you!”

“I was speaking English?” Dad grinned, now speaking Dutch.

The woman nodded with a grin.

I took his hand. “Hey Dad, now’s our chance. Ask her if she knows of anyone in the village who might remember you.”

“It was over 60 years ago—I don’t think anyone will.” Dad shook his head.

Clearly bilingual, the woman answered. “I think someone might. Tante Mientje is in her 90’s and has lived here all her life. She remembers everything. And there she is now…”

We turned to see an old crone dressed entirely in black tottering down the street while clutching her cane.

“Tante Mientje, these people have something to ask you,” the woman called out in Dutch.

“What is it you want?” Tante Mientje’s eyes narrowed as she peered at the group of strangers who had dared to invade her town.

After introducing herself, Mom explained in a loud voice. “Tante Mientje, my name is Meta, and this is my husband, Frits Evenblij. He worked here as a teenager during the summers. We wonder if you remember him.” 

The ancient woman turned a baleful eye on my father, “Yes, I remember you,” she croaked. “And it is time for you to leave. Now!” Leaning on her cane, she pointed in the direction of the ferry with a shaking finger. “And do not come back!”

My mouth dropped open. Was she suffering from dementia?

Dad didn’t seem to think so. “Uh, let’s go,” he mumbled, dragging both my mother and me by the hand.

 We quickly hurried out of Tante Mientje’s sight.

When we stopped to catch our breath, I turned to Dad. “What was that all about?”

“I’ll show you. Come with me.” Keeping an eye out for Tante Mientje, Dad led the way to a farmhouse that looked slightly newer than the other homes on its road.

“This is where I stayed the first year that I worked in De Woude. One night, after I’d been here a month, there was a terrible storm. The farmer and his wife were out when lightening hit the house, and it caught fire. That’s when I got the scar on my back.”

“Oh no! Did someone die in the fire?”

“No, we all escaped—I rescued their two children. But the house burnt to the ground. The family and I had to stay in the rooms above the bar I showed you.”

I frowned. “Okay, but that doesn’t explain Tante Mientje’s reaction. After all, you saved the children.”

“I haven’t finished the story. The next year I stayed in the farmhouse across the street, because the first home wasn’t yet rebuilt. Unfortunately, lightening hit that house, too, and it burnt down completely. There, too, everyone survived, but…”

“What? That’s crazy!”

“Yes, well, it happened. Afterwards, I didn’t stay in the bar. The villagers insisted that I leave. Immediately. And when I asked to come work here the following year, they told me I wasn’t welcome. Clearly, that hasn’t changed.”

I sighed. “It wasn’t your fault. A 17-year-old can’t control the weather!”

Dad chuckled as we once more boarded the ferry. “Tell them that!”