A Thousand Ships

Luky in the front row, second from the right

Luky;
WHEN I was first married I felt that every other woman in the world was superior to me in some way. Some had money - not me. 
Others had children - I didn't, though fortunately they soon made their debut.
Still others were able to crochet and sew and set their hair in a professional way.
They dried apricots, held a weekly baking day, canned peaches, made jam and chutney.
Morover they displayed great strength of character by refraining from eating their own glorious products.
I, on the other hand, though unable to prepare these delicacies, was always a grateful recipient when they came my way in the form of gifts.

No longer
Although that feeling of inferiority persisted for many years I am relieved to find that it has finally died a natural death.
I no longer want to be like anyone else, but am happy merely to be myself.

Not that I've grown accomplished during the intervening years; far from it.
If anything I've got better at cutting corners and turning a blind eye on things no other Dutch housewife would ever tolerate.
And if I could have my way I would still like to be slim, glamorous, a scintillating companion and all the other things I'm not.
But no one is totally devoid of charms in the eyes of their nearest and dearest, and one of my children once said: "You may not be slim or pretty like the other kids' moms, but you're just like a bag of sugar."
Swallowing my not unnatural dismay at the first part of the sentence, I requested elucidation of the latter half.
"Well", the child said, "you never notice it while there's some in the cupboard, but it's terrible when it runs out. 
Come to think of it one could even compare you to a pound of salt."
"We'll stick to sugar", I commented shortly, "and in future you may keep your personal remarks to yourself" - which remark doubtless left my child mentally comparing me to a bottle of vinegar. (It's marvellous with chips.)

Cakes or chocolates
There are times, particularly over Christmas and New Year, when I relax my never-very-firm rule of not eating cakes or chocolates - with predictable results.
It is after times like these that I feel nature has cast the soul of a poet into the form of a chef.
The only heartwarming result to come from my embonpoint is the fact that I'm called Auntie by people of my own age group and I'm always offered a seat in the bus.
When I read about the saints and how they denied themselves food and drink, I feel very despondent.
But there you are, would the saints impress us so if their deed were easily emulated?

And so I have accepted my shortcomings, and I have the consolation that not even my arch-enemy can call me smug - smug being such a glutinous, disagreeable trait to my mind.
And somehow, in spite of my mismanagement, things continue to flourish.
The children passed their school graduations, there are flowers in the garden, and the car we bought secondhand many years ago still goes even if it does need a little push now and again.

Helen of Troy
Jokes aside, when I see how we manage to carry on, I become deeply aware that it does not matter so much how clever, beautiful or accomplished you are - what did Helen's beauty ever do for Troy - but that it is important for God's blessing to rest upon one's efforts.
I have never had need to complain for lack of that, anyway.

Catherine Nicolette;
Well, the secondhand car that Mom now drives is called Gertrude, or the Boeing 747.
I learned that when I visited last year.
Our friends told me that the Boeing was due to take off soon.
I wondered why did they call Gertie that?
You'll soon find out, I was told.
When Mom started the car, the stoic old engine did sound somewhat like an aeroplane about to take off ...

And talking about Helen of Troy. 
I remember Mom telling Dad one day she was no Helen of Troy, and then she went out of the kitchen door.
I - all of nine years old - looked at Dad as I stood with the blender in my hand, waiting for his response. 
Dad looked at the door which had just swung shut, and said to me,
"You know, the face of Helen of Troy launched a thousand ships.
But your mother", here he looked lovingly towards the closed door, "her face would have launched a million."
And he went on cooking and basting, and I thoughtfully carried on making the batter.