Sylvia's Journal

This was the happy-sad-happy week sandwich week.

Although I am no longer actively celebrating the (Dutch) queen’s birthday on April 30, this day has the fondest childhood memories attached to it. There was the excitement and anticipation of the march (in my girl scout uniform) before our town fathers and mothers (which in some years included my mom). They stood on the elegant balcony of the town hall, waving at us, the children of the town, marching along behind a flag or a sign that explained who we were.

It was always a holiday with much to do. There was the fair and the guilder and riksdaalder (now together the equivalent of a euro and change) we got from our parents and grandparents to spend on anything we wanted: rides, cotton candy, sweet cinnamon sticks (zuurstokken).

On May 4, 1958 my baby brother was born which means the week got extended with another exciting event. As the older sister, I put myself in charge of his parties and felt big and important. I also was his teacher, confidant and little mother.

Then in 2001 something very sad slipped in between these two happy events. On May 3 Sita’s best friend, a spunky, slightly older girl, we were all very attached to, died of an overdose. It was probably the scariest day in our life. The memory of that phone call, the rush to find out if Sita was OK, the confrontation with the reality that we would never see Jennee again is as deeply etched in our brains as the plane crash that was to follow a few years later. We planted a beach plum for Jennee. It flowers every year on May 3, even after having been uprooted for a new septic system.