Everyday life is build up around a lot of traditions. Many are handed over from one generation to the next. My father, my brother and I started one a long time ago. Without the intention of creating a tradition, it just became one over the years. And it all evolved around a village called Grolloo, in the province of Drenthe, north Nederland, Europe. At the time when this began I had no idea that Grolloo was known worldwide. Not only because it is close to the home of the Dutch TT in Assen. And some famous motor sidecar racers were living there. The most famous export product from that small village was music, or to be more precise Blues.
Once a year my Dad, Brother and I would pack things up for a one day trip to Grolloo. End of August, somewhere in September, or even in the first week of October. At least when camping season was still open. Where we would stay in a lodge overnight. Camping site called 'De Berenkuil' (The Bear Pit), always a joy to be there. Well, actually we would not be there for more then just a few hours. First stop was at a Chinese Restaurant ' De Lange Muur' ( The Long Wall) in a nearby village called Rolde, for supper. Always a good mood, eating together, maybe allready accompanied by a cool beer, talking about how things were going. And I think that this actually allready started way back, when my Bro and I just were kids. Yes, without the beer, back then and only for a part of the day.
Somehow it started long ago with fishing, but none of us three liked it. Soon after we had the fishing rods in the water my Dad would tell us where a good tiny restaurant was and we would then pack up right away and go there. And I guess we just forgot the fishing rods one day and no one bothered to ask if we were still going fishing. Then for some years we did not seem to mind about that tradition anymore. Until we were all together in the league of grown-ups. And then Grolloo came in the picture. Where we would go after we had supper. The only ritual there was to put our sleeping bags in the cabin and the move to the village center.
Hotel-restaurant Hofsteenge, our favorite spot. On a warm day we would go and sit on the veranda. And always ending up inside at the same corner. My Dad, Brother and I always sitting at the same spot. And the Benjamin of the clan was always the first one to get the first round of beer. Good company, cool beer and something to snack too. Because beer makes hungry. Having a good time together in tradition. Not moaning about the time, we just were there, until we thought it was time to go to sleep. Never managed to get a good night sleep there, don't know why, but it did not matter. And often we were the last ones to leave. Always kind enough to help locking the door down.
Next morning, before going home, we would have brunch there, meat sandwich with fried egg and after that head back home. Leaving the next day, sunday, to recover a bit before the week would start again at monday. This tradition went on for years and we always looked out to the end of august, begin september, looking at our schedules, when would it fit for all of us. And as years went by and our Father grew older, just like his sons, we sometimes joked about that we would take him there no matter what. Until, one year, way before he was supposed too, he told us "Sons, I won't make it this year, and probably never again." We allready had seen this coming, some disease and treatment simply can take the strongest human down, for ever. After a few months our Dad died, cancer took him out off time.
Lately I've been thinking about him a lot, guess I miss him real bad. He never got to see his grandchild grow up into this awesome young teen. And our teenage daughter mist a great Grandpa, only the first one and a half years he was still around. Last year I went to Grolloo by bicycle, 45 kilometers (about 28 miles). Went for another village and somehow went on to go there. Even forgot I had to cycle back home too. After I arrived there I took a seat on the veranda at Hofsteenge's and had supper, simple meatball, french fries, salad on the side, and a very nice cool beer, a double Grimbergen. A trip down memory lane, drinking one for Dad. And after hours of biking, another beer tasted just as good. Then I remembered I had to get back home, using the power of my own steady legs. But the weather was good and I was going for the touristic trip through the woods.
From the veranda I could see the statue of a local hero. The man that made Grolloo world famous with his blues, that he made together with his band: Cuby and the Blizzards. The legend himself gone too, taken out off time by the same sadness as my Dad. In the days of our tradition we saw him often at Hofsteenge, together with his dog. The blues legend, just a simple man, there to have a good time just like us. It was a great time and it is lost forever. My brother and I went there again, years after my father died, and we put a symbolic gesture at the spot where he used to sit. On his side of the table was a croquette (nld: 'bitterbal'), that had a symbolic value of which only my brother, his son, I and our closests relatives know the meaning of.
After that we never went there again together, as brothers. We kept a promise to his firstborn grandson that we would go there with him as soon as he was legally old enough to drink a beer with us and so we did. And my offspring still wants to go there too, one day, and I promised her we will. There are many things that have happened lately that I want to share with my Father, but sadly I cannot any more. Guess that's why the blues got such a hold of me lately. As I come to recognize that as time goes by I'm getting more and more like him in so many ways. Think I'll leave the last song to Cuby and the Blizzards, from their famous album "Groeten uit Grolloo" (Regards from Grolloo?), the song: "Through the Window of my eyes."
And after I have posted this item I'll pour myself a beer and say: "Here's one to you Dad, we miss you..."
