The House that Grandfather Built

On my sisters most recent visit, she had this fabulous idea that we should seek out the house where my father was born. 

We know alot about our mothers side of the family. We are close to a lot of them. My cousins and I see each other regularly. But both Oma and Opa on my fathers side had died by the time I was born. My father had a lovely brother and sister and we kept in contact with them until they passed away. My Aunt had no children.

I reached out to my cousin from my fathers side. I told her that we wanted to see where Dad grew up, does she have any leads (feeling very Sherlock-ish about now). She was super swift with her response. She told us the house she remembered visiting when she was young, but she wasn’t sure that this was where Dad was born. Perhaps it was the house on the corner, just down the road. She attached a photo.

My sister the adventure junkie, declared that Friday would be our “Indiana Jones” day. Off we drove. It wasn’t hard to find the house where my Oma and Opa last lived (we had the address!) but as we sat outside the house in the car, feeling somewhat stalkerish, it just didn’t fill the brief that we were after. So we drove slowly, very conspicuously down the road. 

There was the house on the corner! We were knee deep in suburbia. Not a soul to be seen. We pulled up in front of the house but to our disappointment, whilst it was almost the same in the photo, the front door was missing. 

Suddenly, my sister  goes all ninja and spots a gentleman sweeping the sidewalk out of the corner of her eye.. The only person we have seen in the suburb. She practically pushes me out of the car and instructs me to go and talk to him (she grossly overestimates my level of dutch). 

Shyly, I approach and explain (in what was probably a painful assault on the Dutch language) that we were Australian, but looking for the house our father was born in and we think it might be this house. I show him the photo and he confirms that this is, indeed the house. The house was renovated and the door moved. 

We really struck gold here. This lovely man asked who my father was, and whilst he had never heard of him, he had heard a lot about my Opa. In this man’s very own words “oh your Opa, now there’s a long story”.

Mr Tip was a treasure trove! He told us that our Opa was the Director of the Co-op (the farmers Co-op) from 1920 – 1950 and had built the house (not himself) in 1922 (the year my father was born) and since then, the house had been occupied by various employees of the Co-op. This lovely man could tell us all about the Co-op and all the people who had worked there. 

I asked him how he knew so much, and said he was just interested in the history of the house. 

What are the chances of finding someone outside (the streets were empty) and this person just having to be a history buff? 

Anyway, in true sister style, she asks if there is maybe a church in the village. Now, to those uninitiated, as all Australian towns have a pub and a chinese restaurant, all villages in NL have a church (or two). T he maninforms us, with barely concealed rolled eyes, that of course they have a church.

It got me thinking and I asked the man where the cemetery was. My sister and I read each other’s mind and she said, we might try and find Opa and Oma’s grave. Cue another eye roll from this man. He explained that there were thousands of graves and no list, we could be busy for 2 days. This poor man, he doesn’t know the tenacity of my sister! 

As we reach the cemetery, my sister declares herself the expert. “I was here when I was 4 years old and we visited the grave, all I know is…. It’s definitely white headstone”. Good tip We split up and find a few of graves bearing our family name, but not the ones we are looking for. We’d exhausted the cemetery and decided it was time for coffee, but as we were leaving found a gate that led to another cemetery. Within 20 minutes we had found Opa and Oma’s grave and of course, it was black headstone!