THE SCARRED OAK. William Walraven
an animal stall, with one horse, two cows, three or four pigs, and some chickens. This farm became Eric’s home away from home, and Willem, the farmer’s son, who was in his early thirties and still a bachelor, became his second father. They became pals for life. Working at this farm with the animals and working the fields introduced in Eric at a very young age the beauty and feelings for animals and the outdoors.
Within a couple of years, Eric could handle very easily the huge Clydesdale horse named Max, and Max and Eric were the closest of friends for many years. Many times, Eric would share a sandwich with him, and gently with his big lips and huge teeth, Max would take this gift out of his small hand while giving him with his big brown eyes a warm feeling of understanding.
At this farm, Eric learned the beauty of the animals—their courting, reproduction, birth, and the close relationship in these matters between man and beast.
Besides school, Willem was his teacher for everything you couldn’t find in books. If a cow would behave quite oddly in the meadow, then Willem would explain that nature’s forceful urge of mating had entered her. In a noneducated but beautiful way, Willem would tell Eric while sitting on the large wooden feedbox in the cow stall the story of life and reproduction. Shortly thereafter, they would walk with this cow a couple of miles over many small field pads to the only farmer who could afford to have a bull. Eric was too young to be allowed to enter the large barn to see the mating of these two animals, but Willem would direct Eric to a window where he, with eyes possibly larger than the bull, would witness the beauty and power of mating and the start of a new life. On the way back, they seldom talked, both full of their own thoughts and feelings. The cow walked behind them in grace, once in a while grasping for a patch of juicy grass.
Behind Eric’s house separated by a huge old private hedge was the village school. From the first through the seventh grade, Eric spent seven aggravating years here (aggravating because it took his valuable time away from Willem and the farm). Who needed all that baloney about arithmetic and language? And who cared about the old people in history who were already dead for many centuries? Sitting in this classroom filled with the stinking smoke of the teacher’s forever-burning pipe while listening to the music of the horse-drawn farm wagons and the sound of the cattle in the nearby meadows made schooling an aggravation.
He liked some of the teachers, but in general, they were not his kind of people. They were the master. They would give you with their soft, ladylike hands a likken for no reason at all, or worse, they would give you for punishment a hundred sentences to write, like “I will not interrupt the classes during schooltime,” to be handed back to them the next morning. This punishment was really rude, because besides giving him a sore hand and wrist, it took his freedom away. No, schooling was not for him. It was all the teachers’ fault. They were the reason of his lost freedom in nature’s beauty. If there were no teachers, there wouldn’t be any schools.
One of his neighbors was an old grouchy lady who didn’t like Eric too much because he would throw small stones at her skinny dirty chickens. Willem’s chickens were a lot better, whiter, and he would listen with pleasure to the early morning cries of the big red and brown rooster, the undisputable master of Willem’s chickens.
At the end of the street was the village cemetery. This sinister place surrounded by high walls and a steel gate was the most gruesome place for Eric in the whole village. In daytime, he would avoid it as much as possible, but in no way would he dare to pass or come even close to this place during early evening or darkness. Surely not after his mother had told him that if someone would hit or kick his own parents, his hand or foot would protrude above the grave after this person was dead and buried. The first time after this shocking news came to him, he visited the cemetery in procession with the village pastor on All Souls’ Day. His eyes were shooting from grave to grave, looking for these members. He was quickly put at ease when he couldn’t detect one in the whole graveyard. Coming home, he requested an immediate answer to this grave lie. His mother’s serious answer was that this only happens at night and when daylight breaks through, these members would disappear again. He decided he would never pass this place at nighttime, because with his inquisitive mind, he would hear these arms and legs plopping out of the ground.
The other end of his street crossed the Main Street, which encircled the village to find its way back to the only street leading approximately two miles through fields and meadows to the closest city. At this crossing point was the village church and across from this church was a large stoop in front of a small general store at one corner. This was the only evening gathering place for young and old to hear the latest on everything, including who was sick or died or stranger in town. Many stories were told by old farmers and coal miner, and Eric, sitting between them, could listen for hours about the dangers of coal mining and the stories of old farmers about werewolves and ghost they had seen around the old farms. Many nights, Eric could not sleep because there were ghosts all around him. The south part of Holland was predominantly Roman Catholic and the rest Protestant, including the Dutch royal family. These southern villages were very fanatic about their religion, because anyone not being of the Catholic faith was automatically branded as a heathen and was not accepted in the village.
Eric’s pastor was the tallest man in the village. Not only was he the tallest man, who automatically demanded respect, but as pastor, he was also the most knowledgeable and most powerful man. He was the spiritual advisor for the local soccer team, brass band, and drum-and-flute corps. Between these tough but good village people, he was the man of God with power to spare.
Weather permitting, he would walk every midmorning back and forth in front of his church, everyone passing him paying respect by nodding their heads and greeting him, “Good morning, Mr. Pastor.” Always he would walk with his hands loosely together at his back, the outer hand repeatedly opening and closing. Eric, at about four years old, had watched this procedure for days, maybe weeks, while sitting at the big corner stone at the crossing on his street. One day, it got the best of him. This opening and closing, slightly squeezing of this hand began to work on his nerves. A farm wagon went by, and the horse beautified the street with some fresh droppings. For a moment, he observed the fresh droppings and the squeezing hand. The rest is village history… Before he realized what he was doing, he sneaked behind Mr. Pastor and dropped the still-warm round droppings in his hand at the precise moment of squeezing. For a second, he was awarded the most unforgettable sight. However, this triumph was short-lived.
The next thing he remembered was a sound of disgust, an unbelievable quick turn of such a big man, and a lightning-fast hand dazzling his head. Next with his dirty hand, he grasped Eric by his clean shirt (remember, it was still morning) and, with steps a mile long, dragged him while screaming over his lungs for mercy in the direction of Eric’s home, passing bystanders with a look in their eyes that no good would come from this kid. His mother, hearing his alarming cries, came running toward them. After some, he guessed, unpleasant words between the two, he was handed over into the safe hands of his mother. After coming home, his entire body still shaking and gasping for air, his mother gave him a couple of good lickens on his behind and sent him for further punishment to his bedroom for the remainder of the day. Lying on his bed, he hated Mr. Pastor and his mother for this harsh and unfair punishment for nothing at all. When later that day his father came home from work, he gave him another good and hard talk about his deed. When leaving Eric’s room, however, he could not prevent a weak smile on his face. One thing was sure—Eric had gotten rid of his frustration and Mr. Pastor of his squeezing habit.
John, Eric’s father, was a hard-working man and very caring for his family. He was a wise man and a forever optimist and loved fun in his life. However, sometimes he would go overboard, like that one time when Eric went with him to the High Mass on Sunday. During the service, they had to stand up and kneel constantly, which Eric found ridiculous. He cheated sometimes by not kneeling. One of the times when they had to stand up, his father let a fart go that sounded like a cannon shot.
Eric got very embarrassed even more so when his father turned around and said to a very old lady sitting behind them, “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
When they walked home, Eric confronted his dad. “How could you do such a thing to that poor old lady?”
“Well, let me tell you,” answered his father. “It