Crossing the Threshold
The
parsonage in a Dutch village, 1929
Our arrival at the parsonage of the church to which
my new husband Kees had been called was far from the elegant and graceful
occasion we had envisioned as newlyweds. A
hat played a role in the drama. Not my beautiful gray hat, which I had bought a
few weeks before our wedding, the first hat I had ever bought, and which I
thought made me look like a proper minister’s wife. No, it was my husband Kees’s
top hat.
We had tried to sneak away after the ceremony,
pretending we were just going for a stroll. Kees—the darling—hated making a
fuss. Also, once we were on our way, he did not want anyone to know we were
newlyweds, but the shiny new top hat box gave us away. It was like wearing a
sign that said: These People Are On Their Honeymoon! We thought we had sent
it along with all our earthly possessions to our new home, but, somehow, we had
forgotten.
We had kept our destination a secret from everyone
at home, but after several days we sent a message from our hotel to let them
know we were alive and well. A day later, upon returning from a lovely walk,
we found the front desk clerk anxiously waiting for us with a message
for me: “You have received two calls from home, and they want you to call back
right away. It sounded urgent.”
We ran to the phone, wondering what could be
wrong. Was it Mother? Father? An accident? No, it was Piet, my brother.
“So, little sister,” barked the indignant voice on the other end. “Would you please return my top hat, which that husband of yours has run off with?” “Whoa!” I said in innocence. “Yes, whoa! Instead of his hat, he took mine, which, at considerable cost, I had rented for your wedding. They are charging me more every day! Kees will have to pay for that! Send it back immediately. Kees’s is already on its way to you.” We couriered Piet’s to his address, but he sent Kees’s to us at our hotel!
“The porch light isn’t on,” Kees said, puzzled. “Everything
looks closed. Mr. Boomsma, the church custodian, said he would be waiting for
us, and that his wife would serve us tea and cookies.” He trailed off,
wondering what was going on.
“Oh, Kees,” I said, thrilled. “This is much more
fun! We have the place to ourselves! And did you know that . . . a bride can’t
touch the threshold the first time she enters her house? Her husband has to
carry her over it! This is so romantic!” “You could just step over it,” Kees
said sensibly. “Besides, how are we going to get into the house with this gate
locked?” There we were, with two large suitcases, a violin case, and a top hat
box. “You stay here,” Kees said. “I’ll get the key from Mr. Boomsma. He lives beside
the church. Or maybe we should. . .? It’s not too high, and no one’s watching.”
So instead of being swept into her house by the strong arms of her husband, the
fragile bride had to help haul two heavy suitcases over a fence. And when the
proud groom, with a careless gesture, tossed the hat box onto the walkway, the
lid came off, and the shiny top hat rolled down a grassy slope towards a
water-filled ditch.
Kees dove after it as if he were saving a precious
child from drowning. He snatched it just before it sank into the green slime.
And I—well, I couldn’t help myself. I collapsed, laughing so hard I thought my
sides would split.
We dragged everything to the back door, which, to
our surprise, was unlocked. We couldn’t find the light switch, so we groped our
way through the dark house, which smelled of new paint, new curtains, and mold.
But it was our own house, and when I shone Kees’s flashlight I joyfully
recognized all the nice things we had bought or received as gifts, which we
had arranged to be shipped to our new home. “Oh, look,” I exclaimed when I
found my kitchen, “now I can make tea for us in our own home. . . .”
“How did the pastor and his wife get in?” said a gruff
voice. I looked up and saw Mr. Boomsma, huge and imposing, standing in the
doorway.
We found the light switch and turned it on. Mr.
Boomsma came into the kitchen. He said he had not received Kees’s postcard with our
arrival time.
“How did you know we were here?” Kees asked, puzzled.
Mr. Boomsma gestured with his thumb over his
shoulder to the silent road behind him. “The neighbour lady from across the
road. She saw you two climbing over the fence and came to tell me you were here.”
That night, I learned that “don’t worry! no one will
see you” is not a phrase known in this village. Behind every closed curtain, eyes
are watching the parsonage and its residents.
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From Fransje en haar dominee (Fransje and her pastor), 1953, by Margaretha Elisabeth Gilhuis-Smitskamp (1908-2008). The book is made up of 25 short stories about life in the village pasonage in the 1930’s and ‘40’s. Mrs. Gilhuis-Smitskamp was a pastor’s wife, and writes from that perspective. Tr. George van Popta, 2024.
