Ships are special to me (3)

Last year I posted twice about my life-long love of ships, and in the first of these blogs I mentioned building cardboard model ships.

In the gloomy and austere conditions after World War 2 every lad like me could name the pride of a country’s maritime fleet: the British Queens Mary and Elizabeth, Australia’s two aircraft carriers, the French Ile de France and Liberté and the Netherlands’ Nieuw Amsterdam.  You could buy postcards and photos of these and many other ships in many newsagents, and publishers produced large build-your-own kits of the most famous of the liners on large sheets of cardboard.

For me, already at age 8 a ship-lover with a technical bent, a love of detail and too fearful and uncoordinated for team or competitive sports, these kits were just what I needed in my late primary school years.  In the mid-1950s the Kelloggs breakfast cereal company ran a promotion, offering cheap and elementary cardboard kits of the Royal Australian Navy’s newly acquired carrier HMAS Sydney (complete with aircraft), as well as of the British liners Queen Mary and Oronsay.  During 1957 my family spent almost five months in the Netherlands, and the kits of Dutch ships published by Veritas (“true”) helped fill the time when my brother and I were not doing our correspondence lessons or reconnecting with our family or the Netherlands with our Dutch relatives.

a sheet of the Veritas cardboard model of mv Willem Ruys (1959 version)

During that year and also in the following years back home in Australia, I assembled the printed models of many then current Dutch ships: the Netherlands Navy’s De Ruyter, Drenthe and Karel Doorman, and the Netherlands merchant ships Maasdam, Nieuw Amsterdam, Oranje, Oranje Nassau, Ouwerkerk, Prins Willem van Oranje, Rode Zee, Rotterdam, Ryndam, Statendam, Tjiwangi, Vrijburgh, Willem Ruys and Willem Barendsz.  Quite a list, and many hours when I wasn’t annoying my younger sisters.

The Dutch liner Johan van Oldenbarnevelt was our family’s favourite because it had carried us across the world three times.  So what I learnt from assembling the Dutch printed models I applied to building my own 1:300 scale model of the venerable Johan to give to my grandfather before we sailed again for Australia.  During the later 50s and early 60s I built no less than three more versions of this ship (in various sizes), as well as models of the British submarine Andrew, the Australian Navy’s River class frigate Parramatta and their oiler Supply, and the merchant ships Canberra, Empress of Australia (1965), Galileo Galilei, Iberia, Oriana (1960), Waterman and Zonnekerk.

my 1:300 scale model of the liner Iberia (1954)

In the early years I tried to return to this relaxing pastime and started work on smaller scale and technically more advanced model of the Chandris liner Australis which carried my parents and youngest sister back to Oz after their leave in 1968.  This model has languished in a cupboard in a half-completed state for 40 years.  Maybe, now that I’m slowing down a bit, one day soon?

Although this creative hobby has long been overtaken in popularity by other and now IT-related pastimes, the cardboard models that taught me the craft are now being republished and new titles of varying difficulty are being added to the available range.  It seems there are many of my generation who would like to return to model making in their autumnal years!

close-up of the Scaldis model of ss Zuiderkruis (1944)

Of special interest to me, Scaldis Bouwplaten, a Dutch firm owned by Wim van der Meer, has republished facsimile and improved versions of many of the Veritas models I built 55 or so years ago.  It has also produced higher standard cardboard model kits of a growing number of past and present Dutch vessels, including the main migrant ships of the 1950s: Johan van Oldenbarnevelt, Oranje, Sibajak, Willem Ruys and Zuiderkruis (representing the trio of Dutch Victory migrant ships).

The web tells me that there are numerous publishers of both powered and non-powered model ship drawings worldwide, and that at least Polish, German, Dutch and British publishers are currently producing kits of a long list of merchant, cruise, harbour, river and navy vessels – as well as of a large range of other objects for enthusiasts, such as aircraft, cars and military vehicles, lighthouses, notable buildings of the world, and (yes!) birds.

Some things my mother loved

My mother was a believing and committed Christian, a loving and supportive partner to my father, and gave her five children life in more than the basic way.  Yet through no fault of her own she had a hard life in many ways.  In my last blog I explained why thinking about my mother often makes me feel somewhat sad.

But there were also things Mum loved and was passionate about, and unsurprisingly, what stood out for me has rubbed off on me.

Family

Mum could be at her best and happiest in the family setting, especially with some of her children and with her younger sister, Mia.  The strain we often saw and which was typically evident on photos would evaporate, she would relax and laugh, and although not in herself a humorous person she could show obvious enjoyment.

In a similar way I am not well equipped to give life to a party, and I am a much better listener than conversationalist.  My wife Helen remembers with some sadness that good table talk was not characteristic of my parents’ home.  But when I’m together with our siblings or children I feel my happiest, especially when I can just be there and mostly listen.

Drawing

Mum gave up drawing after her youth, but certainly had the skills and eye for it.  The few drawings she kept from her early years bore that out.  And later, on a limited budget she chose some beautiful art works for her home and in later life she dressed well.

As she built her family, Mum started collecting photo and art images in a large brown leather covered family scrapbook which was a family treasure often opened up for talk and additions during our years at home.  To us as children it extended our appreciation of the beauty of our Dutch homeland and our wonder at the world: images and cut-outs of exotic animals, Dutch cities, villages and rustic scenes, beautiful flowers and fish, ships and aircraft, storybook characters, and beach holidays.  When I reflect on this scrapbook now I realise it was perhaps Mum’s #1 way of making up somewhat for the cultural impoverishment that resulted from our family’s migration.  It also reflected her love of art, image and things beautiful.

Plants

The small income of my parents’ early migration years moved my mother to put her love of the garden to work.  The large backyard of our first home in Sydney was soon transformed into a big and productive vegetable garden, and the house front got a touch up with easy-to-grow succulents she could start from free cuttings.

Our second home in Sydney underwent an immediate and similar transformation, with the addition of a shade-house and a chicken run for up to a dozen black and white chooks, each of which became a pet with an own name: Elizabeth, Sookie, Margaret…

Our vegetable garden, Kingston (1964)… the condition of the fence wasn’t under Mum’s control

The front flower garden in Kingston, Tasmania (1964)

Our third family home in Australia was in Kingston, Tasmania, and it was an even larger property that once again had been neglected and underwent a radical transformation, now very much with the support of her teenage children.  The long grass and blackberries were replaced by an even larger vegie garden – and a second area became the potato patch.  The front garden was similarly made over with a large array of roses and other flowering plants, the more colour the better!

On retirement, my parents had a smaller home built on a smaller block, and although the garden was also reduced, there was now something left over for the cultivation of beautiful native and exotic shrubs and a growing collection of orchids.

Pets

Schiska and Snoopy (1970)

House pets were another passion of my mother.  She would tell us about the pet crow she had in her childhood and adolescence and the tricks it would get up to, even to unbuttoning clients’ shoes in the town post office.

During the family years, my parents’ household included the usual rabbits and turtles, a canary, several budgerigars and cats, the afore-mentioned hens, and finally a beautiful Burmese cat and Australian terrier, both donated by her veterinary son-in-law.

All of the above loves were just that: affectionately and faithfully cared for animals and plants, beautifully created collections of illustrations and art, a carefully and tastefully selected décor for her home.

Despite her personal pain, necessary frugality, and inevitable limitations, Mum certainly added her distinctive warmth, style and class to our family life.  I continue to honour and thank her.

The poignant story of my Mother

Willy (right) in the early 1930s with older and younger sisters

Willy van Mazijk had a privileged and sunny upbringing, one of three daughters of a small town “advokaat”, as the Dutch called their early 20^th century multi-skilling of a solicitor with land and property auctioneering and conveyancing.  Willy’s father was well respected in the town as honest and caring, and he was quite wealthy.  His three daughters adored their dad and started their lives free of the poverty and related concerns of most of their contemporaries in Europe: a spacious home and property, a Christian school, a variety of pets, the picturesque Dutch province of Zeeland, and a special place in the local community.

However, each of the three sisters had some lifelong health and emotional issues.  Willy suffered a severe head concussion in a children’s playground accident which (unsurprising in the 1920s) was not properly diagnosed and treated.  It resulted in a life of frequent and severe migraines and in her early 60s she began to be affected by what her family thought was Alzheimer’s.  Today we know that her head injury resulted in Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy (CTE), also known as “boxer’s dementia” which is being recognised as a scourge in the world of contact sports, notably football.

Willy wanted to become a doctor and moved to Amsterdam, a day’s travel to the north in the 1930s, but her headaches (and I suspect the demands of the rigorous studies) caused her to abandon that dream.  Like countless other young women in the troubled 1930s, mum became a domestic help and governess in Dutch and later English homes.  As a result she met Jan, a young man who was studying theology.  Despite her father’s concerns for his daughter, the damaged daughter and her idealistic but impractical suitor started to dream of Christian work together, possibly in Indonesia which was then a Dutch colony.

But the Depression followed by a World War proved to be a nightmare time, as Willy’s fiancé could only get lowly paid assisting positions in a succession of Dutch churches, keeping marriage out of reach and stretching their engagement to 7 years.  Mum’s nightmares in later life sometimes relived the stress of that period.

In 1943 dad was invited (“called by God”) to come and work for a Reformed Church in a Friesian town Ijlst (which prided itself in having the status of “city”).  Mum was now a minister’s wife and her husband was now the occasional target of German hostage taking.  More stress.

Two years later they celebrated the birth of their first baby.  Dad sent the town-crier around to proclaim my birth and wrote letter cards to the family, as visits were impossible with the Netherlands transport infrastructure in post-war ruins.

Mum with me mid-1946

Their excitement and gratitude were short-lived.  Ten days after his arrival their baby boy was being operated on after almost vomiting his young life away with pyloric stenosis.  This surgery was in itself life-threatening then, and in the Reformed tradition an emergency baptism was given before the operation.  I survived, but for two weeks mum had to take daily 25 km steam train trips to the hospital to provide (and maintain) a milk supply, whilst the danger of infection kept her from personal contact with her newborn.

Maternal stress is one of several recognised causes of the stomach condition I had, and I find it a sad but true reflection of our broken world that it was most likely my dear mother’s stress levels that caused both her and me still more trauma and stress.  Often we cannot help the pain we receive, nor the damage we pass on.

During the next four years mum had three more children, and during those years she received home help, a normal accessory for ministers’ families in those times of low wages and most women being restricted from tertiary studies and adult employment.

By 1950, the flood of post-War migration out of Europe and to the “new world” countries had begun, and the national Migration Committee of my parents’ church asked them to consider moving to Australia to provide Christian pastoral support for Dutch migrants.  Grandfather van Mazijk was again horrified and had another serious talk with his audacious son-in-law.

Let’s say, true love and loyalty won the day.  My parents’ genuine and deep Christian faith certainly changed as a result of their migration and its associated service, as did that of many Christian people who lived through the huge changes affecting the Church and our world during the decades after World War 2.

1951 to 1961 were years of still more stress but also fruitful and widely valued service to Dutch migrants of many descriptions and with many needs.  My dad’s parish was initially the Australian state of New South Wales as well as Brisbane.  Wife Willy continued to have live-in home help (and a 5^th child) and her heart, hospitality and Sydney home were always available to migrants in need of a listening ear, a meal or even a bed for a day or more.

She kept up the link with the family in the Netherlands, writing weekly air-letters to her parents and ensuring that her children were never forgotten or neglected.  Our sibling memories are of material poverty but a rich home life supported by a rather private but nevertheless robust Christian faith.

40th anniversary photo (1983)

In late 1961 my parents accepted a new church appointment in Kingston, then a lovely rural community just 10 miles (17 km) outside Hobart in Tasmania.  For Mum it was almost like a return to the little city she grew up in: a compact and close-knit community rather than a widely scattered city parish; she was back in the natural world she loved, with time and space for a garden and pets.  Her family was by now growing up, and they took over supporting her in the home and garden during her times of migraine incapacitation.

Dad found Tasmania stimulating and challenging despite being a city boy at heart.  Country life was not his thing but Kingston’s small-town character and Tasmania’s small-state chumminess gave Dad new networks and other opportunities to relish.

Mother Willy enjoyed Tasmania and her developing family life for less than 20 years when dementia started to affect her.  Dad, my Tasmanian sister and then a nursing home cared for her with skill and tenderness until God took her home in 1994.

Mum and I had a complex relationship.  Although I obviously carry the imprint of both my parents, I sometimes clashed badly with my mother but not with my dad.  Being the eldest of her five children and her husband having two left hands, she often turned to me for practical help – which I loved to give.  But there were friction points.

Is it any wonder I am still unravelling the tie I had with my mother?  And I’m not alone: mother – son relationships are famously interesting.

As I reflect on Mum’s life, I tend to feel sadness. But she would not have wanted that: her glass was certainly more than half full. Next post let me share some of her loves and likes.

Where I struggle…

Two events on the one day this past week triggered painful flashbacks.

Many of my posts have been upbeat, grateful, even celebratory.  At my other blogsite I deal with one of the areas of pain in my life – and in the lives of others who have struggled with varying degrees of PTSD.

Because I don’t want to give the impression that my life is always a bed of roses, because I value openness and balance, and because I imagine that few of my readers will regularly spend time at both my sites I think it’s time to talk about the biggest challenge I have as a public persona: the way people know and see me.  Mind you, not to whinge or indulge in self-pity, but because after 50+ posts I need to be fair about myself and with my readers.

Flashback 1

As I write, the state delegates of the federation of churches I’ve belonged to and worked with most of my life are meeting in Sydney for a week of “Synod” as they do every 3 years.  This is the first time since 1976 I’m not there.  I’ve always done considerable work at the national level as well as in my local church and community.  Committee work has various facets, all of which I enjoy, and I clearly have God-given skills to share, as I’ve been privileged with being chosen as a national executive member for 12 consecutive years (that’s 4 terms – but our “pond” is relatively small).  So it was reasonable for Helen (my dearest) to ask if I was going to miss the synod.

My simple answer was “No”, and we talked about why.

I hate conflict and politicking, even though I realise it’s essential to people living and working together, that I too have strong convictions on some matters, and that I am a passive aggressive type (yeah, sigh, that’s arguably the more dishonest and frustrating way of disagreeing).

But I’m also slow: in my thinking, sensitivity, reactions, speaking and debating.  This means I’m best speaking as a teacher or from prepared notes, and in discussions only after taking time to sort through my emotions before I open my mouth.  Have learnt that from bitter experience.

So committee meetings and behind-the-scenes work suit me, as I’m then working in a cooperative setting and not adversarially.  Meetings are often times when I decide to listen only, and I have learnt to express my agreement or objection only by my vote.  That’s frustrating but more productive and it allows me to sleep much better.

So enjoying 3-yearly issue-charged assemblies of men has never been my thing, even though I’ve made the best of it and have happily observed my growth from and angry and outspoken young man to a quiet, considered and effective elder.  And I’m thankful that as a now-retired guy and no longer expected to be a delegate I have good reason to save on time, emotions, and the airfare.

Productive retirement is good!

Flashback 2

Earlier on the same day, one of my church friends told me about a Saturday morning mens-meet he was organising at the local tenpin bowling place.  “Get in quick: we’re going for two teams, and it’s first in best dressed!”

Which I felt immediately raised my “flight” responses… a reminder that at school and in team sports, I was always a liability and usually one of the last to be picked for a team.  I am slow and uncoordinated physically as well as in debate.  Despite years of trying to learn how to bowl, throw, kick and catch balls.  And my mental slowness and/or somewhat understandable lack of interest mean I have trouble remembering the game rules of all but the most basic ball games.  I’m absolutely sure that the group going bowling love and respect me, and that they won’t be unfeeling or mean about the deadweight on their team.

Unlike at school, I expect I’d be my worst enemy.  Helen and I know I should go, but is it worth the pain?  I’ve gone bowling from time to time with family members, that’s just fun.  But blokes will be blokes, and I’m rarely comfortable doing blokey things that involve (amongst others) balls and beating others.  Will keep you posted.

I often wonder why I am so slow in my mental and physical skill set, more so (it seems to me) than my parents and four siblings.  This despite not struggling with a low level of skills overall: I’m just slow!  I made it through two lots of tertiary study although I’m no academic.  I walk and swim much more and faster than most people.  Several possible causes have made it onto my list, and perhaps they all contribute to make me just be me…

What do I do about this one?  Live with it, put up with the discomfort and join in sometimes, avoid it at other times and let the sports lovers of my world go for it.

Having got this off my chest, I return to my overriding feeling as I’ve expressed it in my “About” piece in the Header of my blogsites:  there are many things I enjoy doing and do well, and overall, I feel grateful and richly privileged.  Not many have enjoyed as good a life as I have.

Five essentials…

God and Christian faith
It is arguably unrealistic to rank one’s closest relationships in importance when some of our closest relationships are so different.
My relationship with the God whom Jesus honoured, showed so clearly by his life’s work, and who was his constant foundation-for-life, guide and compass – surely in one sense this has been and I believe will long be the most essential friendship I have.  But… it’s a spiritual relationship: not all my questions of God can be answered, God’s standards are so good and sensible but also so frustratingly unreachable.  God has been exploited and misrepresented by so many people: folk I’ve known and those I’ve only heard about.  We humans play games with God (and/or with our own values) in both major and little ways, so that I often ask myself, “Am I taking You for a ride too?”
But my questions of God and my self-questioning, plus the feedback others give me also help to assure me that I’m probably maintaining a fairly sane and healthy balance.

My nearest and dearest Helen
My life partner has always been and remains almost 100% of what anyone could expect of one’s best friend.  It helps that I’m comparatively grateful, kind and unassuming man, but my wife and her family are very down-to-earth, cheerful, realistic and sensible people: who could justify finding fault with folk like that?  Helen is one of nine siblings and although they now belong to the senior generation it is telling that they all married well and that all the nine marriages have lasted.  We’re talking between 37 and 60 years.

My children and family
Passing on the gift of life and shared responsibility for shaping young lives must be the richest joy and privilege we can enjoy.  And it has been for Helen and me.
Besides this, I do love my natural family and family-by-law.  There are surely always some differences and tensions in the innermost family circle, and despite our common Dutch middle class and Christian background, our family has occasional stressors too.  I’m thankful that despite this we’ve always been on excellent terms, and all our sibling couples are among our best friends.  And hey, that’s not because they all live far from where we do!

My work
What a special thing I have found working for God and representing Jesus – surely among almost everybody’s “best friends”, even those who have little good to say about “the Church” and Christian people.  And being in a trusting relationship (and a respected and lasting one) with so many people because of this calling is a rare privilege also.
It’s not surprising to me that this task has often come with some significant pain and distress, but our last church assignment (and still our home church) has been an exceptionally positive and heartening 13½ year final chapter in that respect.
I don’t think I’d choose any other work if there was that possibility.

Memories
What a wonderful thing the mind is, and how distressing it is to lose one’s memory.  There are so many beautiful memories in what I have just listed here.
I cherish the memories of my parents, of family holidays throughout my life, of overseas travel and discovering Australian, Dutch and some other history and places, of growing in my appreciation of music, art, plants and animals, geography and technology, history and finance… I could continue.
My memories are a large part of who I am, my skills and choices, my life story.  In fact, we humans can achieve and enjoy much without marriage, children and even work, it seems, but without our memories we are nothing.  Our memories include happy and dark times, but I have learnt a lot about hugging the good and benefitting from the sad and bad.

Is there really a better way?

All my life I’ve lived within the Christian community, which really says a lot of what I want to say here.

It also says something about me.
I’m not characterised as assertive, aggressive, adventurous or rebellious, traits which have certainly held and attracted a lot of people who go under the Christian banner.  Loud and aggressive Christians also make life hard for people like me and I suspect many other Christians also.
To put this more a bit more positively, by nature I’m fairly kind, compassionate, faithful and trusting.  These traits have made it easier to stay with my parents’ faith and values and those of the Christian communities to which I’ve belonged during my life – despite some inevitable bumps.

My Christian faith says something about my life story.
My journey has been quite kind to me – so why should I jump ship faith and values wise?  From a stable home into a stable marriage, four great kids who all married well and chose to stay Christians, lifelong work in different churches, work that was fulfilling and helped me stay close to my faith and values… what more could anyone ask for?  Some might say, “how about a bit of fire, excitement and independence?”
So, mebbee I’m boring, nice but nerdy?  That’s part of me.  Please read on.
I have two sisters who grew up as I did, embracing the Christian way in which we all grew up and owning it for 25 or more years, and committing themselves to partners and service.  But the men who seriously joined them had some serious issues and my sisters and the Christian communities they belonged to were not up to the wisdom and care that were needed to keep things tolerable when the wheels fell off, so…
This poignant comparison says so much to me.  My working life as a church pastor has shown me over and over again that people don’t just ditch the Christian faith: there’s almost always a reason other than the faith.

My faith also says something about how I regard the Christian faith.
Most of us I’m sure embrace a belief system with which we feel at relative ease and we tailor it to suit us in lots of ways.  As implied above, I cringe at people who call themselves disciples of Christ and then condemn everyone who disagrees with them on issues peripheral or even remote from the person and teachings of Christ.
By nature, upbringing and training my wife and I have a tolerant and kind approach to people, living and faith matters, so we no doubt find it easier than some to see and value the many positives of the Christian faith, heritage and influence in contexts besides our own.
Of course I have questions, doubts, areas under review.  What reasonable and charitable person today doesn’t?
The central Christian narratives about Jesus’ birth, death, and rising are not without issues, but then, this is true of every other “story-” and “non-story-” based approach to life.
I feel deeply troubled about what I see as the effects of increasingly non-committal, self-centred, materialistic, and individualistic approaches to living, relationships and faith.  And Christians are not immune from these very human attitudes.
But because in the Christian context they’re quickly labelled as “sin” rather than “cool”, I think there’s a lot to be said for affirming the Christian world-and-life approach.

Question:  If you’re a Christian or not a Christian, why is that so?

“Do to others as you . . .”

My parents modelled for me what a big heart looks like.

From a Dutch "dominee" (church minister) to an itinerant shepherd of restless Dutch migrants in Eastern Australia. With a long-suffering wife and four children aged 5 and under. What heart!

They gave up a comfortable life as a city-church minister in post-War Netherlands to leave all their relatives, friends and familiar surroundings and sail 5 weeks away to remote Australia.  Was that selfishness or a commitment to their wholesome Christian ethos?

As a migrant-chaplain’s wife, Mum often had new arrivals and “wounded birds” of many kinds as guests for a meal, a night, and if necessary longer.  She had the same care for injured animals, our pet chooks, rabbit, canary and cat, and her pride-and-joy garden.

My siblings and I (there were five of us) grew up with few words but many pictures of what commitment, practical Christian faith, compassion and service look like, and these memories have moulded all five of us.  “There but for the grace of God go I” and “Do for others what you would like others to do for you” are Christian statements that have become part of our daily language.

My brother had trouble with the validity of Christian faith from an early age but has stuck by his wife of many years despite a sometimes trying marriage, and I’m grateful that his compassionate commitment has paid off richly.  It’s not that I don’t believe that separation and divorce are unacceptable and unforgiveable, but I know from much observation that they are rarely an easy alternative to staying together.

Two of my sisters were each “dumped” by their original husbands but have not lost their heart.  One still weeps over her first love – but she’s also moved on, well and truly.  The other has worked with refugees and other “wounded birds” for many years.

Sister #3 is also in caring work – as a physiotherapist with disabled people, and as an advocate for MND (Motor Neurone Disease) patients.  This condition took my father and is also known as Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS) or as Lou Gehrig’s disease in different countries.

Sure, having a heart can be painful, frustrating, unrewarding, and it invites abuse.  It can tempt us to become unrealistic or stridently angry.  And not everyone can maintain being compassionate without becoming eccentric.

Beyond my parents, compassion for me and many others is modelled on Jesus, whom almost everyone in developed countries agrees is our world’s #1 model and hero.  What a shame that we who claim to represent him sometimes fall so badly short, but that difference made Jesus unique.

I have always found that what we know about Jesus Christ gives us (amongst other things) a model of someone who kept opposite strengths in both balance and tension.  He could be both passionately angry and life-changingly kind, he knew when to speak and when silence was golden.  Although sometimes accused of it, he never became eccentric or nutty.  Because of this he could bring unique and sometimes unimaginable healing.

We can do worse than learn from and follow him.