Chain of events, or: from Dutch to Deutsch

Here’s the thing… I am currently preparing prompts for my creative writing group, The Procrastinators.

This week, we’ll use a number of photographs I took while visiting the Wallace Collection in London. I was particularly fascinated by a room full of small Dutch paintings. Intimate little scenes of everyday life. Almost an entire wall filled with women doing something. Mostly domestic tasks. Peeling an apple, making lace, reading a letter. Snapshots of very private moments that pull me in every time.

Look:

Picture credit: Britta Benson. Pieter De Hooch, ‘A Woman Peeling Apples’. Wallace Collection. London

This one reminded me – in a weird sort of way (and can I just say that I’m not that old, I was not alive when this scene was painted, it simply resonated with my younger memories) – oh, let’s start again… This one reminded me of my mum’s mum and made me dig out a piece of writing from last year. It deserved an edit and now, I think, it’s ready for an outing.

So, thanks to Pieter De Hooch (1629 – 1683), here’s my German mum’s mum. From Dutch to Deutsch, and why not?

Mum’s mum, or: Unbroken

by Britta Benson

I don’t even know how I said your name or what I called you in the four years we had. Oma? Omi? I don’t have many memories of you and nothing in colour, for colour had not been invented. You died in 1974. I remember a hospital visit, a big white bed that must have eaten you all up when nobody was watching. It’s the only explanation I could come up with. You were gone without a trace and mum never mentioned why. I remember the warmth of being with you more than I remember you. Your eyes? Small. Your face? Stern. Your hair? Practical. Not much to go by. In my mind, you’re a black and white photograph, a past, stuck into a book and pressed, pressed, pressed from both sides. You always wore an apron, like a uniform. I remember you didn’t smile a lot. Life had been hard for your generation and smiles did cost extra, too much. Most of all, I remember your hands. Never still. Always knitting, sewing, cooking, wiping, washing, darning, making jam. Giving. Always giving, even the most precious invisible treasures. Your kindness. Your time. Your patience. Your trust. Your love. All seeds. Still thriving five decades later.

Did my mum’s mum peel apples in one go, leaving one long snake of skin dangling from her paring knife like the woman in the painting? I can’t remember. She did, however, work, unbroken, like all women of her age.

Happy Saturday to you all, and I’ll see you here tomorrow, if you wish!

©️2024 Britta Benson. No unauthorized use permitted.