From Where I Sit

By Pat Spilseth, Columnist

I’m so lucky to be a grandparent to three little girls, Elizabeth, Charlie and Max Margaret. We’re anticipating the arrival of a  fourth grandchild at any moment. Sometimes I’m called grandma. Ellie calls me Nana. Most of the time I get a huge grin and a big hug…that’s the best part of being grandma.  

It’s probably confusing to little ones to call their two grandmas the same name. Actually, little kids probably don’t think about the name. They just recognize faces who love them and know we’re one of several ladies with the same name. When I became a mom, I remember searching for the right name to call both of my children’s grandparents. Do I have the kids call her Nanny, Grams, Glamma, Nonne, Mumzie, Lala, Cookie (I like that one) Honey or Gigi? Such a dilemna. The internet has even more choice names for grandparents.  

Regarding grandparents, I wasn’t as fortunate as my grandkids. I didn’t have any living grandpas and only one grandma called Beppe. 

Beppe was a fascinating mystery for me. I never heard her speak. She was my Dutch grandmother, my father’s mother. Always silent, I don’t know if she spoke English or not. Shrunken with age and hard work, she usually sat  silent in her wooden rocking chair in the dining room by a window with a jar of her favorite pink mints close by. Comforted with the weekly presence of her sons and daughters, their children and grandchildren, Beppe was respected and revered. Each Sunday afternoon from three to five pm, after church at the Dutch Reformed Church in Brooten, Minn., my Dutch relatives would gather at Beppe’s house where the men sat and smoked in the comfy stuffed living room chairs; the women and nursing babies were in the dining room on straight backed wooden chairs. The kids sat in the kitchen eating at the gray Formica table where they could tell stories and laugh to their hearts content.    

Aunt Sadie lived with Beppe and organized family gatherings and our lives. Red haired Aunt Sadie was a strong woman, a postmistress who never married. One time she told me about her disappointment in love; her man was drafted into the service. She set high standards for our family. Everything went smoothly for the DeKok families; nothing got out of control as long as Sadie was present in our lives.

Beppe’s long hair was twisted and wound into a gray bun anchored with fragile hairpins. I remember the chunky heels on her sensible tie shoes, the ever-present black dress adorned with a gold pin in front and her tiny gold-rimmed glasses framing black button eyes. Once I got a quick glimpse into her bedroom which was adjacent to the kitchen. The door was closed, always, but I often wondered about the people in the shadowy pictures on the wall. Who was Red-Dan and why were so many relatives named Francis or Henrik, whether they were male or female?  

Kids like to overhear adult conversations. From my bedroom upstairs I heard my folks talking about Beppe coming to America from northern Holland, near Germany, far away from Minnesota across the ocean. I wondered if Beppe missed her homeland and relatives still living in Friesland on the Zuider Zee. Her dark complexion reflected her people, most with black or red hair. Her people were known to be quiet, soft-spoken but solid folks. They were known as the “black Dutch,” a heritage of Dutch, French and perhaps Jewish. A Dutch relative researched our lineage and found the name Solomon Levy, who was hung in the town square. I wish I knew more about this Jewish relative.  

My dad Henry was thought to be Beppe’s favorite. From pictures I could see that Beppe’s husband, my grandfather, was a tall and handsome Dutchman with thick, dark, wavy hair. His reputation was known to be extremely strict: he  considered his son Hank to be a “black sheep” who did not follow his strict family guidelines, especially when he married Esther, a Norwegian girl, not a Dutch woman from their church. On grandpa’s deathbed he asked Henry to bring his baby daughter Patty with a head of dark curls to see him. I heard that he wanted to ask forgiveness for his stern judgment of Henry. The Norwegian daughter-in-law was not asked to accompany them. Quiet judgment reigned even in death.

It was a different time back then. Grandparents were to be respected, not playmates. Beppe’s silent ways intrigued me, but her presence intimidated me so I asked no questions. Being a little kid, that wasn’t my place. Today, curious grandkids ask whatever comes into their heads…it’s fun to have an actual conversation with the little kids. Their reasoning is delightful and amazing…you’ll get fascinating explanations about unicorns, fairies, why they pick their noses and eat bugs and why they jump in mud puddles. Being a grandma is terrific!

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

To contact Pat, email: pat.spilseth@gmail.com.