Pompeblêden

Pompeblêden captures the stillness and faith of Friesland in winter. Each morning, Tjark walks to the canal, tests the ice, and listens to the echo of his own patience. His son has been gone for years, but the ritual remains: feed the animals, read a page of Anna Karenina, wait for the freeze that will make the world crossable again. Told in clean, lyrical prose, Pompeblêden is a meditation on time, endurance, and the thin edge between hope and delusion.

Tjark had always found extremely annoying when people thought that the seven red pompeblêden on the provincial flag were little hearts. What is this, the Efteling? Ok, yes, I guess that they looked at little bit like hearts, and not really like waterlilies. But then what were the blue stripes then, if not polder canals?

“Jesus, pa, give it a rest. Who cares what people think? It’s an ugly flag anyway.” Frans had always had little patience for these things.

But to Tjark these things mattered. Small things. Inconsequential, perhaps, for many. Like stores selling pepernoten too early, well before the arrival of Sinterklaas – or even, god forbid, after the bearded man had gone back to wherever he lived. Like refusing to defend nagelkaas as the best of them all. Like his son saying pa instead of heit. Small things. Nothing to write home about. But they mattered. To Tjark, they did.

Is not that Tjark was particularly proud of his origins. I mean, he was. Of course, he was. But more in the sense that where he lived, and where he was from, clicked really well with who he was. Like juniper berries and cloves with his mum’s snirtjebraten. Just right. Fryslân boppe en de rest yn’e groppe.

But his origins were not his identity. Ok, yes, they were. A bit. A lot, actually. But it’s not like that. Like being so obsessed with that stuff that all of a sudden you start voting for those ugly, angry people. “Us first,” ensafuorthinne. Tjark did not care about any of that. Not a bit. No, for real. They could go to hell, all of them and their faksist crap.

Frans was not back yet.

Tjark looked at the small TV perched high up in a corner of their small kitchen, tucked in a nook next to the microwave that had stopped working years ago.

Four things were a constant, when it comes to that little TV. One, it was always on. Really, even at night. Two, and likely because of one, the quality of the image was painful to witness. The quality of the image had never been great, the TV being of one those cheap trinkets that you could get for less than sixty guilders at Expert Elektronica down in town next to the church. But in recent years the quality really had gone downhill. Today, a trembling vertical line was always present, sometimes all the way to the left of the image, but more often than not smack in the middle. Almost artistic. Three, also because of one, the audio was off. Always on mute. Always. They only talk bullshit, anyway. And four, which perhaps justified one two and three, the TV was turned on, on mute, always on the same channel. A local channel, which exclusively showed info about local weather.

Partly cloudy. Wind 20kph NE. 45% chance of rain at 9.30 am. Then again 50% at 11am. Then 80% at 4pm. Max 8°C, min -1°C. Still too warm.

“Pa, you know that you can find all of that info on the net, right? Or on your phone?” “I just have to look over there at the TV, and I learn everything I need to know. Thank you very much.”

“And if you are not in the kitchen?”

“Then I’m either outside, and I can see the weather for myself, or I’m sleeping.”

That discussion had happened last year. And the year before, almost identical. Tjark was sure about it. And the year before that.

Frans was impatient. Young, certainly. Wasn’t Tjark also impatient when he was a kid? Yes, yes, he was. Impatient to get going. Prove himself as being able to beat the polsstokverspringen record of that stupid Joop Boonstra – the idiot that wanted to be called ‘Fjouwer O’. Not that anybody did. Idiot. Yes, Tjark was impatient to get going with his life. But not impatient to get away. He always knew that he would stick around. Not only to help his parents with the farm and the animals. Yes, also for that. But because here was home.

Tjark peeked again at the TV, just in case the weather had suddenly decided to cooperate and drop by a few degrees. No. Ok, time to feed Clara. And all the other ones as well, I guess. Tjark had a favorite among all of the pigs. He would never admit it. But, surprise, if there was a little bit more of food in the bucket, who would get it? One random pig? Clara is who would get the extra food. Of course.

Tjark put on his heavy vest and his klompen and went on with his day. A long day it was, like all of his days. No matter the season, no matter the weather. Well, actually, the weather mattered a little bit. For his day. To decide whether he would go down to the canal to check, for instance. Not this day, though.

As the sun was going down over the Ijsselmeer and a thin but heavy mist was starting to settle on the grass and the salvia, Tjark returned to his cabin.

Frans was not back yet.

That kid. Who knows what was going on with him? Tjark did not. He had stopped understanding his son years ago. Muskusratten, Tjark thought. Running around in his kid’s head. Impatient to leave. Tjark did not know what to say to him. They did not have many subjects of conversation in common. Except for one. Reedride. Or schaatsen, as they said further south. As Frans

said. There was little that that boy loved more than putting on his skates and fly away on the frozen canals, his hands behind his back and his gleaming eyes pointed at the next village. Fast, he was. Delicate on his skates, the sound of his thrusts as evocative, to Tjark, as the crackling of the needle on the vinyl grooves.

Tjark prepared a quick cold dinner, which he ate standing up leaning to the kitchen counter. After cleaning his plate and fork, and tossing the cheese rinds and apple core into the bucket for the pigs, he darted a quick glance at the forecast for the next day that was up on the wobbly screen.

Again partly cloudy. But that was ok. Wind 30kph NE. Stronger. That was also ok. No rain forecasted. Yeah, sure. Max 7°C, min -5°C. Getting there.

Tjark checked that the front door was unlocked, and left the light over the stove on, to create a more homely halo in the little cabin. A cheese and salad sandwich over rye bread, Frans favorite, was on the almost empty middle shelf in the fridge. Where he knew he would find it if he came home hungry. The drawing of the pompeblêden that Frans had done when he was a little kid, taped to the fridge with yellowing scotch, flapped gently as the door was opened and closed. On the fridge, Then Tjark went to bed. He sat down on it, his back against the headrest, his fluffier pillow providing some padding. He took the novel he was reading, Anna Karenina, and his notebook out from the nightstand. And read exactly one page. Like each day, no matter what. Really, one page, each day. Not less not more. No skipping days. Then noted down his thoughts on his notebook. Where he thought the book was going, how much he liked or disliked the main characters today. What he thought would happen in the next page. Whether he had been right yesterday about what would happen in today’s page. Whether the prose was too heavy, not grave enough. How credible the dialogues were, the snipped of dialogues that were on the daily page, anyway. Then he settled down to sleep, and slept for exactly six hours. Not one minute more not one minute less.

As he got up the next day the sun was still hidden behind the horizon, under the steeples and spires of the fancy cities over there in the East. Under that gas field that was making the earth tremble every so often. As he shuffled towards the kitchen, his slippers heavy and uncooperative, he peeked into his son’s bedroom. But he already knew that Frans was not back yet, he would have heard him coming home and making all the noises he would certainly make. Delicate, his son was not. But that was ok, he had promised that he would be back.

Tjark prepared a quick cold breakfast, which he ate standing up leaning to the kitchen counter. Dark coffee, two mugs. After cleaning his plate and fork, and tossing the cheese rinds and apple core into the bucket for the pigs, which was starting to small a little bit, he darted a quick glance at the forecast for the day that was up on the wobbly screen. Same as it had been yesterday before going to bed. Even better, actually. Max 2°C, min -6°C. And a note, in the middle of the screen, telling him that last night had been the first time this winter with temperatures continuously below – 5. Or that is what Tjark hoped the note was saying, as part of it was creatively hidden behind the wobbly vertical line. But Tjark was an optimist. Yes, he was. A dreamer, you say? No, I would not go that far. Planted deep into the earth his feet were, and I don’t know if someone can really be a dreamer when roots sprout out of their big toes. Two and two always made four, in Tjark’s home. But he believed. As simple as that. He believed in good human nature, and in the beauty of the day, and of the land. Beauty, always. Even if he often felt surrounded by idiots. Like that Joop Boonstra. ‘Fjouwer O’ my ass.

But so, Tjark was an optimist. And when he felt particularly so, in winter, obviously, his daily routine included a further chore. No, not a chore. More like a task. Almost a mission. To go check the ice. How thick it was. And today he did so. First, however, the duty. Clara was hungry this morn. And, yes, the other ones as well. Geez, of course he would feed the other ones as well.

But then, after all his chores were done, Tjark went to check the ice. It was a bit of a hike, until the canal. One hour there, one hour back. His wooden klompen not really indicated for such a long series of steps, but he liked it that way. Those were his lucky klompen. And is not like he could go check any canal. It had to be that one. The one where the race would be.

Tjark got there right in time, as the sun was preparing to dip behind the absolute flatness all around them. Not that he needed light to execute his chore. Task. Mission. But why do something in the dark if one can still use the light of the day? Exactly.

Tjark kneeled down at the edge of the polder, where the spongy earth curved into the ditch, and extended his hand towards the surface of the water, a few centimeters below. He could already see that the surface was immobile and gelatinous, that the water had changed form and essence. But how thick was that layer of frozen happiness? Tjark touched the glacial surface, then pushed it, then punched it. No movement. Positive. It meant, based on his expertise, and of that he had aplenty, that the canal had been frozen for at least one full night and one full day. At least. That was good. Was it enough? Probably not. He was an optimist, not a fool. And he did not have to test whether the ice would hold his weight to know that it wouldn’t. People that say that optimists are reckless have never had to get up before dawn to feed their pigs.

It was enough for the day. Tjark was content, and content he endeavored to hike back home, in the dying light of that winter day. It’s ok, he knew the road well. The blister under his left pinky toe, the one that he refused to pop, made itself a bit loud during the walk home. But that was ok, nothing than a warm feet bath would not placate.

As his little cabin came into view, the diffuse light coming from the kitchen window was enough to know that his son was not back yet. Pity, he wanted to talk to him about the ice. About the race. But it’s ok. Frans had promised that he would be back. When the ice would be strong enough for him to fly away on it. He had promised. Tjark knew it. He was an optimist, after all.

Tjark got into the cold cabin and turned on the gas heater. A little bit, just enough. He prepared a quick cold dinner, which he ate standing up leaning to the kitchen counter. Cheese rinds and apple core into the bucket for the pigs. Plate and fork washed and stored away. Quick glance at the TV, weather forecast for the next day. Cloudy, windy, no rain. Down to -9°C during the night. Good. Tjark checked that the front door was unlocked, put the cheese sandwich for his son in the fridge, making the drawing of the pompeblêden flapping gently as the door was opened and closed. He removed the old one – another gift for Clara, tomorrow – and left the light over the stove on to create a more homely halo in the little cabin. Then went to bed. One page. Anna Karenina was arriving to Italy. Notes about the trains in the novel. About her dreams, and the beautiful prose. Short notes, today. Tjark was tired.

The next day he got up early, as always. Frans had not come back during the night. But he had promised that he would eventually be back. When the ice would be strong enough. Tjark wanted to believe that. That this promise was strong enough to bind Frans to it, no matter what.

Cold breakfast, cheese rinds and apple core in the bucket, dark coffee, two mugs. Weather check, positive trends. Clara, and the others fed and happy. Then the hike to the ice. Heftier the surface looked today. Milky white, with clear blue rivulets rippling through it. Beauty, always. Tjark touched, pushed, and punched the surface. A deep thud. Hefty. This is not a two-day ice. This is older. Deeper, it goes. Tjark was sure. He lowered himself on the ice, and slowly raised into his full height. The feet widespread, his hands on his hips. Arrogant. He tapped the ice with his wooden klompen. A very solid and hefty thud, again. He jumped. A wee jolt, at first. Surprisingly timing, given his enthusiasm. But then a more convincing spring. And landed with a healthy clunk on the ice. Was a distant cracking sound, that we did hear? No, it was not. Trust me, it wasn’t. It must have been a tree rattling or something like that. Perhaps a local train, distant, going to Franeker or someplace like that. No, the ice was not complaining. The ice was ready.

As he started walking back, Tjark hoped that his son would have come back during the day. That was a bit unusual for Tjark. He was an optimist, not a dreamer, remember? But he really wanted to tell his son about the ice. Talk with him about the race.

“It might happen this year, soan. I think. I am sure.”

“The Elfstedentocht?”

“Alvestêdetocht, you mean.”

“If you say so.”

The ice was strong. Enough, Tjark thought. He was sure of it. The race would take place, this year. He knew it.

But Frans was not at the cabin. Tjark knew by simply looking at the diffuse light coming from the kitchen window. The little cabin was empty, and cold. Alone, his abode was standing. But Tjark was an optimist. Frans was not back, not today. But he will.

His son had promised that he would be back, when the ice would be strong enough. No matter what. No matter where, or when, he was. No matter how much earth was piled on top of him, over there, under the beech, next to his mama.