“A cat, Darius, is not a good idea.”
“She’s really going to be disappointed. This is going to be a terrible Christmas. Mommy hasn’t even made any sugar cookies.”
“That’s because when we went shopping, we forgot to get all of the ingredients.”
“What did we forget, Dad?”
“Sugar, Darius. We forgot sugar.”
“Oh. Could I borrow some guilders, Dad? I need to pick up a cat toy for Melika. Do you think that would be a useful gift?”
“Darius!”
The mid-December relief date came - the family was almost too exhausted to notice. Mitra provided a typically brilliant performance. Her French teacher wanted to know if “there was anything Mitra couldn’t do.” We suggested long-distance running and gourmet (merely edible) cooking. Nazy and I agreed that Mitra’s talent was a simple indication of the importance of genes.
The family tree, a Norwegian blue spruce, was finally acquired and installed. The German Kerstäumstander, acquired for the giant sequoia of the previous year, met the new need perfectly. Nazy located a “not to be missed” Dutch event - lighting the city tree in Gouda. The Martin Family headed for Centraal Station for the (newly) traditional trek to Gouda.
The city, famous for cheese in America, is pronounced gHOWda in Dutch. (It is their country, if they want to screw up the pronunciation, there’s nothing we can do about it.) The train was crowded; we were clearly sharing tradition with others.
We couldn’t sit together. Darius struck up a conversation with his seatmate. I couldn’t hear everything, but I did catch snippets that wafted their way toward me. (“My sister really wants a cat for Christmas but my parents...”, “Nobody in our family has any Christmas Spirit this year.”)
We walked from the Gouda station to the city centre where we and discovered that we were a few hours early. We located a suitable restaurant on the square and ordered dinner. We were discussing the attraction while we waited for our meal to arrive.
“So Nazy,” I asked, “what’s the big deal about the tree-lighting ceremony in Gouda?”
“That’s gHOWda, Dan. It says that the ceremony ‘should not be missed’. Everyone comes to the town square to see the tree and to sing Christmas carols.”
“I said ‘Gouda’ dear. Why does everyone come?”
“Yes, you said ‘Gouda’ you should have said ‘gHOWda’.”
“What I said was ‘Why do they come here?’ and that, my dear, remains the question.”
“It says that all the stores and houses turn off their lights and that all the townsfolk put candles in their windows. Then the tree is lit and everyone sings carols.”
“Do they sing in English or Dutch?”
“Good Cheer, Dan. Be of good cheer.”
I was trying to be cheerful, but I was cold and squished. I was hungry, too. We had been sitting at table four for an inordinately lengthy time. The food, when it arrived was ‘cold and squished’. Just as it was placed in front of us, all of the lights in the restaurant went out.
Darius jumped. “Hurry up, Dad! We’re gonna miss it. You’re gonna mess up the tradition. I’m going outside right now to see what’s happening. Why’d you pick this restaurant anyway? We should’ve just gone to McDonalds.”
We wolfed down the meal, the better to disguise the taste, and dashed outside. Actually, we tried to dash outside. The town square was crowded. We joined hands, pushed a few tourists out of the way and got elbowed by a few natives. We shoved our way to within sight of the tree.
The town square was, everyone later admitted, quite picturesque. The square was dominated by a remarkable town hall. All the lights were turned off. There were candles in every window. Had there been room to breathe, it would have been a bit better. Typically, Darius was complaining.
“I can’t see anything, Dad.”
“You’re not supposed to see anything, Darius. You’re supposed to listen. The mayor is talking now.”
