Part 1: The bookmark

THE BOOKMARK
Written by Bert Plomp

In the past, at home with my parents, I was part of a God-fearing little family. That God-fearing spirit, however, did not last very long. By the time I was about thirteen, I had already left “fearing with great fear” well behind me. Before that, my father always behaved like a sort of household preacher. For instance, he felt it necessary to recite one of his favourite passages from the Holy Scriptures every day before the hot midday meal. He did so unfailingly with a rather expressionless face, which even then provoked me to rebel against it: to look for ways to bring him down a peg or two, to cure him of his hypocrisy.
My father did not quote from the Bible in order to entertain his fellow diners before the meal, or to offer a moment of relaxation before they tucked in. He did it purely for edifying purposes: to prepare his children for entry into the Dutch Reformed Church. He longed for the day when his boys and girl would walk, devout and disciplined, towards the baptismal font, towards the moment when the minister would splash water over their stubborn little heads and pronounce the words: I baptise you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. After that, they would, once and for all, be submissive to the Lord and to His Dutch Reformed Church. It would not surprise me in the least if he regularly had a wet dream about that scene at night.
I had often noticed that dear father struggled to find the page he had last read. After finishing his pious little sermon, he would usually snap the holy book shut with a firm bang, as if to give extra emphasis to the words he had just spoken. More than once, I was on the verge of telling him that he ought to show a little more respect for the Holy Scriptures. When I suggested one day that he might simply dog-ear the last page he had used, he immediately rewarded my well-meant advice with a sharp clip round the ear. To make amends for my “mistake”, I then made a bookmark for my father.
At school, during handicrafts lessons, I had learned how to embroider. With some coloured threads and a piece of cotton embroidery cloth, I spent a free afternoon producing a handsome bookmark. Taking into account the sacred nature of the book in which my artistic creation was to be used, I also embroidered an appropriately “pious” text onto it. I eagerly awaited the moment when my father would once again take out the Holy Scriptures and open them.
I remember well that it was a Friday. Normally a day on which I tried to avoid the midday meal, as my dear mother invariably “treated” the family to haddock in mustard sauce: a dish that always caused my digestion considerable trouble, often culminating in the urgent need to bring the whole delicacy back up again. This time, however, given the special circumstances, I was determined to be present. So I endured the haddock. I was absolutely set on witnessing the blissful expression that would appear on my father’s face the moment he laid eyes on my special creation.
When my father, almost automatically, opened the Bible at the page he had last read, he found my little gift. After reading the devout, embroidered text: “And the Lord said unto His disciples, I shall take the bike, you may hike” the man nearly had a seizure. Not only my father, but my mother too flew into a rage. As punishment, I was immediately sent back to school on an empty stomach.
As a child, I generally had rather poor luck when it came to giving presents. More often than not, my hands were simply empty, as I lacked the means to buy any. A few years after the bookmark incident, however, I decided to surprise my mother with my first hard-earned pennies. For Mother’s Day, I bought her a brand-new cover for her ironing board from a household goods shop. Strangely enough, this gift was not appreciated either. In fact, I was nearly strung up with the floral cover. I could make no sense of it at all. After all, my mother herself had only recently taught me, at Saint Nicholas, that when receiving a gift, one ought to be content even with a practical present.