Dat is so

vun Clara Kramer-Freudenthal
(Hornung 2000)

Is dat al warrer Middelweken? Mien Kolumne is fällig. Kuum to gläuben. De Doog rennt mit Söbenmielenstebeln. Een Week is gor nix. Mamma, dien Wüür goht mi mol warrer dörch den Kopp, wo allns nooh un nooh indröppt wat du mi mol vörruut seggt heß, un dat ik dumme Diern dormools in'n Stilln öber dien Lebenserfohrn in mi rin smustert hebb. Nu is dat ober nau so as du mi dat vörruut seggt heß indropen.

Is Winterdag. De Snee knirscht mi ünner de Stebeln. Wüür bi mien Fründin Irene to 'n Klönen un handarbeiten. Mien Handarbeit, een Paradehanddook to'n Utsticken för Mamma to'n Mudderdag, harr ik ünnern Arm. Müß smuck utsehn wenn 't farig wüür. Dat Motiv wüürn Jung un Diern in hollandsche Dracht mit twee Möhlen in 'n Achtergrund. Bi de Hulttüffeln wüür ik al. Stickt hebb ik dat op wittet Linnen mit blauen Twist. Wüür jo noch de Iesmoond. Dat schaff ik mit links bet Mai. Jo, ik wull dat an de Dwarskanten boben un ünnen ok noch mit een Spitz in blau ümhäkeln mit een deelten Twistfoden. Dat wüür denn gans fien. Hebb dat Sticken ok mit een deelten Foden mookt. Nu mütt ik de Froonslüüd ut mien Generotschoon nich verkloorn wat een deelten Twistfoden is. De weet dat seker noch gans nau.

De iesern Drücker vun de Purt is ieskoold in mien Hannen, un de Finger blievt meist backen. Gau loop ik den Steenweg dool un neih in'n Golopp in 't Flett. Mien Handarbeit hebb ik ünner dat Küssen vun den Korfsessel versteken un bün in de Dööns mit den Rüch an den warmen, bet an de Deek recken Kacheloben kropen. Wüür dat mollig! Pappa wüür al in de Puuk, un lütt Süster Wilma ok. Mamma seet op dat Sofo, ehr Knütttüüg leeg op ehrn Schoot, un ik mark, dat se an't Gruveln wüür.

,,Mamma, wat is mit di? Geiht di dat nich good? Müch meist seggen du büß trurig.''

,,Ik hebb bloots noch op di teuvt, mien Diern. Bün ok bilütten meud. Loot uns man in de Puuk krüpen. In dien Bett hebb ik een Warmbuddel leggt,un dien Nachthemd stickt achtern Oben. Treck di man hier ünnen ut, un boben in dien iesige Komer krüppst glieks ünner de Deek'', sä mien Mamma de warrer an allns dacht un för allns sorgt harr, wat för uns Kinner good wüür. 

,,Mamma, ober du heß doch öber wat nogruvelt as ik keum. Ik kinn di doch. Hebb noch nie nich beleevt, dat de Knüttnodeln nich klappert wenn du se in de Hannen heß'' geev ik Mamma to weten.

,,Tjer, mien Diern. Will di giern vertelln wat mi so dörch den Kopp gohn is. Fleten Week bün ik 61 Johr old worn, un du büß jüst twintig. Dink mol an mien Wüür de ik di nu segg. Wenn du mol in mien Öller kummst, un du de Süßdig ierst mol foot heß, denn müß du een Johr för twee telln. De Tiet löppt di ümmer gauer weg.''

,,Och, Mamma! Nu loot mi nich lachen! De Tiet kann doch gor nich gauer lopen. Een Dag is een Dag, een Week een Week, een Moond een Moond, un een Johr is un blifft een Johr. Woans schull de Tiet wull gauer lopen? Nee, Mamma, dat gläuv ik di nu würklich nich,'' anter ik öbertüügt.

,,Warr iers mol so old as ik, mien Diern. Denn warrst du noch mol an de Wüür vun dien Mamma trüchdinken.''

Nu hebbt de Johrn mi al lang foot. Wo foken hebb ik in mien Dinken mien Mamma recht geben. Mark dat Week för Week an mien Kolumne! Wat is denn noch een Week? Kuum hebb ik de Kolumne röbermailt no mien Blatt un dink: ,,Nu heß warrer een Week Tiet.'' Ober de Week flüggt an mi vörbi as wenn't man een poor Doog wüürn. Wo kann 't angohn? Mi is meist, dat ik de Johrn af tachentig noch gauer telln mütt as duppelt. Hebb al no een Brems söcht, find ober keen.

That's How It Is

by Clara Kramer-Freudenthal 
(February 2000)

Is it already Wednesday again? My column is due. It's hard to believe. The days run by wearing seven-mile boots. One week is nothing. Mom, your words are crossing my mind again, how everything happens that you had predicted, and at the time that silly me had secretly grinned about your life experiences. Now it has all come to pass exactly as you had predicted it.

It's a winter's day. The snow crunches underneath my boots. I had been over at my girlfriend Irene's to chat and do needlework. Under my arm I was carrying my needlework -- a pre-designed display towel to be filled in with needlepoint for Mom on Mother's Day. It had to look pretty when it was finished. The motif was a boy and a girl in Dutch costume with two mills in the background. I had already gotten to the wooden clogs. I was stitching it on white linen with blue plied thread. It was only January. I'd easily get it done by May. Why, on top of it I wanted to crochet a blue lace border onto the top and bottom edges with stripped thread! That would then be really fine. I did the needlework with stripped thread too. I suppose I don't need to explain to women in my generation what stripped plied thread is. They probably know exactly what it is.

The iron latch of the gate is icy cold in my hands, and my fingers nearly stick to it. I hurriedly run down the paved path and burst into the hallway. I hid my needlework underneath the cushion of the wicker chair and positioned my back against the warm tiled stove that went all the way up to the ceiling. How warm and lovely that was! Dad was in bed already, as was little sister Wilma. Mom was sitting on the sofa. Her knitting was lying on her lap, and I noticed that she was lost deep in thought.

"Mom, what's the matter with you? Aren't you feeling well? I'm tempted to say you are being sad."

"I was just waiting for you, honey. I've gotten sleepy in the process. Let's go to bed. I've put a warm water bottle into your bed, and your nighty is behind the stove. Why don't you get undressed down here, and then you'll hop straight into bed up in your icy room," said my mom who had once again thought of everything and had taken care of everything that was good for us children.

"Mom, but when I came you were thinking hard about something. Come on! I know you. It's never before happened that your knitting needles weren't clicking when you had them in your hands," I let Mom know.

"Well, honey. I'm happy to tell you what's been going through my mind. Last week I turned 61, and you are twenty. Remember the words I'm going to tell you now. When you'll be my age, when the 60s have got a hold of you, then you'll have to count two years for one. Time passes faster and faster."

"Oh, Mom! Now don't make me laugh! Time can't go faster. A day is a day, a week a week, a month a month, and a year is and stays a year. How could time speed up? No, Mom, I really don't believe that," I answered with conviction.

"Wait and see till you reach my age, honey. Then you'll remember these words of your mom's."

Now old age got a hold of me long ago. How often I've had to quietly agree with my mom! I notice it week by week with my column! What's a week these days? As soon as I have mailed the column over to my newspaper I think, "Now you have another week." But the week flies past me as though it were only a couple of days. How can it be? I'm tempted to assume that I've got to count the years above eighty even more than double. I've already searched for the breaks, but I can't find any.

Dat is soo

fun Clara Kramer-Freudenthal
(Hornung 2000)

Is dat al warrer Middelweken? Miin kolumne is fellig. Kuum tou gloyven. De daag' rent mit seuvenmilen-steveln. Ein week is gaar niks. Mamma, diin woyrd' gaat mii maal warrer doerch d'n kop, wou allens naa un naa indroept wat duu mii maal foer ruut seggt hest, un dat ik dumme deirn daarmaals in'n stillen euver diin levens-erfaren in mii rin smuustert hev. Nuu is dat aver nau soo as duu mii dat foer ruut segd hest indrapen.

Is winter-dag. De snei knirscht mii uenner de steveln. Woyr bii miin fruendin Irene tou d'n kleunen un hand-arbaiden. Miin hand-arbaid - 'n parade-handdouk tou d'n uut-stikken foer Mamma tou d'n mudder-dag - har ik uenner d'n arm. Muess smuk uut-seen wen 't farrig woyr. Dat motiiw woyren jung un deirn in hollandsche dracht mit twei meulen in d'n achter-grund. Bii de hult-tueffeln woyr ik al. Stikd hev ik dat op wittet linnen mit blauen twist. Woyr jaa noch de Iismaand. Dat schaf ik mit links bet Mai. Jaa, ik wul dat an de dwars-kanten baven un uennen ouk noch mit 'n spits in blau uem-hekeln mit 'n deilten twist-faden. Dat woyr denn gans fiin. Hev dat stikken ouk mit 'n deilden faden maakd. Nuu muet ik de frouns-luyd' uut miin generaatschoon nich ferklaren wat 'n deilden twist-faden is. De weett dat seker noch ganss nau.

De isern druekker fun de poort is iiskold in miin handen, un de finger bliivt maist bakken. Gau loup ik d'n stein-weg daal un nai in 'n galop in't flet. Miin hand-arbaid hev ik uenner dat kuessen fun d'n korv-sessel fersteken un buen in de deuns mit d'n rueg an d'n warmen, bet an de deek rekkenen kachel-aven krapen. Woyr dat mollig! Pappa woyr al in de puuk, un luet suester Wilma ouk. Mamma seet op dat Sofa. Er knuettuyg leeg op eren schoot, un ik mark, dat sei an't gruveln woyr.

,,Mamma, wat is mit dii? Gait dii dat nich goud? Muech maist seggen duu buest trurig.''

,,Ik hev bloots noch op dii toyvd, miin deirn. Buen ouk bii luetten moyd'. Laat uns man in de puuk kruypen. In diin bed hev ik 'n warm-buddel legd,un diin nacht-hemd stikt achter d'n aven. Trek dii man hiir uennen uut, un baven in diin isige kamer kruepst gliiks uenner de deek'', see miin mamma de warrer an allens dachd un foer allens sorgd har wat foer uns kinder goud woyr. 

,,Mamma, aver du hest doch euver wat naa-gruveld as ik koym. Ik kin dii doch. Hev noch nii nich beleevd dat de knuet-nadeln nich klappert wen duu sei in de handen hest'' geev ik Mamma tou weten.

,,Tjer, miin deirn. Wil dii geirn fertellen wat mii soo doerch d'n kop gaan is. Fleten week buen ik 61 [ein un suestig] jaar old worren, un duu buest juest twintig. Dink maal an miin woyrd' de ik dii nuu seg. Wen duu maal in miin oeller kumst un duu de suestig eirsd maal faat hest, den muest duu ein jaar foer twei tellen. De tiid loept dii uemmer gauer weg.''

,,Och, Mamma! Nuu laat mii nich lachen! De tiid kan doch gaar nich gauer loupen. Ein dag is ein dag, ein week ein week, ein maand ein maand, un ein jaar is un blivt ein jaar. Woans schul de tiid wul gauer loupen? Nei, Mamma, dat gloyv' ik dii nuu wuerklich nich,'' anter ik oeuvre-tuygd.

,,Ward' eirsd maal soo old as ik, miin deirn. Denn wardst duu noch maal an de woyrd' fun diin mamma trueg-dinken.''

Nuu hevt de jaren mii al lang faat. Wou faken hev ik in miin dinken miin mamma recht geven! Mark dat week foer week an miin kolumne! Wat is den noch ein week? Kuum hev ik de kolumne reuver maild naa miin blad un dink: ,,Nuu hest warrer ein week tiid.'' Aver de week fluegt an mii foerbii as wen 't man 'n paar daag' woyren. Wou kan 't an-gaan? Mii is maist dat ik de jaren af tachentig noch gauer tellen muet as duppeld. Hev al naa 'n brems soechd, find aver kein.

That's How It Is

by Clara Kramer-Freudenthal 
(February 2000)

Is it already Wednesday again? My column is due. It's hard to believe. The days run by wearing seven-mile boots. One week is nothing. Mom, your words are crossing my mind again, how everything happens that you had predicted, and at the time that silly me had secretly grinned about your life experiences. Now it has all come to pass exactly as you had predicted it.

It's a winter's day. The snow crunches underneath my boots. I had been over at my girlfriend Irene's to chat and do needlework. Under my arm I was carrying my needlework -- a pre-designed display towel to be filled in with needlepoint for Mom on Mother's Day. It had to look pretty when it was finished. The motif was a boy and a girl in Dutch costume with two mills in the background. I had already gotten to the wooden clogs. I was stitching it on white linen with blue plied thread. It was only January. I'd easily get it done by May. Why, on top of it I wanted to crochet a blue lace border onto the top and bottom edges with stripped thread! That would then be really fine. I did the needlework with stripped thread too. I suppose I don't need to explain to women in my generation what stripped plied thread is. They probably know exactly what it is.

The iron latch of the gate is icy cold in my hands, and my fingers nearly stick to it. I hurriedly run down the paved path and burst into the hallway. I hid my needlework underneath the cushion of the wicker chair and positioned my back against the warm tiled stove that went all the way up to the ceiling. How warm and lovely that was! Dad was in bed already, as was little sister Wilma. Mom was sitting on the sofa. Her knitting was lying on her lap, and I noticed that she was lost deep in thought.

"Mom, what's the matter with you? Aren't you feeling well? I'm tempted to say you are being sad."

"I was just waiting for you, honey. I've gotten sleepy in the process. Let's go to bed. I've put a warm water bottle into your bed, and your nighty is behind the stove. Why don't you get undressed down here, and then you'll hop straight into bed up in your icy room," said my mom who had once again thought of everything and had taken care of everything that was good for us children.

"Mom, but when I came you were thinking hard about something. Come on! I know you. It's never before happened that your knitting needles weren't clicking when you had them in your hands," I let Mom know.

"Well, honey. I'm happy to tell you what's been going through my mind. Last week I turned 61, and you are twenty. Remember the words I'm going to tell you now. When you'll be my age, when the 60s have got a hold of you, then you'll have to count two years for one. Time passes faster and faster."

"Oh, Mom! Now don't make me laugh! Time can't go faster. A day is a day, a week a week, a month a month, and a year is and stays a year. How could time speed up? No, Mom, I really don't believe that," I answered with conviction.

"Wait and see till you reach my age, honey. Then you'll remember these words of your mom's."

Now old age got a hold of me long ago. How often I've had to quietly agree with my mom! I notice it week by week with my column! What's a week these days? As soon as I have mailed the column over to my newspaper I think, "Now you have another week." But the week flies past me as though it were only a couple of days. How can it be? I'm tempted to assume that I've got to count the years above eighty even more than double. I've already searched for the breaks, but I can't find any.