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- © 1997, R. F. Hahn
Low Saxon in the original orthography: To Pingsten 1997
vun Clara Kramer-Freudenthal
(Maimoond 1997)Geev mi ümmer warrer Meuh nix mit de vergohn Tiet to verglieken. Geiht eenfach nich, de Ünnerscheed to hüüt is to groot. Wat hebbt uns Öllern swoor wruckt, üm Huus, Hoff, Goorn, Kirschhöf un Wischen in de Rehg to hooln. Jo, se hebbt wruckt vun Sunnopgang bet Sünnünnergang. Ober keeneen hett kloogt öber toveel Arbeit.
Grood to Pingsten müß allns op'n Droht ween. Kunnst vun'n Footborm eten. All' den scheunen Pitschpien-Footborms worrn mit Bootslack op Hoochglanz bröcht. Wenn wi alltohoop in de Puuk wüürn, hett uns Mamma lackt. Finster un Döörn wüürn open, dormit dat good dreugen kunn. Annern Morgen, ihr wi opstohn sünd, harr Mamma den Footborm al mit Essigwoter afschreckt. Nu kunn wi dor op lopen. Hüür hüüt noch wenn Mamma mit mi schimp: ,,Kiek di dat an, dien verdreihte Katt hett warrer mit ehr Poten Tappen in den frischen Lack achterloten. Is doch ümmer datsülbe mit dien Bumann''. ,,Mamma, dat is doch een Katt, woans schüllt Deerten weten, datt du den Footborm lackt heß. Wenn de Finster opstoht, dinkt Bumann, dat heß du för ehr mookt. Heß al mool öber nodacht, wat vörn Ploog dat för Bumann is, den backsigen Lack vun ehr lütten Poten rünnertokriegen? Will mool sehn, datt ik mit Terpentin helpen kann'', anter ik un entschüllig mien Katt. Dat een Deef instiegen kunn, dor hett nümbst an dacht. To Pingsttiet harr mien Bumann ümmer Junge. Hebb ehr ok to rechten Tiet een Kist' to'n Jungen trechtmookt, un ole Klomotten vun mi rinleggt, ober nee, Bumann müß in mien Bett jungen. Ok dat kunn Mamma nich verknusen. ,,Na, woveel Katten warrst denn dit Johr loos in de School? Een loot man ok för uns liggen, ober een Koter! Is noog wenn een Katt tweemool in't Johr mit Junge ankümmt. De Harskatten doogt sowieso nix, de mööt glieks an de Siet bröcht warrn'', sä Mamma denn to mi, to Kattenjule Clara. Mien Hatt hett jubileert, ik kunn een lütten Koter for mi liggen loten. Kuum to gläuben, ober as ik no de Flucht warrer to Huus ankäum, is mien Bumann, se leev to noch, fuurts op mien Schoot hüppt, hett för Freid snurrt mi de Hannen afslickt, un hett mi op Schritt un Tritt nich ut de Ogen loten. Bün bet op den hüdigen Dag een Kattenjule bleben. Veer an de Tall mookt uns Dag för Dag veel Freid.
Nu ober no de Katteninloog op den Pingstsünndag to. Pingstsünnobend worrn wi afseept, liekso as dat in dat Leed
vun Hein Köllisch schreben steiht. Pingstsünndag wull keeneen Pingstbüdel warrn. Dejenige, de toletzt ut de Puuk käum, worr Pingstbüdel un utlacht. Wi Dierns harrn nee'e Kleder, Lackschooh un witte Socken to Pingsten kregen un hebbt uns bannig höögt. Bloots nich schiedig moken, bloots keen Placken op dat nee'e Kleed kriegen wüür uns gröttste Sorg. Pappa harr to linker- un rechterhand vun de Huusdöör grote Maibäum opstellt. Vör't Heck un blang den Steenweg leeg de harkte, gele Kies, den Pappa jedet Johr to Pingsten harr anführn loten. Uns Mamma wüür in de Köök an't Schirrwarken, un een Rüken tröck dörch dat Huus, datt mi hüüt noch dat Woter in'n Mund tosoom löppt. Den Spiesploon hebb ik öbernohm un mien Fomilje güng dat, as se noch all' bi Huus wüürn an'n Pingstsünndag liekso as mi in mien Kinnertiet. Na, nu will ik verroden woans dat aflopen is. An Fierdoog hett uns Pappa ümmer dat Dischbeed sproken un uns vun den ,,Hilligen Geist'' vertellt, de öber uns utschütt worrn is, un dat Pingsten een christlichet Fest is. Mit fohlen Hannen seten wi dor un hebbt niep tohüürt. Vörweg geev dat een lütten Töller Spargelcremsupp. Dat Haupteten wüür een Kalvsnierenbroden mit stoovten Spargel (hüüt heet dat
, veel vörnehmer) un Sultkutüffeln. Un, mit veel Arbeit verbunn', geev dat to'n Sluß een leckere Citrooncremspies', de noch hüüt to mien leevsten Nodisch tellt. Lukullus seet mit to Disch müch ik seggen. Gertrud un ik hebbt Mamma bi't Oprümen in de Köök holpen. To Kaffetiet harr Mamma allns sülbst backt. Noch hüüt bewunner ik ehr Könen, Geduur un Tietindeeln. To'n Obendbroot seten wi alltohoop proot um den groten Eekendisch wenn Pappa den iersten Schinken ansneden hett. Een Ruuch! Wenn'k bi'n Swienslachen ok ummer weglopen bün, den Smack vun den Schinken vergeet ik nie nich. Swattbroot un Schinken ut de Pape, för een Norddüütschen wull kuum to öberdropen. Dat wüür Pingsten in mien Kinnertiet, so vull vun lüttet Glück, wenn dat Geld ok knapp wüür, ober Nestwarms un de Leev vun uns Öllern wüürn mihr wiert as allns Guld vun de Welt.
Frohe Pingsten un Gott Voder sien rieken Segen wünsch ik all' mien leben Lesers.
English translation by R. F. Hahn: For Pentecost 1997
by Clara Kramer-Freudenthal
(May 1997)I keep trying hard not to compare things with times past. It just won't work; the difference between then and now is too great. How hard our parents had struggled for us to maintain house, yard, garden, cherry orchards and meadows! Yes, they slaved from dawn to dusk. But nobody complained about too much work.
Especially during Pentecost (Whitsuntide) things would have to be in good shape. You could have eaten off the floor. All the beautiful stained pine floors were given a high polish with boat varnish. When we were all in bed, Mom would do the varnishing. Windows and doors were open so it could dry properly. Next morning, before we got up, Mom would have had already neutralized the floors with diluted vinegar. Then we were allowed to walk on them. I can still hear Mom scolding me, "Take a look at that! Your crazy cat has left footprints on the finish with her paws again. It's always the same thing with your Bogie." "But, Mom, it's just a cat! How is an animal supposed to know that you have varnished the floors. When the windows are open Bogie thinks you did it for her. Have you ever thought about what a bother it is for Bogie to get the sticky varnish off her paws? I'll see if I can help with some turpentine," I'd answer in defense of my cat. Nobody used to consider the possibility of a thief entering. My Bogie used to have a litter every Whitsuntide. I'd prepare a box for her to have her litter in, and I'd put old clothes of mine inside, but, no, Bogie just had to have her litter in my bed. Mom couldn't deal with that either. "Well, how many cats will you get rid of at school this year? Go ahead and leave one for us, but it'd better be a tom! It's more than enough when one cat comes waltzing in with young ones twice a year. Autumn cats are good for nothing anyhow. They've got to be put down right away," Mom would then say to me, cat-crazy Clara. My heart was jubilant. I was allowed to leave one little tom for myself! It's hard to believe, but when I returned home a refugee, my Bogie - she was still alive - hopped onto my lap right away, purred happily and licked my hands, and she wouldn't let me out of her sight wherever I went. I've remained a cat lover to this day. Four of them are now our joy day after day.
But now, after this feline digression, back to Whitsunday. On Whitsun Saturday we used to be soaped down, just as it is written in the song "The Whitsun Tour" by Hein Köllisch. No one wanted to be the "Whitsun dummy" on Whitsunday. The one who got out of bed last was the Whitsun dummy and was laughed at. We girls used to get new frocks, patent leather shoes and white socks for Pentecost, and we'd just love it. Just don't get it dirty! Just don't get any stain onto the new dress! That was our greatest worry. Daddy used to put up tall May trees left and right of the entrance. In front of the hedge and along the paved path there used to be raked yellow gravel that Dad would have delivered every year for Pentecost. Our Mom would be working away in the kitchen, and an aroma used to waft through the house to make my mouth water even today. I've continued with the same menu, and, when they were all still at home, my family used to have the same experience as I did during my childhood.
All right, now I'll tell you how it used to take place. On holidays, our Dad would say grace and would tell us about the "Holy Ghost" that had descended onto us, and about Pentecost being a Christian holiday. We would be sitting there with folded hands, listening intently. To start with, we'd have a small bowl of cream of asparagus soup. The main course would be veal and kidney roast with steamed asparagus - nowadays you call it "asparagus with hollandaise," much more posh - and boiled potatoes. And finally, a very labor-intensive thing to prepare, we'd have delicious lemon cream that counts among my favorite desserts to this day. I'd say that Lucullus himself had joined us at the table. Gertrud and I would help Mom straighten up the kitchen. Mom used to do home baking for afternoon coffee. I still admire her skill, patience, and time management. At supper we'd all be sitting together at the ready around the large oak table when Daddy carved the first ham. What an aroma! Sure, I'd run away when pigs were being slaughtered, but I'll never forget the flavor of that ham. Black bread, and ham from the lean core ... Nothing can surpass it as far as a North German is concerned.
This was it about Pentecost during my childhood, filled with mundane happy events, even though money was scarce, but a warm home and our parents' love were worth more than all the world's gold.
I wish all my dear readers happy Pentecost and God's rich blessings.
Transliteration in Lowlands Orthography: Tou Pingsten 1997
fun Clara Kramer-Freudenthal
(Maimaand 1997)Geev' mi uemmer warrer moy niks mit de fergaan tiid tou fergliken. Gait einfach nich. De uennerscheid tou huyd is tou groot. Wat hebt uns oeldern swaar wrukd uem huus, hov, gaarn, kirschhoev un wischen in de reig' tou holden. Jaa, sei hebt wrukd fun suen-opgang bet suen-uennergang. Aver kein ein het klaagd euver tou feel arbaid.
Graad' tou Pingsten muess allens op d'n draat ween. Kunst fun d'n foutborm [= foutbodden] eten. Al de schoynen pitschpiin-foutborms worden mit boots-lak op hoogglanss broecht. Wen wii altouhoup in de puuk woyren het uns Mamma lakt. Finster un deuren woyrn apen daarmit dat goud droygen kun. Annern morgen, eir wii op-staan suend, har Mamma d'n foutborm al mit essigwater af-schrekd. Nuu kun wii daar op loupen. Hoyr huyd noch wen Mamma mit mii schimp: ,,Kiik dii dat an! Diin ferdraide kat het warrer mit eir poten tappen in d'n frischen lak achter-laten. Is doch uemmer dat suelve mit diin Bumann.'' ,,Mamma, dat is doch 'n kat! Wouans schuelt deirten weiten dat duu d'n foutborm lakd hest? Wen de finster op-staat dinkt Bumann dat hest duu foer eir maakd. Hest al maal euver naa-dacht wat foer 'n plaag' dat foer Bumann is d'n baksigen lak fun eir luetten poten ruenner tou krigen? Wil maal sein dat ik mit terpentiin helpen kan,'' anter ik un entschuellig miin kat. Dat 'n deiv in-stigen kun, daar het nuembst an dacht. Tou Pingsttiid har miin Bumann uemmer junge. Hev eir ouk tou rechten tiid 'n kist tou d'n jungen trecht-maakd un olde klamotten fun mii rin-legd. Aver nee, Bumann muess in miin bed jungen. Ouk dat kun Mamma nich ferknusen. ,,Na, wou feel katten warst den dit jaar loos in de schoul? Ein laat man ouk foer uns liggen, aver 'n kater! Is noog wen ein kat twei mool in 't jaar mit junge an-kuemt. De harskatten dougt sowisoo niks; dei meut gliiks an de siid broecht warden,'' seed' Mamma den tou mii, tou Kattenjule Clara. Miin hat het jubileirt. Ik kun 'n luetten kater foer mi liggen laten. Kuum tou gloyven, aver as ik naa de flugt warrer tou huus an-koym is miin Bumann - sei leev' tou noch - fourts op miin schoot huepd, het foer fraid' snurd, mii de handen af-slikd un het mii op schrit un trit nich uut de ougen laten. Buen bet op d'n huydigen dag 'n kattenjule bleven. Feir an de tal maakt uns dag foer dag feel fraid'.
Nuu aver naa de katteninlaag' op d'n Pingstsuendag tou. Pingstsuenavend worden wii af-seipt, liik soo as dat in dat leid ,,De Pingsttour'' fun Hein Köllisch schreven stait. Pingstsuendag wul kein ein ,,Pingstbuydel'' warden. Dei jenige dei touletst uut de puuk koym word ,,Pingstbuydel'' un uut-lachd. Wii deirns harren neie kleider, lakschou un witte sokken tou Pingsten kregen un hebt uns bannig heugd. ,,Bloots nich schitig maken! Bloots kein plakken op dat neie kleid krigen!'' woyr uns groetste sorg. Pappa har tou linker- un rechterhand fun de huusdeur grote maiboym op-steld. Foer 't hek un blang d'n steinweg leeg' de harkde, gele kiis d'n Pappa jedet jaar tou Pingsten har an-foyren laten. Uns Mamma woyr in de keuk an 't schirwarken, un 'n ruyken troek doerch dat huus dat mii huyd noch dat water in d'n mund tousamen loept. D'n spiisplaan hev ik euvernamen un miin famiilje gueng dat as sei noch al bii huus woyrn an d'n Pingstsuendag liik soo as mii in miin kindertiid.
Na, nuu wil ik ferraden wouans dat af-loupen is. An fiirdaag' het uns Pappa uemmer dat dischbeed spraken un uns fun d'n ,,Hilligen Gaist'' ferteld dei euver uns uut-schuett worden is, un dat Pingsten 'n kristlichet fest is. Mit folden handen seten wii daar un hebt niip tou-hoyrd. Foerweg geev' dat 'n luetten toeller spargelkreemsup. Dat haupt-eten woyr 'n kalvsnirenbraden mit stoovden spargel (huyd heitt dat ,,Spargel mit Hollandaise'', feel foernemer) un sultkutueffeln. Un - mit feel arbaid ferbunden - geev' dat tou d'n sluss 'n lekkere tsitronenkreemspiis' dei noch huyd tou miin leivsden nadisch telt. Lukullus seett mit tou disch, muech ik seggen. Gertrud un ik hebt Mamma bii 't opruymen in de keuk holpen. Tou kaffetiid har Mamma allens suelvst bakd. Noch huyd bewunner ik eir keunen, geduur un tiid-indeilen. Tou d'n avendbrood seten wii altouhoup praat uem d'n groten eikendisch wen Pappa d'n eirsten schinken an-sneden het. Ein ruuch! Wen 'k bii d'n swiin-slachen ouk uemmer weg-loupen buen, d'n smak fun d'n schinken fergeet ik nii nich. Swatbrood un schinken uut de pape, foer 'n Nordduytschen wul kuum tou euverdrapen.
Dat woyr Pingsten in miin kindertiid, soo ful fun luettet gluek, wen dat geld ouk knap woyr, aver nestwarms un de leiv' fun uns oeldern woyrn meir weirt as allens guld fun de welt.
Frohe Pingsten un Got Fader siin riken segen wuensch ik al miin leiven lesers.
English translation by R. F. Hahn: For Pentecost 1997
by Clara Kramer-Freudenthal
(May 1997)I keep trying hard not to compare things with times past. It just won't work; the difference between then and now is too great. How hard our parents had struggled for us to maintain house, yard, garden, cherry orchards and meadows! Yes, they slaved from dawn to dusk. But nobody complained about too much work.
Especially during Pentecost (Whitsuntide) things would have to be in good shape. You could have eaten off the floor. All the beautiful stained pine floors were given a high polish with boat varnish. When we were all in bed, Mom would do the varnishing. Windows and doors were open so it could dry properly. Next morning, before we got up, Mom would have had already neutralized the floors with diluted vinegar. Then we were allowed to walk on them. I can still hear Mom scolding me, "Take a look at that! Your crazy cat has left footprints on the finish with her paws again. It's always the same thing with your Bogie." "But, Mom, it's just a cat! How is an animal supposed to know that you have varnished the floors. When the windows are open Bogie thinks you did it for her. Have you ever thought about what a bother it is for Bogie to get the sticky varnish off her paws? I'll see if I can help with some turpentine," I'd answer in defense of my cat. Nobody used to consider the possibility of a thief entering. My Bogie used to have a litter every Whitsuntide. I'd prepare a box for her to have her litter in, and I'd put old clothes of mine inside, but, no, Bogie just had to have her litter in my bed. Mom couldn't deal with that either. "Well, how many cats will you get rid of at school this year? Go ahead and leave one for us, but it'd better be a tom! It's more than enough when one cat comes waltzing in with young ones twice a year. Autumn cats are good for nothing anyhow. They've got to be put down right away," Mom would then say to me, cat-crazy Clara. My heart was jubilant. I was allowed to leave one little tom for myself! It's hard to believe, but when I returned home a refugee, my Bogie - she was still alive - hopped onto my lap right away, purred happily and licked my hands, and she wouldn't let me out of her sight wherever I went. I've remained a cat lover to this day. Four of them are now our joy day after day.
But now, after this feline digression, back to Whitsunday. On Whitsun Saturday we used to be soaped down, just as it is written in the song "The Whitsun Tour" by Hein Köllisch. No one wanted to be the "Whitsun dummy" on Whitsunday. The one who got out of bed last was the Whitsun dummy and was laughed at. We girls used to get new frocks, patent leather shoes and white socks for Pentecost, and we'd just love it. Just don't get it dirty! Just don't get any stain onto the new dress! That was our greatest worry. Daddy used to put up tall May trees left and right of the entrance. In front of the hedge and along the paved path there used to be raked yellow gravel that Dad would have delivered every year for Pentecost. Our Mom would be working away in the kitchen, and an aroma used to waft through the house to make my mouth water even today. I've continued with the same menu, and, when they were all still at home, my family used to have the same experience as I did during my childhood.
All right, now I'll tell you how it used to take place. On holidays, our Dad would say grace and would tell us about the "Holy Ghost" that had descended onto us, and about Pentecost being a Christian holiday. We would be sitting there with folded hands, listening intently. To start with, we'd have a small bowl of cream of asparagus soup. The main course would be veal and kidney roast with steamed asparagus - nowadays you call it "asparagus with hollandaise," much more posh - and boiled potatoes. And finally, a very labor-intensive thing to prepare, we'd have delicious lemon cream that counts among my favorite desserts to this day. I'd say that Lucullus himself had joined us at the table. Gertrud and I would help Mom straighten up the kitchen. Mom used to do home baking for afternoon coffee. I still admire her skill, patience, and time management. At supper we'd all be sitting together at the ready around the large oak table when Daddy carved the first ham. What an aroma! Sure, I'd run away when pigs were being slaughtered, but I'll never forget the flavor of that ham. Black bread, and ham from the lean core ... Nothing can surpass it as far as a North German is concerned.
This was it about Pentecost during my childhood, filled with mundane happy events, even though money was scarce, but a warm home and our parents' love were worth more than all the world's gold.
I wish all my dear readers happy Pentecost and God's rich blessings.