Snickenploog 

vun Clara Kramer-Freudenthal 
Haumoond 1998 

Igitt, igittigitt, wat kann ik mi för de Snicken ekeln! Wat hebbt wi nich allns ünnernohm, üm jüm loostowarrn. Nee, nix, rein gor nix hett holpen. An de twintig Schötteln mit Beer hebbt wi an all de Ecken un Kanten opstellt, dormit se versupen schulln, ober Petrus stünn op de Siet vun de Snicken. Mit Duurregen hett he jümehr Leben rett'. In kotte Tiet wüür ut Beer Woter worrn. Dat ole Huusmiddel sleug nich mihr an. Na, denn man ran an de Chemie. Bleev uns jo nix Anneret öber. Snickenkuurn wörr nu streit an de Dahlien, Tagetes, Leuwenmuul un allns wat wi giern retten wulln. Poor Snicken sünd jo krepiert, ober ok dat Snickenkuurn hett de Regen opleust, un is in 'n Bodden versackt. Dat wüür wegsmeten Geld, ob Beer or Snickenkuurn. Handarbeit kunn bloots noch helpen. Ober ohn mi. Nee, den Glitsch un Sliem kunn ik nich mol mit Gummihannschen to Lief gohn. Mi keum noch Nomiddoogs mien Freuhstück hooch, wenn 'k de groten, fetten, langen, brunen Snicken krüpen seeh. Mien arme Mann hett jüm in een Ammel insöcht, een depe Kuhl in 'n Goorn groovt un denn rin un toschüffeln. Is an sik nich unse Oort, so mit Deerten ümtogohn, ober wi wüssen uns nich anners to helpen. Toveel harrn se uns al affreten un mit Sliem ungeneetbor mookt. Gemüse un Solot harrn se totol vernicht' un een groten Deel vun de smucken Blomen ok.

An de Schieben vun unsen Wintergoorn sünd de Bester hoochkropen. Dat hett mi reckt. Alleen de Krüüpspoorn loot Ekel in mi hoochkoom. Disset Ekelgefeuhl seuk ik in mien Kinnertiet to begrünn'n. Sitt in de Psyche. Dor kunn ik mi nich drücken, denn mien Süstern un ik müssen glieks no'n Middageten op de Wisch un Snicken ümbringen. Pappa harr uns Kneinstöck anspitzt un dormit müssen wi jüm oppicken. Kneinstöck sünd de jungen Driev vun de Korfwichel. Gräsig, kann ik bloots seggen, denn dat Ingeweide quüll ut jüm ruut. Wenn een Kneinstock vull wüür hebbt wi em in de Est smeten. Dat gräsige Doon bün ik mien ganset Leben nich loosworrn, un is mi jedetmol hoochkoom, wenn ik een Snick wiesworrn bün. De Snicken mit Hüüs loot ik mi jo noch falln, ober de nokelten, glitschigen, dor schuurt mi dat öber.

Wi wohnt siet 1951 in Harshei, ober so een Snickenploog hebbt wi noch nie nich hatt. All de Nobers kloogt liekso as wi. Ober de Sommer wüür to natt, un denn tücht dat Oostüüch to.

Nu schient jo all een poor Doog de Sünn, un mien Mann oppert warrer willig een poor Buddel Beer, un dat lohnt sik. De Snicken suupt un versuupt. Will höpen, datt dat mit den Sliem un Glitsch in Goorn bald een Enn hett, un wi nich mihr op Snicken utrutscht. Fleten Johr harr ik een Igel. De hett mit jüm oprüümt, ober betherto hebb ik noch keen sehn. Müch sik man noch een ,,Mecki'' instelln. He bruukt ok nich bloots Snicken to freten, warr em ok Leckerkroom tostüürn.
 

Trouble with Slugs 

by Clara Kramer-Freudenthal  
July 1998 

Argh! Yucky-yuck! How disgusted I am with slugs!¹ What have we not tried to get rid of them? No, nothing has worked, simply nothing. We have put close to twenty bowls of beer everywhere possible to make them drown themselves, but St. Peter has been on the side of the slugs. He saved their lives with non-stop rain. Beer turned into water in no time. The old home remedy no longer worked. All right, then let's resort to chemistry. After all, we had no choice. So we scattered slug pellets around the dahlias, marigolds, dandelions and everything else we wanted to save. Well, a few slugs did bite the dust, but the rain dissolved the slug pellets as well and washed them away. Beer or slug pellets -- it was money down the toilet. Now only hands-on work was left to save the day. Just without me, please. No, not even with rubber gloves was I able to get anywhere near the ooze and slime. My breakfast still comes back up in the afternoon when I see the big, fat, long, brown slugs slither along. My poor husband gathered them into a bucket, dug a deep hole in the garden ... and in they went, and then he shoveled and closed the hole. Actually, it is not our way to treat animals like that, but we did not know what else to do. They had eaten too many of our things or had made them inedible with their slime. They had totally destroyed vegetables and lettuce, and a good many of our flowers as well.

The critters had crawled up the window panes of our conservatory. I had enough of it then. Their slimy trails alone make me feel nauseous. I explain this feeling of nausea as stemming from my childhood. It is buried in my psyche. I was not able to shirk it, for right after lunch my sisters and I used to have to go to the paddock to kill slugs. Dad would sharpen some willow sticks for us, and we would have to skewer the slugs with them. Willow sticks are shoots of osiers. All I can say is "horrible," because the guts would come oozing out of the slugs. When a willow stick was full [with slugs] we would throw it into the Este river. Throughout my life I have never been able to rid myself of the memory of this awful activity, and I have always been nauseated at the sight of a slug. I can deal with snails, but those naked, slithery slugs make my skin crawl.

We have been living in Harksheide since 1951, and never before have we experienced this kind of trouble with slugs. All the neighbors are complaining just as much as we are. But the summer has been too wet, and that's when the little pests hit.

Now the sun has been shining for a few days already, and again my husband is willingly sacrificing a few bottles of beer, and it is worth it. The slugs drink and drown. I hope there will soon be an end to the ooze and slime in the garden and that soon we will no longer slip on slugs. Last year I had a hedgehog. It went to town with them, but up until now I have not seen any. If only one of those "Meckis"² would still show up. It would not only have to eat slugs. I would also send a few treats its way.

Snikkenplaag' 

fun Clara Kramer-Freudenthal 
Haumaand 1998 

Igitt! Igittigitt! Wat kan ik mi foer de snikken ekeln! Wat hevt wii nich allens uennernamen uem juem loos tou warden. Nee, niks, rain gaar niks het holpen. An de twintig schoetteln mit beir hevt wii an al de ekken un kanten op-steld daarmit sei fersupen schullen, aver Peetrus stuend op de siit fun de snikken. Mit duurregen het hei juem er leven rett. In kotte tiid woyr uut beir water worden. Dat olde huusmiddel sloyg nich meir an. Na, den man ran an de schemii. Bleev uns jaa niks anneret euver. Snikkenkourn woerd' nuu straid an de dalien, tagetes, loyvenmuul un allens wat wii geirn retten wullen. Paar snikken suend jaa krepeird, aver ouk dat snikkenkourn het de regen op-loysd un is in d'n bodden fersakd. Dat woyr weg-smeten geld, of beir or snikkenkourn. Hand-arbaid kun bloots noch helpen. Aver aan mii. Nee, d'n glitsch un sliim kun ik nich maal mit gummihandschen tou liiv gaan. Mii koym noch namiddaags miin froystuek hoog wen 'k de groten, fetten, langen, brunen snikken kruypen sei. Miin arme man het juem in 'n ammel in-soechd, 'n deipe kuul in d'n gaarn graavd un den rin un tou-schueffeln. Is an sik nich unse aard soo mit deirten uem tou gaan, aver wii wuessen uns nich anners tou helpen. Tou feel harren se uns al af-freten un mit sliim ungeneitbaar maakd. Gemuyse un salaat harren sei totaal fernichtt un 'n groten deil fun de smukken bloumen ouk.

An de schiven fun unsen wintergaarn suend de beister hoog-krapen. Dat het mii rekd. Allein de kruyp-spouren laatt ekel in mii hoog-kamen. Disset ekelgefoyl soyk ik in miin kindertiid tou begruenden. Sitt in de psuyche. Daar kun ik mi nich druekken, den miin suestern un ik muessen gliiks naa d'n middag-eten op de wisch un snikken uem-bringen. Pappa har uns knainstoek an-spitsd un daar mit muessen wii juem op-pikken. Knainstoek suend de jungen driiv' fun de korfwichel. ,,Gresig'' kan ik bloots seggen, den dat ingewaide kwuel uut juem ruut. Wen 'n knainstok ful woyr hevt wii em in de Est smeten. Dat gresige doun buen ik miin gansset leven nich loos-worden un is mii jedet maal hoog-kamen wen ik 'n snik wiis-worden buen. De snikken mit huys' laat ik mii jaa noch fallen, aver de nakelden, glitschigen, daar schuurt mii dat euver.

Wii waant siit 1951 [negen hunnerd ein un foevtig] in Harshaid', aver soo ein snikkenplaag' hevt wii noch nii nich hatt. Al de navers klaagt liik soo as wii. Aver de sommer woyr tou nat, un den tuygt dat aas-tuyg tou.

Nuu schiint jaa al 'n paar daag' de suen, un miin man oppert warrer willig 'n paar buddel beir, un dat loont sik. De snikken suupt un fersuupt. Wil heupen dat dat 't mit d'n sliim un glitsch in d'n gaarn bald 'n end het un wii nich meir op snikken uut-rutscht. Fleten jaar har ik 'n igel. Dei het mit juem op-ruymd, aver bet her tou hev ik noch kein sein. Mueg sik man noch 'n ,,Mecki'' instellen. Hei bruukt ouk nich bloots snikken tou freten. Ward' em ouk lekkerkraam tou-stuyren.

Trouble with Slugs 

by Clara Kramer-Freudenthal  
July 1998 

Argh! Yucky-yuck! How disgusted I am with slugs!¹ What have we not tried to get rid of them? No, nothing has worked, simply nothing. We have put close to twenty bowls of beer everywhere possible to make them drown themselves, but St. Peter has been on the side of the slugs. He saved their lives with non-stop rain. Beer turned into water in no time. The old home remedy no longer worked. All right, then let's resort to chemistry. After all, we had no choice. So we scattered slug pellets around the dahlias, marigolds, dandelions and everything else we wanted to save. Well, a few slugs did bite the dust, but the rain dissolved the slug pellets as well and washed them away. Beer or slug pellets -- it was money down the toilet. Now only hands-on work was left to save the day. Just without me, please. No, not even with rubber gloves was I able to get anywhere near the ooze and slime. My breakfast still comes back up in the afternoon when I see the big, fat, long, brown slugs slither along. My poor husband gathered them into a bucket, dug a deep hole in the garden ... and in they went, and then he shoveled and closed the hole. Actually, it is not our way to treat animals like that, but we did not know what else to do. They had eaten too many of our things or had made them inedible with their slime. They had totally destroyed vegetables and lettuce, and a good many of our flowers as well.

The critters had crawled up the window panes of our conservatory. I had enough of it then. Their slimy trails alone make me feel nauseous. I explain this feeling of nausea as stemming from my childhood. It is buried in my psyche. I was not able to shirk it, for right after lunch my sisters and I used to have to go to the paddock to kill slugs. Dad would sharpen some willow sticks for us, and we would have to skewer the slugs with them. Willow sticks are shoots of osiers. All I can say is "horrible," because the guts would come oozing out of the slugs. When a willow stick was full [with slugs] we would throw it into the Este river. Throughout my life I have never been able to rid myself of the memory of this awful activity, and I have always been nauseated at the sight of a slug. I can deal with snails, but those naked, slithery slugs make my skin crawl.

We have been living in Harksheide since 1951, and never before have we experienced this kind of trouble with slugs. All the neighbors are complaining just as much as we are. But the summer has been too wet, and that's when the little pests hit.

Now the sun has been shining for a few days already, and again my husband is willingly sacrificing a few bottles of beer, and it is worth it. The slugs drink and drown. I hope there will soon be an end to the ooze and slime in the garden and that soon we will no longer slip on slugs. Last year I had a hedgehog. It went to town with them, but up until now I have not seen any. If only one of those "Meckis"² would still show up. It would not only have to eat slugs. I would also send a few treats its way.

Snickenploog 

vun Clara Kramer-Freudenthal 
Haumoond 1998 

Igitt, igittigitt, wat kann ik mi för de Snicken ekeln! Wat hebbt wi nich allns ünnernohm, üm jüm loostowarrn. Nee, nix, rein gor nix hett holpen. An de twintig Schötteln mit Beer hebbt wi an all de Ecken un Kanten opstellt, dormit se versupen schulln, ober Petrus stünn op de Siet vun de Snicken. Mit Duurregen hett he jümehr Leben rett'. In kotte Tiet wüür ut Beer Woter worrn. Dat ole Huusmiddel sleug nich mihr an. Na, denn man ran an de Chemie. Bleev uns jo nix Anneret öber. Snickenkuurn wörr nu streit an de Dahlien, Tagetes, Leuwenmuul un allns wat wi giern retten wulln. Poor Snicken sünd jo krepiert, ober ok dat Snickenkuurn hett de Regen opleust, un is in 'n Bodden versackt. Dat wüür wegsmeten Geld, ob Beer or Snickenkuurn. Handarbeit kunn bloots noch helpen. Ober ohn mi. Nee, den Glitsch un Sliem kunn ik nich mol mit Gummihannschen to Lief gohn. Mi keum noch Nomiddoogs mien Freuhstück hooch, wenn 'k de groten, fetten, langen, brunen Snicken krüpen seeh. Mien arme Mann hett jüm in een Ammel insöcht, een depe Kuhl in 'n Goorn groovt un denn rin un toschüffeln. Is an sik nich unse Oort, so mit Deerten ümtogohn, ober wi wüssen uns nich anners to helpen. Toveel harrn se uns al affreten un mit Sliem ungeneetbor mookt. Gemüse un Solot harrn se totol vernicht' un een groten Deel vun de smucken Blomen ok.

An de Schieben vun unsen Wintergoorn sünd de Bester hoochkropen. Dat hett mi reckt. Alleen de Krüüpspoorn loot Ekel in mi hoochkoom. Disset Ekelgefeuhl seuk ik in mien Kinnertiet to begrünn'n. Sitt in de Psyche. Dor kunn ik mi nich drücken, denn mien Süstern un ik müssen glieks no'n Middageten op de Wisch un Snicken ümbringen. Pappa harr uns Kneinstöck anspitzt un dormit müssen wi jüm oppicken. Kneinstöck sünd de jungen Driev vun de Korfwichel. Gräsig, kann ik bloots seggen, denn dat Ingeweide quüll ut jüm ruut. Wenn een Kneinstock vull wüür hebbt wi em in de Est smeten. Dat gräsige Doon bün ik mien ganset Leben nich loosworrn, un is mi jedetmol hoochkoom, wenn ik een Snick wiesworrn bün. De Snicken mit Hüüs loot ik mi jo noch falln, ober de nokelten, glitschigen, dor schuurt mi dat öber.

Wi wohnt siet 1951 in Harshei, ober so een Snickenploog hebbt wi noch nie nich hatt. All de Nobers kloogt liekso as wi. Ober de Sommer wüür to natt, un denn tücht dat Oostüüch to.

Nu schient jo all een poor Doog de Sünn, un mien Mann oppert warrer willig een poor Buddel Beer, un dat lohnt sik. De Snicken suupt un versuupt. Will höpen, datt dat mit den Sliem un Glitsch in Goorn bald een Enn hett, un wi nich mihr op Snicken utrutscht. Fleten Johr harr ik een Igel. De hett mit jüm oprüümt, ober betherto hebb ik noch keen sehn. Müch sik man noch een ,,Mecki'' instelln. He bruukt ok nich bloots Snicken to freten, warr em ok Leckerkroom tostüürn.
 

Trouble with Slugs 

by Clara Kramer-Freudenthal  
July 1998 

Argh! Yucky-yuck! How disgusted I am with slugs!¹ What have we not tried to get rid of them? No, nothing has worked, simply nothing. We have put close to twenty bowls of beer everywhere possible to make them drown themselves, but St. Peter has been on the side of the slugs. He saved their lives with non-stop rain. Beer turned into water in no time. The old home remedy no longer worked. All right, then let's resort to chemistry. After all, we had no choice. So we scattered slug pellets around the dahlias, marigolds, dandelions and everything else we wanted to save. Well, a few slugs did bite the dust, but the rain dissolved the slug pellets as well and washed them away. Beer or slug pellets -- it was money down the toilet. Now only hands-on work was left to save the day. Just without me, please. No, not even with rubber gloves was I able to get anywhere near the ooze and slime. My breakfast still comes back up in the afternoon when I see the big, fat, long, brown slugs slither along. My poor husband gathered them into a bucket, dug a deep hole in the garden ... and in they went, and then he shoveled and closed the hole. Actually, it is not our way to treat animals like that, but we did not know what else to do. They had eaten too many of our things or had made them inedible with their slime. They had totally destroyed vegetables and lettuce, and a good many of our flowers as well.

The critters had crawled up the window panes of our conservatory. I had enough of it then. Their slimy trails alone make me feel nauseous. I explain this feeling of nausea as stemming from my childhood. It is buried in my psyche. I was not able to shirk it, for right after lunch my sisters and I used to have to go to the paddock to kill slugs. Dad would sharpen some willow sticks for us, and we would have to skewer the slugs with them. Willow sticks are shoots of osiers. All I can say is "horrible," because the guts would come oozing out of the slugs. When a willow stick was full [with slugs] we would throw it into the Este river. Throughout my life I have never been able to rid myself of the memory of this awful activity, and I have always been nauseated at the sight of a slug. I can deal with snails, but those naked, slithery slugs make my skin crawl.

We have been living in Harksheide since 1951, and never before have we experienced this kind of trouble with slugs. All the neighbors are complaining just as much as we are. But the summer has been too wet, and that's when the little pests hit.

Now the sun has been shining for a few days already, and again my husband is willingly sacrificing a few bottles of beer, and it is worth it. The slugs drink and drown. I hope there will soon be an end to the ooze and slime in the garden and that soon we will no longer slip on slugs. Last year I had a hedgehog. It went to town with them, but up until now I have not seen any. If only one of those "Meckis"² would still show up. It would not only have to eat slugs. I would also send a few treats its way.

Snikkenplaag' 

fun Clara Kramer-Freudenthal 
Haumaand 1998 

Igitt! Igittigitt! Wat kan ik mi foer de snikken ekeln! Wat hevt wii nich allens uennernamen uem juem loos tou warden. Nee, niks, rain gaar niks het holpen. An de twintig schoetteln mit beir hevt wii an al de ekken un kanten op-steld daarmit sei fersupen schullen, aver Peetrus stuend op de siit fun de snikken. Mit duurregen het hei juem er leven rett. In kotte tiid woyr uut beir water worden. Dat olde huusmiddel sloyg nich meir an. Na, den man ran an de schemii. Bleev uns jaa niks anneret euver. Snikkenkourn woerd' nuu straid an de dalien, tagetes, loyvenmuul un allens wat wii geirn retten wullen. Paar snikken suend jaa krepeird, aver ouk dat snikkenkourn het de regen op-loysd un is in d'n bodden fersakd. Dat woyr weg-smeten geld, of beir or snikkenkourn. Hand-arbaid kun bloots noch helpen. Aver aan mii. Nee, d'n glitsch un sliim kun ik nich maal mit gummihandschen tou liiv gaan. Mii koym noch namiddaags miin froystuek hoog wen 'k de groten, fetten, langen, brunen snikken kruypen sei. Miin arme man het juem in 'n ammel in-soechd, 'n deipe kuul in d'n gaarn graavd un den rin un tou-schueffeln. Is an sik nich unse aard soo mit deirten uem tou gaan, aver wii wuessen uns nich anners tou helpen. Tou feel harren se uns al af-freten un mit sliim ungeneitbaar maakd. Gemuyse un salaat harren sei totaal fernichtt un 'n groten deil fun de smukken bloumen ouk.

An de schiven fun unsen wintergaarn suend de beister hoog-krapen. Dat het mii rekd. Allein de kruyp-spouren laatt ekel in mii hoog-kamen. Disset ekelgefoyl soyk ik in miin kindertiid tou begruenden. Sitt in de psuyche. Daar kun ik mi nich druekken, den miin suestern un ik muessen gliiks naa d'n middag-eten op de wisch un snikken uem-bringen. Pappa har uns knainstoek an-spitsd un daar mit muessen wii juem op-pikken. Knainstoek suend de jungen driiv' fun de korfwichel. ,,Gresig'' kan ik bloots seggen, den dat ingewaide kwuel uut juem ruut. Wen 'n knainstok ful woyr hevt wii em in de Est smeten. Dat gresige doun buen ik miin gansset leven nich loos-worden un is mii jedet maal hoog-kamen wen ik 'n snik wiis-worden buen. De snikken mit huys' laat ik mii jaa noch fallen, aver de nakelden, glitschigen, daar schuurt mii dat euver.

Wii waant siit 1951 [negen hunnerd ein un foevtig] in Harshaid', aver soo ein snikkenplaag' hevt wii noch nii nich hatt. Al de navers klaagt liik soo as wii. Aver de sommer woyr tou nat, un den tuygt dat aas-tuyg tou.

Nuu schiint jaa al 'n paar daag' de suen, un miin man oppert warrer willig 'n paar buddel beir, un dat loont sik. De snikken suupt un fersuupt. Wil heupen dat dat 't mit d'n sliim un glitsch in d'n gaarn bald 'n end het un wii nich meir op snikken uut-rutscht. Fleten jaar har ik 'n igel. Dei het mit juem op-ruymd, aver bet her tou hev ik noch kein sein. Mueg sik man noch 'n ,,Mecki'' instellen. Hei bruukt ouk nich bloots snikken tou freten. Ward' em ouk lekkerkraam tou-stuyren.

Trouble with Slugs 

by Clara Kramer-Freudenthal  
July 1998 

Argh! Yucky-yuck! How disgusted I am with slugs!¹ What have we not tried to get rid of them? No, nothing has worked, simply nothing. We have put close to twenty bowls of beer everywhere possible to make them drown themselves, but St. Peter has been on the side of the slugs. He saved their lives with non-stop rain. Beer turned into water in no time. The old home remedy no longer worked. All right, then let's resort to chemistry. After all, we had no choice. So we scattered slug pellets around the dahlias, marigolds, dandelions and everything else we wanted to save. Well, a few slugs did bite the dust, but the rain dissolved the slug pellets as well and washed them away. Beer or slug pellets -- it was money down the toilet. Now only hands-on work was left to save the day. Just without me, please. No, not even with rubber gloves was I able to get anywhere near the ooze and slime. My breakfast still comes back up in the afternoon when I see the big, fat, long, brown slugs slither along. My poor husband gathered them into a bucket, dug a deep hole in the garden ... and in they went, and then he shoveled and closed the hole. Actually, it is not our way to treat animals like that, but we did not know what else to do. They had eaten too many of our things or had made them inedible with their slime. They had totally destroyed vegetables and lettuce, and a good many of our flowers as well.

The critters had crawled up the window panes of our conservatory. I had enough of it then. Their slimy trails alone make me feel nauseous. I explain this feeling of nausea as stemming from my childhood. It is buried in my psyche. I was not able to shirk it, for right after lunch my sisters and I used to have to go to the paddock to kill slugs. Dad would sharpen some willow sticks for us, and we would have to skewer the slugs with them. Willow sticks are shoots of osiers. All I can say is "horrible," because the guts would come oozing out of the slugs. When a willow stick was full [with slugs] we would throw it into the Este river. Throughout my life I have never been able to rid myself of the memory of this awful activity, and I have always been nauseated at the sight of a slug. I can deal with snails, but those naked, slithery slugs make my skin crawl.

We have been living in Harksheide since 1951, and never before have we experienced this kind of trouble with slugs. All the neighbors are complaining just as much as we are. But the summer has been too wet, and that's when the little pests hit.

Now the sun has been shining for a few days already, and again my husband is willingly sacrificing a few bottles of beer, and it is worth it. The slugs drink and drown. I hope there will soon be an end to the ooze and slime in the garden and that soon we will no longer slip on slugs. Last year I had a hedgehog. It went to town with them, but up until now I have not seen any. If only one of those "Meckis"² would still show up. It would not only have to eat slugs. I would also send a few treats its way.