Burning Tulips

Chapter One: Mr. Foam

1 Chapter One Mr. Foam My friend Sharon walks with Mom and me to the A&P, our local grocery store two blocks away. Sharon’s mother shops at the supermarket because she knows how to drive. We always walk, pulling our wagon behind us. Four bags is our limit, both financially and physically. It’s 1963, I’m five, have lived most of my life on this block, and could walk to the A&P blindfolded. Most of the homes are painted white, and almost everyone is Dutch. Just a few blocks away is the Netherlands Museum but not much goes on there until the Tulip Festival. It’s just a reminder that Holland, Michigan, is a city surrounded by Dutch people, but most anyone could figure that out by noticing the windmills in the yards and the wooden shoes hanging by the doorways. My family is Reformed, but the kids who go to the Christian school are Christian Reformed. Just because we’re Dutch and each partially Reformed doesn’t mean we’re the same.The Christian Reformed families have newer cars that they put aside until Sunday to drive to church. Everyone in the family goes to church. The fathers in the Reformed families like to sleep in on Sunday and the kids walk to church with their mothers. If it’s Easter or something special, Dad usually comes to church, but he doesn’t like to walk to church, so he drives our beat-up old car there. It’s a Cadillac, something Dad has wanted for a long time, but it’s at least fifteen years old, and last Sunday I fell out when Dad turned the corner. Dad says he’s going to fix that door when he has some time, but he doesn’t have much free time because he likes to go to the bar after leaving the factory. The Christian Reformed fathers like to come home for dinner, but the other fathers enjoy eating at the taverns. The main difference between us occurs on Sunday. On Sundays, the Christian Reformed kids can’t go outside or watch TV. The kids look sad watching us running through the sprinklers, and their parents look disgusted watching us lighting up the grill while our fathers drink beer on the lawn. “Why don’t they just close their curtains on Sunday? Save them from having a heart attack,” Dad says when he sees them peering through their 2 Burning Tulips windows. “God didn’t give us Sundays to sit in our hot houses roasting to death. Hell, this is my day away from the factory and I’m going to enjoy it.” It’s Tuesday, and we’re walking down the street. Mrs. Vandenburg calls out her front door, “You going to the store?” Everyone knows we’re going to the store when we’re hauling an empty wagon behind us. “Oh, no,” Mom whispers to me. But to the neighbor, she yells back, “You need something?” “Hang on a minute. I’ll get the money.” She hands us a list of five items. “Thanks, Lizzy.” “It’s nothing. We’re going there anyways.” The Vandenburg’s are old, like so many people on the block. Mr. Vandenburg gets up at four each morning and whistles while watering his lawn. I think he whistles louder than the birds to confuse them. He’s always laughing out there early in the morning, so he’s got to be up to something. Mom speaks Dutch to him while he’s sweeping their walkway. There’s never dirt on anyone’s front steps or walkway. When Mom’s around, I don’t get to say much because she wants to look like a good mother and always says, “Children are to be seen and not heard.” But on my own, I talk to every neighbor. If I stay just long enough, they usually give me something to eat and don’t bother trying to get rid of me. Once I’m fed, I’m usually ready to go anyway. Mom is Dutch like the neighbors but she doesn’t cook like the old ladies on the block. She likes cakes and jello made out of mixes. But I like fancy desserts, the kind that don’t come out of boxes, the kind the old ladies make. As we continue walking to the store, Grandma sees us and yells, “You going to the store? I’m baking some pies today. Need a few...