Remembering Oma

When I turned 13 years old, my Oma gave me a simple framed painting of hers. She picked up oil painting as a hobby when she was in her 60’s. I felt so special that I had received such a personal gift from her, but never knew or even thought about WHY she chose to give me one of her limited paintings till many, many years later.

From birth till about 8 years old, I lived in the same small town on Vancouver Island as many of my Dutch immigrant relatives – aunts, uncles, cousins, and both sets of wonderful grandparents. Was I blessed, or what? Visiting Oma and Opa B. was always a lot of fun, because, of course, we were loved by them and we knew it. Special treats, a huge yard to run around and play in, and hugs and kisses.

When we moved to another province, I missed my relatives a lot. I used to regularly write letters to my favorite ones, and Oma B. was definitely one of those. I honestly didn’t think much about my letter writing  because I simply loved to write and it was a creative outlet for me. It’s not something my mom made me sit down to do.

Just a few years ago, my mom mentioned that Oma (who passed away about 20 years ago) valued those letters so much and was really touched that I took the time to correspond with her. She gave me her painting, a part of herself, to thank me. Now, that touched ME!

It reminds me of the time I was over at her house and she looked at me, and, with a smile, said, in her thick Dutch accent, “I LIKE you, ‘Neta”. Somehow, that was so validating to an insecure, skinny, plain little girl like me, coming from a large family, being lost somewhere in the middle. Of course, I knew she loved me, but somehow, at that moment, being liked was more important. I felt so special!  

When I look at that valued painting now, and see  her  handwriting on the back of it, I am reminded of the love between Oma and me. A bond that lasts over and beyond time, I’m sure!