Prosing On

This is my first go around with a blog. I feel as though I’m talking to myself.  A good friend suggested this site to me after having read some of my work.  Here is an introduction to me and my writing.

I started out in life as a little Dutch girl.  I was born at around 2:30am, on September 14, 1954, in a town called Driebergen/Rijsenburg, the Netherlands.  My Ome (uncle) Henk had to fetch the rather statuesque midwife from two towns over on his bicycle, double riding with her on the way back home.  I was born in my Oma’s (grandmother) house, nestled in the love and pride of mijn Moeder’s familie boerderij (my mother’s family farmhouse).

 Papa, when I was 8 months in the womb, embarked on a journey to find his own way in the world.  Jobs in post WWII Europe were scarce, so Papa came to Canada to see what being Canadian was all about.  After I was born, and snail mail being what it was, correspondence went back and forth over the Atlantic to report the sex of the newborn, then the desired names from both parties on either side of the Atlantic, between Driebergen and the Cabbage Town area of Toronto–inhale–I finally had a name!  I shall forevermore be called Angelique.

The time came for my Moeder, my sister and I to take our epic journey across the Atlantic.  As with all world travelers of that time, we did not escape the inevitable travel vaccines.  My body’s immediate reaction to the inoculations was to break out in sores from head to toe.  The ship’s welcoming committee included the Doctor, who, upon seeing my mother’s infected bundle, snatched me out of her arms and put me under immediate quarantine. I was never to leave the sick bay for the duration of the trip; two weeks of solitary confinement at the tender age of 1-year-old.  My only human contact was a plump masked nurse with angry eyes, who at every opportunity tried to poison me with a great bowl of thicker than plaster oatmeal.  I was only able to catch brief glimpses of my Moeder through the tiny porthole in the hospital room’s door.  Her face was contorting all the while, with tears streaming down, trying with all her might to show her little quarantined baby a happy face.

Having been in Toronto, Ontario when I was born, my Papa didn’t have the pleasure of making my acquaintance until I was 1 year and 14 days old.  On September 28, 1955 our ship sailed in, literally, to Montreal Harbor. I can only imagine how my Moeder felt at age 22 as she was walking down the gang-plank, scabby baby in her arms, my older sister Helena, a 2-year-old, at her side.  She must have been bombarded with so many mixed emotions. From being wearied by the trip, heartbroken over my quarantine, fearful to explain where the beautiful watch was that her husband had sent to her from Canada (it was at the bottom of the Atlantic; it flew off while Moeder rescued Helena from falling over the railing), to being excited to reunite with my Papa after around a year of separation.  These are the events that helped shape the writer I believe is residing in my heart, soul and mind.

Until we meet again, I’ll keep prosing on.



  1. Madison Woods said,

    May 12, 2012 at 9:06 am

    What an awesome origins story. I enjoyed learning about your journey and early experience. Thanks for following me 🙂

  2. jonesingafter40 said,

    December 13, 2011 at 7:55 am

    That is quite a beginning Angelique! Prose on!!

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