History part one

On october 16, 1955 I was born as my parents fifth child (fourth girl), two more children would follow. One girl one boy. Their firstborn Emma had died at a very young age of cancer.
My parents met and fell in love during ww II. She was the oldest daughter of a family with high social standing in the small coalmining town in the south of Holland. My father an only child of simple but solid parents who settled in the south later in life. He worked as an engineer at the mine so that would make me a coalminers daughter.

I remember waking up early in the morning and watching the men from the early shift make their way to the mine. They would joke and swing the blocked towels that held their food and metal flask filled with tea or coffee, on the rhythm of their steps. Helmets slightly askew on their heads. Soon after the men from the nightshift walked by going in opposite direction, silently, black rimmed eyes. Dragging their feet and coughing up pieces of the air they had inhaled all night. And still it was a good life. Southern communities, separating themselves from the rest of the country by the singsong way of talking, easygoing warm-hearted, finding reasons for celebrations in the smallest things. Held together by their faith and the catholic church. Everyone knew everyone. Family was all that mattered. The mine the bond they all shared.

My recollection of my early years are fairly happy. Summers spend at the seaside, a luxury not given to many, a loving father and a mother who seemed to dote on us. Little did I know. I can’t remember when the laughter stopped and the screaming began. It is not important anymore anyway. My rebellious puberty had a lot to do with these unhappy years. Wanting to break away. Trying so hard to find love but looking in the wrong places. Giving my body to easily and breaking hearts in the process. I did a lot of things I’m not proud of. It took me a while to realise that true love can’t be found on the surface. Call it growing up the hard way.