Click-clack Klunk-klunk

Jani sat in the Tulip House with his mother while Trudy was in her bedroom, reading a book. Mrs. Van der Veld was clomping around the garden rows in her clogs. She watered the tomatoes and tied their vines to sticks to keep them off the ground. While she gardened, Jani read crossword clues out loud.
“Dutch master, seven letters.”
“Van Gogh,” answered Mrs. Van der Veld.
“Nope, third letter is an R.”
“I’m not sure,” said mother.
Is Ver Meer a painter?” asked Jani.
“Of course! Jan Ver Meer!”
“Mother, you should know that! After all, you do work in an art museum.”
“I work in the museum’s bookstore.”
“I still think you should know.”
“There were almost one-hundred Dutch masters.”
Jani and his mother worked the crossword until the red moving truck’s air brakes squealed out front. Mr. Van der Veld climbed out of his seat and went around to the back of the truck. When Jani heard the rear door slide open, he ran to his bedroom and poked his head out the window. Mr. Van der Veld stood behind the truck, holding a large brown package.
“Jani, would you please come down and help me?”
“What is it?” asked Jani.
“If you come down here, you just might find out.”
Jani scurried down the steps as Ajax followed closely behind, greeting his father at the door. Mr. Van der Veld’s package wasn’t a package at all. It was a hinged wooden gaming board.
“Dutch shuffleboard?”
“Sjöelbak, actually. Would you please take one end?”
“Where do you want to go?” asked Jani.
“Let’s put it in the family room.”
Jani grabbed an end of the Sjöelbak table and led his father into the family room. Mr. Van der Veld unfolded the table. As he assembled the parts, Trudy came downstairs to investigate.
“Shuffleboard! Can I play?”
“It’s called Sjöelbak. You and your brother will play the first game. I’ll play against the winner.”
“What about me?” asked Mrs. Van der Veld.
“I didn’t know you would want to play,” said father.
Mrs. Van der Veld leaned against the handrail at the bottom of the stair and folded her arms. “I used to be shuffleboard champion of my family.”
“Sjöelbak,” corrected Trudy.
Mrs. Van der Veld nodded her head. Mr. Van der Veld unfastened four wooden pegs taped to the inside surface and screwed them into holes. Now that the table had legs, he set in on the floor.
“There,” he said.
“Where are the wooden pucks?” asked mother.
“I left them in the front seat.”
“I’ll get them!” exclaimed Trudy. Trudy grabbed the keys and scurried to the truck. She retrieved a brown paper bag. After Trudy opened the bag, 30 wooden pucks spilled onto the table. She and her brother carefully stacked them beside the game. Each puck was the size of a small donut.
“I want to go first!” said Trudy.
“Why can’t I go first?” argued Jani.
“Your sister fetched the pucks. It’s only fair.”
“But I helped you with the table,” said Jani.
“Do it the Dutch way,: Jani,” insisted mother, “share and share alike.”
“Alright,” groaned Jani as he waited for his turn.
Trudy aimed the pucks at one of the four holes at the other end. Above each hole, there were four numbered pips. Two, three, four, and one, reading left to right. Each wooden puck clicked as it bounced off side rails. Most went through the holes, while others bounced back into the center field. When she finished, she gathered the pucks in center field. Jani stacked the pucks that entered the scoring area.
“Round two!” she said.
During round two, she slid the remaining pucks towards the four holes. After round two, she gathered the pucks remained in center field while her brother stacked the pucks neatly in the scoring area.
“Round three!” she said.
“Good job, Trudy. There are only five left,” said her father.
Carefully, she aimed each puck at the scoring holes. One by one, they entered the scoring area. When she slid her last one, it went into the hole with four pips above it, which meant it was worth four points.
“Let’s count your score,” said Mr. Van der Veld. He evened the four stacks and counted them out. Six sets of four. That’s 120. To that, add four 4s, a 3, and a 2. The total comes to 141.”
“I can beat that,” said Jani.
“The best score possible is 148,” replied Mrs. Van der Veld.
“Just watch this,” said Jani. He gritted his teeth and pushed the pucks towards the holes. His first two pucks went right into the four hole.
“Perfect so far,” he said.
He continued pushing the wooden pucks across the Sjöelbak table. The pucks clicked along quickly, gathering outside the 4-point hole. He aimed each puck carefully. After the first round, he gathered his pucks in center field while Trudy stacked the pucks in the scoring area.
“Look at all the fours,” he boasted.
“You have to slide the pucks into all the holes,” said his mother. Jani ignored her, aiming the pucks for the 4-hole.
At the end of all three rounds, Mr. Van der Veld counted Jani’s score.
“Five sets of four equals 100, plus four extra 4s and one 1. That makes 117.”
Jani frowned. “117? How?”
“You didn’t listen to your mother’s warning.”
“Let me try again.”
“Maybe your mother wants to play,” said Mr. Van der Veld.
“I would like to try once. I haven’t played Sjöelbak in a long time.”
Mrs. Van der Veld rose from her chair, clopping across the wooden floor of the family room. The wooden pucks clicked as she slid them across the Sjöelbak table.
During her turn, Jani gathered the pucks in scoring area and tallied her score: 122. He shuffled the pucks onto the table beside the Sjöelbak board, stacking them in neat columns and rows.
“With all the clicking and clacking of wood, I think it would be a good time to go to my workshop. I want to finish cutting the wood for Mrs. Van Heeswijk’s Christmas surprise,” said father.
“What are you building?” asked Jani.
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise,” said Mr. Van der Veld.
“Why didn’t you build a Sjöelbak table?” asked Trudy.
“During my deliveries, the manager at the toy store gave me this table as a gift.”
“But you could make it, right?” asked Trudy.
“Remember when one of the tires on your tricycle broke?”
Trudy nodded.
“I built a new wheel out of a two-by-four.”
“Yeah,” laughed Mrs. Van der Veld, “no matter where you went, I knew where you were. The wooden wheel clunked along the sidewalk.”
“It sounded like someone running in clogs.”
“Every day, you wear clogs around the house. I don’t know why. I think they’re uncomfortable.”
“The main reason I wear the clogs is because your father made them especially for me,” answered Mrs. Van der Veld.
“How long does it take to make a pair of shoes?”
“Usually, it takes two or three hours. For your mother’s shoes, I spent a whole month carving, sanding, and polishing them.”
“Why so long?”
“In the old days, a man would make a special pair of shoes for a girl. In addition to the engagement ring, he would present her with a pair of clogs. If she accepted the shoes, it meant she would marry him.”
“Your father took great care in making these clogs. My feet fit perfectly inside them. These wooden shoes keep my feet warm and dry.”
“Haven’t you seen my woodworking tools?” asked Mr. Van der Veld.
“Not really.”
“Follow me into my workshop,” said Mr. Van der Veld.
The workshop smelled like sawdust and oily rags. In the middle of the room sat a bench. Attached to the bench was a long metal blade.
“If I had a good piece of poplar, I could show you exactly how clogs are made. Unfortunately, I only have scraps of lumber.”
He grabbed a small board and set it on the bench. With smooth strokes, he pushed the blade over the end of the lumber, shaving pieces off the wood. He twisted the board in his hand, rounding off an end of the board.
“Where do you put a foot?” asked Trudy.
Mr. Van der Veld placed the chunk of wood on the bench, holding it with a clamp. He pulled a large T-shaped instrument from the wall. At one end was a corkscrew. He twisted it into the middle of the board. As the corkscrew dug into the board, the wood squealed under the pressure of the blade. Bits of wood popped out of the lumber as a hole was formed.
“Just like that,” answered her father. He undid the clamp and picked up tihe piece of wood. Already, it began looking like a shoe.
“Did you make my clogs?” asked Trudy.
“We bought those from a shoe factory.”
“That’s too bad,” she frowned.
“It takes great patience and great effort to make a good pair of clogs. I’m not as good at it as I used to be.”
“Do you suppose I could learn how to make clogs one day?” asked Jani.
“Maybe one day, I’ll show you how,” said his father, “Right now I’m going to work on Mrs. Van Heeswijk’s surprise.”
“Can I help you with that?” asked Jani.
“Me too! Me too!” said Trudy.
“If you help, it wouldn’t be a surprise, now would it?”
“Come on children, let your father be. If you want to help someone, you can help me prepare dinner.”
“Oh mom,” sighed Jani.
“I know, it’s not as exciting as wooden shoes. If you want, you can play with your new game.”
“I want a rematch with Trudy.”
“I’m going to help mother,” said Trudy.
Mrs. Van der Veld led the children out of the workshop, clomping along as she went. Trudy and her mom worked in the kitchen, mixing dumpling batter and peeling potatoes. Jani returned to the Sjoelbak game, trying to improve his score.
Mrs. Van der Veld formed the dumplings by scooping a spoon into the batter and rolling it off the end of the spoon with her fingers. The dumpling plopped in the hot oil, frying to a golden brown. After Trudy peeled all the potatoes, Mrs. Van der Veld cut them into slices.
“Would you please butter the Dutch Oven and arrange the ingredients inside?”
“Of course, mother,” replied Trudy. She lifted the cast iron cooking pot onto the counter and placed the food inside. Mrs. Van der Veld added pieces of lamb.
Shuffleboard clicks, wooden shoe clacks, and carpentry mallet clunks filled the air as everyone went about their business. The smell of deep-fried dumplings filled the air, too.
The Dutch Oven went into the fireplace and simmered over the hot flames. When dinner was ready, Mrs. Van der Veld slipped out to the workshop.
“Bert, dinner’s ready,” she said.
Mr. Van der Veld quickly threw a sheet over a wooden box.
“What are you making?”
“I told you, it’s a surprise.”
“It’s not my surprise,” she replied.
“Anna Van Heeswijk is one of your best friends. How can I trust that you’ll keep the secret?”
Mrs. Van der Veld smirked.
“I knew it! If I told you, you’d tell her and that would ruin the surprise. You’ll just have to wait until St. Nicholas Day like everyone else.”
Mr. Van der Veld secured the blanket over his workbench. In the dining room, the children were seated, waiting to eat the lamb potpie. Mr. Van der Veld lifted the metal lid off the Dutch Oven. The potpie bubbled, stewing in its own juices. He moved the Dutch Oven out of the fire and used a ladle to pile servings on everyone’s plates.
As everyone ate their meal, the sounds of wood on wood had been replaced with silverware on china and various small talk. Although, Mrs. Van der Veld led her children in questions about Mrs. Van Heeswijk’s surprise, Mr. Van der Veld said nothing. The wrapping on that secret would not be opened until Saint Nicholas Day.