My Saturday workload was light, however much I pretended otherwise.
The only job was a photo of gift baskets put together by Neerlandia Christian Public School children. They were to be auctioned off in a fundraiser.
I envisaged five minutes in a half-empty, musty church hall, clicking at a smiling face next to a few baskets. Perhaps, if I were lucky, I would be offered a chocolate chip cookie.
The challenge would be to squeeze enough drama from the assignment to tell colleagues about my utterly exhausting weekend. So stressful that I needed an immediate ten-day vacation in Hawaii.
My mental picture began to disintegrate when I turned into Neerlandia and found myself in a queue of cars.
What was going on? This didn’t seem a likely spot for semi-deserted halls and a cookie or two.
I blindly followed some couples walking into a hall and did a brief recce of my environment, trying to look super efficient. The place was packed.
There were festive decorations, dozens of laid tables and a stage waiting for an MC or entertainer. It was clear I had stumbled into the beginnings of a huge party; a party for which I had no ticket. I was a gatecrasher.
Grimly I looked about. People, people everywhere, but not a familiar face in sight … until I saw Dennis Nanninga in intense conversation with MLA Maureen Kubinec.
Should I barge in? No, better not. Play it smart, I cautioned myself. Find a basket and a smiling face, go click, and let these happy folk be. Please, please don’t embarrass yourself.
Then I met one of the organizers Sonja De Waal, and while we talked smiling, familiar faces began to appear and with them invitations to stay, eat and be merry.
I said no, of course – as every English gatecrasher must – but once my fake protestations were dismissed I took my seat at Lambert Veenstra’s table and enjoyed an unforgettable night of sumptuous food, comedy and music.
Perhaps the biggest thrill was meeting my twin brother Matt, our pianist and comedian for the evening.
At least I think we are related. The clues are persuasive: both called Day, both blessed with bowling ball heads (topless, as someone put it) and both chilled-out entertainers.
Okay, that last description may be a stretch, but I have sometimes been called funny.
“He’s a funny one,” is how people put it.
Another show-stopping performance came from a rapper named Charles Parsons. Sure he’s an auctioneer, but his rapid-fire delivery makes for the grooviest of music. Several of the young girls serving us jigged along to Charlie’s beat.
Now what can I say about the food? I’m no culinary expert, but my tummy knows a good thing when it sees it. I defy the poshest hotel in the world to come up with anything so grand.
There are no half measures with Neerlandians, something I learned during last year’s 100th birthday celebrations. And that extends to dinner. So five hours after my five-minute job started I found myself staggering into the night air, being dragged by my stomach.
Something brother Matt said kept turning in my head: If you’re not Dutch, you’re not much. Vainly I began trawling mentally through my heritage, then it hit me.
Hang on, my middle name is Holland. Surely that counts for something.
The price of a meal ticket, perhaps.
