Staf Vervoort, that name isn’t so well known outside the family.
Although, when you’re the seventh son, lying among your brothers in a bed box, where you sometimes shake the snow off your blanket, then King Leopold 3 becomes your godfather, and you get Leopold as your middle name. Then you’re known in the highest circles.
You didn’t stand in the spotlight much otherwise, no hero or anything like that. But when as a little rascal you hid the horses in the woods from the Germans, then you already earned some credit.
Studies passed you by. Walking to school during the war wasn’t so obvious. You were even allowed to move up a grade because the desks became too small.
Afterwards, straight to work, that’s how it was back then. At the English camp, where they asked you to be a chauffeur for some high official, but you didn’t know the way at all so he just got behind the wheel himself.
Or at VeHa, that time you drove the new gate right out of the wall with a forklift. Although, when we went to the Saint Nicholas party at DAF and I didn’t want to sit separately, but you held me on your lap. Then you’re definitely employee of the year.
You weren’t a rebel. But when we sometimes drove to the rabbit market in Herentals on Sunday morning, the intention was that we’d go to mass afterwards. That would sometimes become a trip to the tourist tower instead.
When we did go to mass, it was in the church at the parish hall, which only lasted half as long.
Sports, that wasn’t for our dad. Except once in Aunt Lora’s swimming pool, when you showed us a perfect breaststroke by giving yourself a push with your foot on the bottom at just the right timing.
Oh yes dad, with my diving goggles I had a perfect view of that trick.
And your hobby was making windmills, meters high, they even came to take pictures of them. You always maintained the bikes perfectly, just like everything was kept up and ingeniously made with whatever was at hand. With the Jerka and the Hin as sources, two army surplus stores where you found your parts including that periscope, a real soldier’s helmet and army tent that you brought home for us.
When my brothers and I started building and renovating, you were always there, even more than we were ourselves. You always did that without complaining or giving criticism. We never heard you curse or say ouch when you hurt yourself or ever. “It’s nothing,” you’d say and continue.
Sometimes with some advice, not about how it should be done, just with a bit of common sense.
When I was laying bricks for a fireplace and wanted to do it too precisely, “oh that’ll get plastered anyway.”
When I was plastering and wanted to do it too precisely, “oh that’ll get wallpapered anyway.”
When I was wallpapering and wanted to do it too precisely, “oh there’ll be a cabinet in front of that anyway.”
Just like that one phrase you always said when something didn’t work out well, “leave it and continue tomorrow.”
That sounds very ordinary, but many books have been written about that.
Vervoort Gustaaf Leopold, grandpa, dad, papa, you never put yourself in the spotlight, gave us all the freedom, everything you did was to help us move forward.
Everyone who knew you has only beautiful, pleasant memories of you.
As ordinary as you were, that’s how great you were too.
And now you would say: “It’s good like this, just continue with what you’re doing…”
Eddy
Gently, very gently you slipped away from us, quietly, very quietly you fought your battle.
Day by day you said goodbye to us. More and more you lived in strange dreams.
Now those dreams are over, don’t be sad, you are now free.
Staf Vervoort widower of Mrs. Mathil Verstrepen (†2010)
*6/19/1934 †11/24/2021