Show Time
(To catch up, see www.coachswen.com blog)

Ever since my mom and dad divorced when I was three, my sister and I were moved around, from Tante Gerharts’ house (friend of my mom’s), to the foster home, and finally to the halfway house. It wasn’t fun because I could never build a friendship with anyone and I missed my mom and brother. The staff of the halfway house worked hard to make it one big happy family but, for me, it wasn’t most of the time. Some of the kids there hated me and the worst thing was, I didn’t know why. So you take your bruises and you go on. But the bruises never really go away. Or do they?

Nanna and I were suddenly taken from the halfway house and brought to America by the TV show, “It Could Be You.” Almost in an instant, the halfway house bruises seemed like they weren’t there anymore.  

Through the rehearsal earlier that day, my sister and I understood our instructions. We were to position ourselves, side by side, inside a five-foot high windmill, on stage behind a curtain that had the back of it cut out so we could fit inside.  When the curtain was pulled and we heard the host say the magic words, he would open the little door. That was our cue to run out and hug our parents, my sister going to my stepfather and me running to my mom. I was already taller than the average 9 year old so they warned me to be careful not to knock my mom over.

I couldn’t enjoy the Beverly Wilshire pool so much that day because my mind was consumed with seeing my mom and brother again. It had been about four years. I kept thinking about my mother’s letters and how she constantly reminded us of how much she missed and loved us. I kept thinking about how warm she would be when I hugged her. I anticipated she would be shocked and then cry as she squeezed me on stage. I watched the clock carefully and impatiently.

The limo picked us up at our hotel and soon we arrived at NBC and were taken backstage. I don’t remember anything between then and when we got in that miniature windmill. I believe we were in a waiting room and, all of a sudden, someone came in with a smile and said in Dutch, “Nanna and Swen, it’s time. Are you ready?” Was I ready? Are you kidding?

As we walked onto that stage behind the closed curtain, we could hear what was happening on the other side. I didn’t understand one word of English but was later told. With some drum roll-type sound as a background, a TV camera, hoisted up several yards to get a birds-eye view of the audience, was panning the crowd. It would halfway zoom in on a person or a couple and the announcer would say, “It could be you.” After probably five fakes, it finally fully zoomed in on my mom and stepfather and the announcer said, “Mr. And Mrs. Langeberg (my stepfather’s last name), It Could be you.” My mom looked over at the Andersons, the Quaker family that had arranged the whole thing, and she knew something was up. They smiled and motioned that everything was OK. An usher immediately offered his hand to help my mom up and escorted both of them all the way down the aisle and up the stage steps, toward the host, Bill Laden, as the audience clapped frantically. Remember, Nanna and I were tucked in that little windmill and we couldn’t see or understand a thing. But we could hear and we knew it was almost time.

My parents were standing next to Bill Laden, shocked, looking at the huge audience, and trying to make sense of the whole thing. He asked them a question and pretended to notice a foreign accent. He asked where they were from and my mom said, “Holland.”

“Holland,” repeated Bill. “Don’t they have wooden shoes there?”

“Sure,” answered my mom.

“Do you have children?”

“Yes, three. Ibo is here with us but Nanna and Swen are still in Holland. We are working to get them over here.” (She didn’t know, we were just a few feet away.)

“I bet you miss them greatly.”

“Oh yes I do,” said my mom.

“And don’t they have windmills in Holland too?”

“Yes they do.”

“I can assume you have seen a windmill before, right?”

“Many,” said my mom.

The curtain pulled back as Bill Laden said, “I bet you’ve never seen a windmill like this one.” It was all my sister and I could do to keep from busting through that weak little door. My mom was so close I could almost feel her warmth. I wanted so badly to see her. I peeked through the crack in the door but could see nothing. Bill had now walked them over to the windmill and they were standing right next to it, and to us. For the first time in the show, I could actually hear my mother’s voice directly, not just over the PA system. Next question.

Bill asked my mom, “Have you ever seen the inside of a windmill?”

“Oh, yes, I have.” (She had no idea we were inside.)

“I bet you’ve never seen one that looks like this.” And he opened that door. My sister went first, as planned, and then I followed. I was oblivious to the bright stage lights or the shocked audience that first sighed and then burst into applause, as I came out of the windmill from a crouch to a full stand. I looked up and there was my mother. She had already seen my sister and knew what was happening. When she saw me coming at her with a stomach full of butterflies and a face full of the greatest joy ever, I came toward her (carefully of course, just like in rehearsal) and we were caught in an embrace I will never forget. Our tears met somewhere during the hug. I don’t know how long it lasted but I knew I didn’t want her to ever let me go again. I stayed right next to her for the remainder of our time on stage and walked closely by her as we went backstage.

We were in America now. On the way home I thought about the halfway house, the kids that hated me, and felt for that bruise they left on me. But I couldn’t find it. I was in America and although I still hadn’t seen any cowboys, I had my mom and that was all that mattered. When we got home, I saw my brother, Ibo, fifteen months my younger. The last time I saw him he was 3. Now he was 8. To this day we are very close.

Fourth grade was only one week away. Wait till you hear what happened my first day. Think, “Cowboy.”