2025-07-10, 04:16 PM
The garden gate rattles, and I look up from my PC into the garden through the window, annoyed. Who's bothering me now? Working at home is really sometimes a pain, but I have to finally enter the statistics, which are piling up as loose sheets on my desk, into the computer. It's not exactly fun, but it's part of my job here on the coast. Counting ducks and geese in the wild is, of course, much more interesting, but it has to be done.
The cherry tree is showing its first blossoms, the bike is leaning over there. Jos is just entering the house through the terrace, the door is open as always. Now I hear the backpack hitting the floorboards, the zipper of his anorak rattling and shortly afterwards both sneakers clap on the floorboards. I wasn't expecting him; the rehearsal isn't until Thursday. He enters my office in his socks and throws himself into the worn brown leather armchair without saying hello. He lets out a deep sigh and pulls his feet up to him, wrapping his arms around his knees and keeping his head bowed.
Curly hair, jeans, a sweatshirt, hand-knitted, colorful socks, the kind my grandma used to knit for me, scratchy and hard but warm, I think to myself.
What's wrong with him? A six in math, lovesickness, trouble with his parents, no, with them he actually gets along quite well, they are nice, at least as far as I know them. A little old-fashioned, conservative and they don't come to the concerts either, but the music is probably not always parent-compatible either. He's not going to cancel the rehearsal, is he? The guys still have a lot of practicing to do before our band's performance. Jos plays the drums, he's quite talented, but he should be there for the rehearsals. On Thursdays, we always practice in my big shed, so no one should feel disturbed in their well-deserved or undeserved rest. I live quite a distance from our small village.
So I take a look at Jos: the whole appearance in front of me is just the personification of misery, it must be something serious!
“Hi,” I say, brushing my much-too-long, straight hair out of my face, trying a relaxed smile and taking a seat in the other armchair, a small round table separates us, full of books, sheet music, a wine glass and the wooden box with the cigars.
My PC is just switching to the screensaver, a black and white photo of the band is building up, six cheerful guys in black clothes, lying on the dike with their arms propped up, and me in the middle, also in black, above us the endless gray sky, on the dike only a white sheep. Seven black sheep and one white one, the guys thought it was cool. Jos is also there, but he's grinning boldly into the camera.
He looks up, how can he have such big brown eyes? His brown curls frame his narrow face. God, the little one has become so handsome, the last pimples have already disappeared, flawless pure skin, in the evenings during rehearsals and at the performances, he always has black made-up eyes, today they are wide open, but deeply sad.
“Ben,” he says, ”my completely stupid parents, they've really messed up, damn it.”
Aha, so it's the parents after all. He's good at school, I would have been surprised if he wasn't, and with his looks, the girls are bound to be delighted. I've already noticed that at the gigs, even though as a drummer he's always sitting pretty far back and the girls often look longingly at the singer first. Yes, I'm quite proud when the band accepts the applause after their performances. The screaming teenagers and my guys – sweaty, sticky and exhausted, but with that look in their eyes. I always see myself exactly the same way as they do today, with even longer hair. But the sparkle in my eyes often enough came from the dope that we bought just over the Dutch border and were able to smuggle across without any problems with my grandma's help, who always visited a friend there. My grandmother, who not only knitted socks, smuggled dope, but also embroidered my jeans jacket with the name of my favorite band “Birthcontrol”, whereby the fact that grandma didn't know a word of English probably helped a lot. That's all in the past. Jos brings me back.
“My stupid Catholic parents,” he groans.
Wait, what's that? Catholic? Jos is Catholic? But we live here in the land of the Evangelicals and the godless, there isn't even a Catholic church far and wide.
“Catholic, you're Catholic, Jos?” I ask stupidly, as if I care what someone's faith is or even if they believe anything.
“Yes, Catholic and gay!”
Now he looks at me uncertainly
“You don't care about that, do you?”
“What, that you're Catholic?”
“Nah man, that I'm gay?”
Careful Ben, now don't say the wrong thing, so schoolmasterly: I almost thought so, because it's not true. Although, actually, I suspected it. Back when he was looking at the photo book of black and white photos, this art book that I always keep on my desk, the large-format pictures with naked people embedded in nature. He hadn't looked at the women in the forest, the elf-like figures walking and lying among the moss and ferns in the fog, like the other boys always do.
No, he had stared almost enraptured at the naked man who nestles with his back against a rock in the sea and almost melts with the rock with his body and he had slammed the book shut pretty quickly when I looked over his shoulder – the boys are not usually so sensitive. Yes, there were other signs too, he had never taken part in the so-called women's stories. And I seem to have a well-trained perception! How stupid that sounds now. But they are still children who come to me to make music, I don't worry about their sexual orientation. My God, Jos is just sixteen, I would never worry about that.
“Been,” he brings me back to the present, ”you don't care, do you, cool man?”
“Of course I don't care, you know that!”
No, I don't care! Jos is homosexual, how wonderful and how awful, I feel queasy.
What does he want me to say: You're gay and that's good? Of course it's good, but he seems to have problems, the way he's sitting here, a picture of misery.
Of course he has problems, who doesn't!
So I guess I'll have to help him with his so-called coming out. As if I can help, I scoff to myself. His outburst suggests that his parents seem to know, but apparently they're not thrilled, if I understand him correctly.
But first of all, how does a cool guy who is trusted by the kids react?
“So you're gay. I won't ask if you're sure about it, I'm assuming you are. Do you want a tea?”
Tea is always good. I can make a tea and calmly consider how to get through this conversation professionally.
“No, coffee,“ he says.
“With rum?” I smile, knowing full well that he wouldn't get any alcohol from me.
“No, with your whiskey that you always hide from us.”
Aha, so he knows that too, nobody should drink my expensive 20-year-old single malt from the milksops.
He jumps in: “I'll make my own coffee, then you can get your whisky out of your hiding place,” he grins again rebelliously.
I hear him fiddling with my coffee machine in the kitchen and actually looking for the desired whisky. Then I stand at the window and think and dream and am far away. I brush my thoughts aside and stare into the garden.
A moment later he returns, balancing two mugs, which he sets down on the small table. I pour him a tiny sip and a little more whisky into my black coffee.
“Ha, that wasn't even a teaspoon of alcohol,” he complains, ”You're a stickler for rules.”
Yes, if that's how he wants to see it.
“Tell me, are you in love yet?“ I want to distract him, but I don't want to appear too curious.
He suddenly beams and jumps up again.
“I have a picture of him, he goes to my parallel class, is super sweet and hooray,” he spreads both arms, “we're together.”
Wow, Jos is homosexual, in love and has a boyfriend. A bit much all at once.
“I'm looking for the photos,” he shouts, running into the hallway and rummaging through his backpack.
And I have some time to smooth my facial features and look once more through the window at my slightly blossomed cherry tree, which is rustling softly in the spring wind.
There he is again, his camera held high in his hand. He is beaming, his eyes are sparkling, he slides on his socks across my wooden floor to my armchair.
“Can you handle it?” he asks, ‘No, let me show you.”
He stands behind my chair. Both arms slide past my head on the right and left, he leans his head on my shoulder and waves his hands with the camera in front of my face. His warm breath caresses my right ear.
“Wait,’ he whispers, ”the right photos will be there in a moment.”
His long brown curls tickle me, his face is dangerously close to mine, his eyes stare almost ecstatically at the camera.
I concentrate on the display.
“There,” he whispers, ‘that's him, Jan-Martin!’ How can you pronounce such a boring name so gently and meaningfully?
Jan-Martin is blond, has blue eyes and, at his age, is the perfect match for Jos. He grins adventurously into the camera and yes, in the next photo he is definitely looking at Jos with great love.
“Great guy,“ I mutter.
“Great guy,” he grunts, “Jan Martin is the sweetest guy ever, I'm totally in love.”
Then I get to see a few more photos where the two of them kiss very skillfully, with tongues, so they've clearly had a lot of practice.
But now to really important topics.
“So Jos, you seem to me to be currently sky-high and sad to death. What's going on, love life okay - parenting life all s---?”
“Yes,” he sighs again, gets up and cuddles up in his armchair again. That's better, a little distance is needed for this kind of advice.
“My parents saw the photos and summoned me for a talk.”
“Well at least they didn't delete the photos.”
“Yes, they did, we took new ones.”
“So let's be clear,” he recites as if he had learned the sentences by heart.
“They say they still love me.”
That's a lot, I think, with all the unloved children in this world.
“But there's no such thing as gay life in Catholicism, I should get that out of my head and, if necessary, live my whole life in abstinence. I can have homosexual thoughts or something like that, so I can be into men, but I'm not allowed to fuck,” he turns bright red, ”or even kiss Jan-Martin.”
Well, judging by the photos, he doesn't seem to be planning on being celibate. How much experience do you think he has? I'm definitely not going to ask that question.
But, he has just given me the official doctrine of the Catholic Church in very simple words.
“And I can't discuss it with them, that's what they say, they forgive me for what I've done, but they ask me not to sin anymore,” he continues.
Well, that's a tough nut that Jos got thrown at his feet. His parents are acting in accordance with the dogmas of the Catholic Church. Homosexuality yes, but not acting on it, the sexual union, so that children can be born. Wait a minute: Jos only has one sister left, ideal family - mother, father, son and daughter. The devout Catholic parents didn't use contraception, did they?
“Jos, you only have one sister, don't you?”
“Yes, why?”
He continues to prattle on: “What do you think of this shitty Catholic view, Ben? Oh, you probably can't understand it at all, you don't believe in anything!”
“Yes, Jos, I am religious and I also believe that there is a God.”
That just slipped out, I don't usually go around peddling my faith. It's my private business, it's nobody's business. But with Jos it's probably different.
“Huh?” He looks at me in disbelief. ”Do you also go to church and confession? Oh, you don't have anything to confess, you're already a saint.”
“Firstly, I am definitely not a saint, secondly, confession does not exist in the Protestant faith, for example, and thirdly, I do not necessarily need to belong to the Church as an institution to be religious, and fourthly, churches are very beautiful sacred buildings and especially Catholic churches, I can meditate very well in them and draw new strength.”
“Wow,” Jos looks at me in disbelief. ”You think... Cologne Cathedral is beautiful?”
Well, when I was meditating, I was thinking of churches somewhere on the Mediterranean, not of the huge Cologne Cathedral. Whenever I'm on vacation and go hiking, I often sit in beautiful, old, small churches. I told Jos that I've often used them for meditation for years, but also just for brooding, for endlessly long brooding.
“Then you can actually explain this to me with my parents? You know, I love my parents madly, I've always got on well with them, they never dragged me to church either, you know. They themselves probably always went to church in the district town regularly, but I didn't need to go with them, well except at Christmas and such. We never argued about Catholic beliefs, everything was fine and now they suddenly come up with all this stuff about being gay being a mortal sin and such. And their eyes, oh Ben, they always look at me now as if I had already died and I'm lying in the coffin and they are saying goodbye. They only whisper to each other, and they only talk to me when absolutely necessary. I don't want to lose them.“ Tears run down Jos' face.
“But I love Jan-Martin too, I can't do without him either.” He then speaks more clearly and loudly.
Poor Jos!
“Your name is probably also Josef, Jos?” I ask abruptly.
“Yes, didn't you know?” he grins again, ‘Josef, an old, arch-Catholic name, I should probably find a Maria and have lots of little Jesus children. That's what my parents had in mind for me.”
“Well, Jesus wasn't exactly the model son for parents either,’ I have to interrupt him,
“Huh?” he asks.
“Well, at the age of twelve he just runs away from home to the temple and denies his parents, and later he travels the country with twelve men and preaches, without professional training or a permanent place of residence. Then he takes on the authorities, never keeps his mouth shut and would rather be crucified than give in. If that's an ideal son?”
“You're cheeky, Ben, now don't tell me you think Jesus was gay?”
“No, Jos, I really don't know that, probably not, let's not speculate!”
“And in the Protestant church, being gay is not a problem? You know, Ben, at our school, as far as I know, no one has a problem with it. I can walk hand in hand with Jan-Martin across the schoolyard, the teachers grin at each other and my classmates don't really care and the girls think we're kind of cute.”
Jos and his friend hand in hand, times have obviously changed. In my day, you couldn't even be seen hand in hand with a girl on school grounds. Well, that's a bit of an exaggeration, and as if I ever wanted that. But my jeans jacket, embroidered with red embroidery thread “Birthcontrol”, was taboo, with its statement on birth control, even my reference to the band didn't help. Oh, they were wild times back then, and even then we always met in our barn to make and listen to music. I took over this old farm later when my grandparents died and I was drawn back to the countryside.
But first I have to explain something to Jos. How do I explain the difference between Catholicism and Protestantism to him without boring him? And anyway, I don't know that much myself. Maybe it's better to talk about my own beliefs.
“Ben,” he interrupts my thoughts again, ‘I'm amazed that you believe in anything. You're an ’68er, aren't you? You absorbed sexual and political freedom with your mother's milk.”
“Jos, I wasn't even born in 1968.”
“Yes, that's what I said: with my mother's milk.”
“Breastfeeding was completely out at the time,” I enlighten him. The idea of a swelling mother's breast is quite repulsive to me right now.
The cherry tree is showing its first blossoms, the bike is leaning over there. Jos is just entering the house through the terrace, the door is open as always. Now I hear the backpack hitting the floorboards, the zipper of his anorak rattling and shortly afterwards both sneakers clap on the floorboards. I wasn't expecting him; the rehearsal isn't until Thursday. He enters my office in his socks and throws himself into the worn brown leather armchair without saying hello. He lets out a deep sigh and pulls his feet up to him, wrapping his arms around his knees and keeping his head bowed.
Curly hair, jeans, a sweatshirt, hand-knitted, colorful socks, the kind my grandma used to knit for me, scratchy and hard but warm, I think to myself.
What's wrong with him? A six in math, lovesickness, trouble with his parents, no, with them he actually gets along quite well, they are nice, at least as far as I know them. A little old-fashioned, conservative and they don't come to the concerts either, but the music is probably not always parent-compatible either. He's not going to cancel the rehearsal, is he? The guys still have a lot of practicing to do before our band's performance. Jos plays the drums, he's quite talented, but he should be there for the rehearsals. On Thursdays, we always practice in my big shed, so no one should feel disturbed in their well-deserved or undeserved rest. I live quite a distance from our small village.
So I take a look at Jos: the whole appearance in front of me is just the personification of misery, it must be something serious!
“Hi,” I say, brushing my much-too-long, straight hair out of my face, trying a relaxed smile and taking a seat in the other armchair, a small round table separates us, full of books, sheet music, a wine glass and the wooden box with the cigars.
My PC is just switching to the screensaver, a black and white photo of the band is building up, six cheerful guys in black clothes, lying on the dike with their arms propped up, and me in the middle, also in black, above us the endless gray sky, on the dike only a white sheep. Seven black sheep and one white one, the guys thought it was cool. Jos is also there, but he's grinning boldly into the camera.
He looks up, how can he have such big brown eyes? His brown curls frame his narrow face. God, the little one has become so handsome, the last pimples have already disappeared, flawless pure skin, in the evenings during rehearsals and at the performances, he always has black made-up eyes, today they are wide open, but deeply sad.
“Ben,” he says, ”my completely stupid parents, they've really messed up, damn it.”
Aha, so it's the parents after all. He's good at school, I would have been surprised if he wasn't, and with his looks, the girls are bound to be delighted. I've already noticed that at the gigs, even though as a drummer he's always sitting pretty far back and the girls often look longingly at the singer first. Yes, I'm quite proud when the band accepts the applause after their performances. The screaming teenagers and my guys – sweaty, sticky and exhausted, but with that look in their eyes. I always see myself exactly the same way as they do today, with even longer hair. But the sparkle in my eyes often enough came from the dope that we bought just over the Dutch border and were able to smuggle across without any problems with my grandma's help, who always visited a friend there. My grandmother, who not only knitted socks, smuggled dope, but also embroidered my jeans jacket with the name of my favorite band “Birthcontrol”, whereby the fact that grandma didn't know a word of English probably helped a lot. That's all in the past. Jos brings me back.
“My stupid Catholic parents,” he groans.
Wait, what's that? Catholic? Jos is Catholic? But we live here in the land of the Evangelicals and the godless, there isn't even a Catholic church far and wide.
“Catholic, you're Catholic, Jos?” I ask stupidly, as if I care what someone's faith is or even if they believe anything.
“Yes, Catholic and gay!”
Now he looks at me uncertainly
“You don't care about that, do you?”
“What, that you're Catholic?”
“Nah man, that I'm gay?”
Careful Ben, now don't say the wrong thing, so schoolmasterly: I almost thought so, because it's not true. Although, actually, I suspected it. Back when he was looking at the photo book of black and white photos, this art book that I always keep on my desk, the large-format pictures with naked people embedded in nature. He hadn't looked at the women in the forest, the elf-like figures walking and lying among the moss and ferns in the fog, like the other boys always do.
No, he had stared almost enraptured at the naked man who nestles with his back against a rock in the sea and almost melts with the rock with his body and he had slammed the book shut pretty quickly when I looked over his shoulder – the boys are not usually so sensitive. Yes, there were other signs too, he had never taken part in the so-called women's stories. And I seem to have a well-trained perception! How stupid that sounds now. But they are still children who come to me to make music, I don't worry about their sexual orientation. My God, Jos is just sixteen, I would never worry about that.
“Been,” he brings me back to the present, ”you don't care, do you, cool man?”
“Of course I don't care, you know that!”
No, I don't care! Jos is homosexual, how wonderful and how awful, I feel queasy.
What does he want me to say: You're gay and that's good? Of course it's good, but he seems to have problems, the way he's sitting here, a picture of misery.
Of course he has problems, who doesn't!
So I guess I'll have to help him with his so-called coming out. As if I can help, I scoff to myself. His outburst suggests that his parents seem to know, but apparently they're not thrilled, if I understand him correctly.
But first of all, how does a cool guy who is trusted by the kids react?
“So you're gay. I won't ask if you're sure about it, I'm assuming you are. Do you want a tea?”
Tea is always good. I can make a tea and calmly consider how to get through this conversation professionally.
“No, coffee,“ he says.
“With rum?” I smile, knowing full well that he wouldn't get any alcohol from me.
“No, with your whiskey that you always hide from us.”
Aha, so he knows that too, nobody should drink my expensive 20-year-old single malt from the milksops.
He jumps in: “I'll make my own coffee, then you can get your whisky out of your hiding place,” he grins again rebelliously.
I hear him fiddling with my coffee machine in the kitchen and actually looking for the desired whisky. Then I stand at the window and think and dream and am far away. I brush my thoughts aside and stare into the garden.
A moment later he returns, balancing two mugs, which he sets down on the small table. I pour him a tiny sip and a little more whisky into my black coffee.
“Ha, that wasn't even a teaspoon of alcohol,” he complains, ”You're a stickler for rules.”
Yes, if that's how he wants to see it.
“Tell me, are you in love yet?“ I want to distract him, but I don't want to appear too curious.
He suddenly beams and jumps up again.
“I have a picture of him, he goes to my parallel class, is super sweet and hooray,” he spreads both arms, “we're together.”
Wow, Jos is homosexual, in love and has a boyfriend. A bit much all at once.
“I'm looking for the photos,” he shouts, running into the hallway and rummaging through his backpack.
And I have some time to smooth my facial features and look once more through the window at my slightly blossomed cherry tree, which is rustling softly in the spring wind.
There he is again, his camera held high in his hand. He is beaming, his eyes are sparkling, he slides on his socks across my wooden floor to my armchair.
“Can you handle it?” he asks, ‘No, let me show you.”
He stands behind my chair. Both arms slide past my head on the right and left, he leans his head on my shoulder and waves his hands with the camera in front of my face. His warm breath caresses my right ear.
“Wait,’ he whispers, ”the right photos will be there in a moment.”
His long brown curls tickle me, his face is dangerously close to mine, his eyes stare almost ecstatically at the camera.
I concentrate on the display.
“There,” he whispers, ‘that's him, Jan-Martin!’ How can you pronounce such a boring name so gently and meaningfully?
Jan-Martin is blond, has blue eyes and, at his age, is the perfect match for Jos. He grins adventurously into the camera and yes, in the next photo he is definitely looking at Jos with great love.
“Great guy,“ I mutter.
“Great guy,” he grunts, “Jan Martin is the sweetest guy ever, I'm totally in love.”
Then I get to see a few more photos where the two of them kiss very skillfully, with tongues, so they've clearly had a lot of practice.
But now to really important topics.
“So Jos, you seem to me to be currently sky-high and sad to death. What's going on, love life okay - parenting life all s---?”
“Yes,” he sighs again, gets up and cuddles up in his armchair again. That's better, a little distance is needed for this kind of advice.
“My parents saw the photos and summoned me for a talk.”
“Well at least they didn't delete the photos.”
“Yes, they did, we took new ones.”
“So let's be clear,” he recites as if he had learned the sentences by heart.
“They say they still love me.”
That's a lot, I think, with all the unloved children in this world.
“But there's no such thing as gay life in Catholicism, I should get that out of my head and, if necessary, live my whole life in abstinence. I can have homosexual thoughts or something like that, so I can be into men, but I'm not allowed to fuck,” he turns bright red, ”or even kiss Jan-Martin.”
Well, judging by the photos, he doesn't seem to be planning on being celibate. How much experience do you think he has? I'm definitely not going to ask that question.
But, he has just given me the official doctrine of the Catholic Church in very simple words.
“And I can't discuss it with them, that's what they say, they forgive me for what I've done, but they ask me not to sin anymore,” he continues.
Well, that's a tough nut that Jos got thrown at his feet. His parents are acting in accordance with the dogmas of the Catholic Church. Homosexuality yes, but not acting on it, the sexual union, so that children can be born. Wait a minute: Jos only has one sister left, ideal family - mother, father, son and daughter. The devout Catholic parents didn't use contraception, did they?
“Jos, you only have one sister, don't you?”
“Yes, why?”
He continues to prattle on: “What do you think of this shitty Catholic view, Ben? Oh, you probably can't understand it at all, you don't believe in anything!”
“Yes, Jos, I am religious and I also believe that there is a God.”
That just slipped out, I don't usually go around peddling my faith. It's my private business, it's nobody's business. But with Jos it's probably different.
“Huh?” He looks at me in disbelief. ”Do you also go to church and confession? Oh, you don't have anything to confess, you're already a saint.”
“Firstly, I am definitely not a saint, secondly, confession does not exist in the Protestant faith, for example, and thirdly, I do not necessarily need to belong to the Church as an institution to be religious, and fourthly, churches are very beautiful sacred buildings and especially Catholic churches, I can meditate very well in them and draw new strength.”
“Wow,” Jos looks at me in disbelief. ”You think... Cologne Cathedral is beautiful?”
Well, when I was meditating, I was thinking of churches somewhere on the Mediterranean, not of the huge Cologne Cathedral. Whenever I'm on vacation and go hiking, I often sit in beautiful, old, small churches. I told Jos that I've often used them for meditation for years, but also just for brooding, for endlessly long brooding.
“Then you can actually explain this to me with my parents? You know, I love my parents madly, I've always got on well with them, they never dragged me to church either, you know. They themselves probably always went to church in the district town regularly, but I didn't need to go with them, well except at Christmas and such. We never argued about Catholic beliefs, everything was fine and now they suddenly come up with all this stuff about being gay being a mortal sin and such. And their eyes, oh Ben, they always look at me now as if I had already died and I'm lying in the coffin and they are saying goodbye. They only whisper to each other, and they only talk to me when absolutely necessary. I don't want to lose them.“ Tears run down Jos' face.
“But I love Jan-Martin too, I can't do without him either.” He then speaks more clearly and loudly.
Poor Jos!
“Your name is probably also Josef, Jos?” I ask abruptly.
“Yes, didn't you know?” he grins again, ‘Josef, an old, arch-Catholic name, I should probably find a Maria and have lots of little Jesus children. That's what my parents had in mind for me.”
“Well, Jesus wasn't exactly the model son for parents either,’ I have to interrupt him,
“Huh?” he asks.
“Well, at the age of twelve he just runs away from home to the temple and denies his parents, and later he travels the country with twelve men and preaches, without professional training or a permanent place of residence. Then he takes on the authorities, never keeps his mouth shut and would rather be crucified than give in. If that's an ideal son?”
“You're cheeky, Ben, now don't tell me you think Jesus was gay?”
“No, Jos, I really don't know that, probably not, let's not speculate!”
“And in the Protestant church, being gay is not a problem? You know, Ben, at our school, as far as I know, no one has a problem with it. I can walk hand in hand with Jan-Martin across the schoolyard, the teachers grin at each other and my classmates don't really care and the girls think we're kind of cute.”
Jos and his friend hand in hand, times have obviously changed. In my day, you couldn't even be seen hand in hand with a girl on school grounds. Well, that's a bit of an exaggeration, and as if I ever wanted that. But my jeans jacket, embroidered with red embroidery thread “Birthcontrol”, was taboo, with its statement on birth control, even my reference to the band didn't help. Oh, they were wild times back then, and even then we always met in our barn to make and listen to music. I took over this old farm later when my grandparents died and I was drawn back to the countryside.
But first I have to explain something to Jos. How do I explain the difference between Catholicism and Protestantism to him without boring him? And anyway, I don't know that much myself. Maybe it's better to talk about my own beliefs.
“Ben,” he interrupts my thoughts again, ‘I'm amazed that you believe in anything. You're an ’68er, aren't you? You absorbed sexual and political freedom with your mother's milk.”
“Jos, I wasn't even born in 1968.”
“Yes, that's what I said: with my mother's milk.”
“Breastfeeding was completely out at the time,” I enlighten him. The idea of a swelling mother's breast is quite repulsive to me right now.