On the right was our tobacconist shop and postal agency at number 74.
The large window above the shop was the bedroom of Mum and Dad; the smaller one was to become the bedroom of uncle Frans, younger brother of Mum.
Later it would become my bedroom.
The girl, Ria Theunissen, standing at the edge was our neighbour she was affected by polio.
On top of street was the railway bridge, crossing it you’ll enter Heijenoord suburb.
In winter when snow and ice made it treacherous for traffic, our street was transformed into a massive playground for young and old..
At dusk our sloping street was closed for traffic as the hardened snow has become too slippery for vehicles. This is the time we’ve been waiting for; the hard-packed snow glistening under the streetlights is in a matter of minutes crowded with tobogganists.
The whole neighbourhood, young and old, enjoys the long ride down. Most of us flat on our stomachs, others sitting straight up, we gather speed and steer with our feet, calling out, ‘Hakken, hakken’ (hakken means heels, using our heels to steer and stopping) and ending the slide with a mighty swerve down near the Utrechtse road, avoiding cars and bicycles on that thoroughfare.
Then we start the long slippery ascend, pulling our sledges behind us to the top near the railway bridge, to begin another hell of a spin downhill,’ hakken hakken’. Hours on end, only to be interrupted for a quick hot chocolate drink.