#main characters in the Pronunciation Guide and not in the rest of the book or even the appendices

[mathmusicreading]

Xiè Lián: My surname is Xiè, my first name is Lián. Huā Chéng: You can call me your third husband. Xiè Lián: What happened to my first two husbands?!

I learned Huā Chéng was having Xiè Lián call him "husband" from Ty the Canasian on Kictor's YouTube, I found this when I was trying to corroborate the linguistics, and I indulged and bought the official Seven Seas Entertainment (translator and editor are on Tumblr!) English translations of the books so here's further confirmation from Volume 1:

ETA:

I made this post private because I was unhappy with it (misspelling/misformatting Wúmíng, knowing I wouldn't have good reach for larger and less biased sample size even if I could have tagged better for the fandoms and characters if Tumblr organized by more than the first five tags), but I'm making it public again since it finished and so did the similar poll that fun-mxtx-polls was kind enough to make for me.

Not to bias towards the first option, just to explain it, the first option and why I wanted this poll come from the naming pattern trivia for MXTX's love interests/male leads/gongs, which I think you can best read on Huā Chéng's page on the Heaven Official's Blessing/Tiān Guān Cì Fú wikia. I'm just using that as my citation given:

I'm not sure if MXTX has discussed this meta in-joke somewhere and if so, where.

The SSE Glossary: Terminology note (all volumes of all three MXTX novels) only explains the second and third gongs, and implies MXTX is doing this purposefully. Lán Wàngjī's wikia page explains only the three published gongs, and implies this started from fandom phenomena creating a proto-stage pattern (if you subscribe to "one is chance, two is coincidence, three is a pattern"). Huā Chéng's page linked above is the odd man out and so probably incorrect about Lán-èr-gē vs. Lán-èr-gēge, but it goes above and beyond by explaining the fourth gong, and it uses the most neutral language regarding this trivia.

I think citation is unnecessary for "gē" (哥 | 哥) meaning "big brother" and in certain contexts having the connotation or meaning of "eldest brother" (admittedly my unverified inference), "èr" (二 | 二) meaning "two", and "sān" (三 | 三) meaning "three".

I actually like so much because I like to think if it could use more wordplay and less literalism. Please forgive me for being a poor reader not remembering exactly, not buying the TGCF raws yet, not being able to buy the SVSSS and MDZS raws, and only being able to find old fan translations/interpretations of MXTX's fourth novel preview, but let me explain:

I believe Luò Bīnghé isn't being called "Luò Bīnghé-gē" (or rather "Bīng-gē" since I think? it's more usual to use the suffix with the single/first character of a person's given name, not with their full name, especially when the full name is three (or more? some of my reading has mentioned two-character last names but I didn't find if culture was strict about then making the given name be only one character) characters) for the usual reasons to address someone with "gē", but actually the PIDW!Luò Bīnghé is being called Luò Bīnggē (or "Bīng-gē") because he's more aggressive than canon/SVSSS!Luò Bīnggē who when being differentiated gets called Luò Bīngmèi (or "Bīng-mèi"), and I love that "very fitting reasoning for the naming, not strictly literal and not so bound to literal".

Then with Lán Wàngjī, I see the opportunity that his nickname could have used the natural naming of "erhua is used as a diminutive suffix", and the "er" would have been homophonous with "èr" (二 | 二) for "two" for him being the second gong, and homophonous to the potential "proper address for him as the second Lán son/brother".

In the most literal sense, you'll notice that the gongs so far have had their nicknames be using "(big) brother" and Huā Chéng's uses láng (郎 | 郎) "son" (his stated meaning, although it can also mean "man" and "husband" and the latter is how we can interpret he wanted it to be when coming from Xiè Lián). There's nothing wrong with that and the numbers are perfectly probable, and would still be so as they grow, but also they could feel more like "contrived" coincidence, which is part of my wanting to get away from literalism a little bit, not just my loving clever wordplay. With Huā Chéng, I don't have a homophone I can use for punning like with Lán Wàngjī, or really the "cultural language use where literal suffixes/honorifics get used figuratively for XYZ purposes", but I can make it fit with character interpretation. To me, Sān Láng doesn't have to be "Third Son" because "he has two older brothers" and in fact we aren't sure that he was telling the truth about that—instead, I think Huā Chéng could be being clever with not just getting Xiè Lián to call him (Third/surname "Three") Husband but in saying his name is "Third Man" because this is the third alias he gives Xiè Lián. (Some additional feels this gives me: It's like he's saying he's the same person Xiè Lián met before, that they shared all of that experience and it mattered, that he's the final form of that person wanting to be with Xiè Lián, that he's like a fairy-tale character with many names and forms and a true name and form and all along there was a trick or thread to follow in knowing and identifying him.) It just works out so perfectly because of the third way he introduces himself to Xiè Lián matching him being the third gong, and also the fairy-tale significant number of "three".

Finally, with the fourth gong, I've looked at Suika's TGCF Afterword translation, a NovelUpdates MDZS spoilers forum post by K.san crossposted to the Grim Reapers Have No Days Off spoilers forum by alexfilia, a reply to this post in r/tianguancifu by u/chenmochou, and also this post in r/tianguancifu by u/Loud_Daikon6167 which cites a TikTok I can't see either because of TikTok's thing about opening to a random page/the homepage or I assume the TikTok being removed or locked. Given the first NovelUpdates post maybe having more of a direct translation compared to the first Reddit post, it's still not definitive to me whether this is "actually more of a fandom thing, with MXTX acknowledging and participating in it enough to help make it possible" or it's "MXTX doing this on purpose with her name choices and character traits, whether she meant to have the pattern from the start or later, and yes could have been influenced by fandom" because I think "Other: 四少" is probably about the male lead(s) compared to it following "Protagonist: the uke's name is not determined yet" so it doesn't seem like the fandom came up with a nickname out of whole cloth. "Four young masters" is perfectly probable and could be equally reasonable, and "four ikemen" could even follow in reasonability; in fact it could be more likely and realistic since this is a modern setting, which would have different use of "young master" to me, and because we believe the gong to be the regular human and the shou to be the grim reaper. But for the wordplay, I would have liked it if the gong were the grim reaper and the "four theme naming" came from the famous "sì" (四 | 四) meaning "four" is homophonous with "sǐ" (死 | 死) meaning "die/death" and the latter being used in the Chinese for "grim reaper"/"death god".

[ateanalenn]

The Untamed / MDZS, resources post, stuff I needed as a writer

ORIGINAL POST AT DREAMWIDTH! (and updates will be there too and maybe on tumblr, if I remember)

(this is a copy paste, the formatting might not survive)

(also available on AO3)

The Untamed / MDZS, resources post, stuff I needed as a writerApr. 11th, 2020 05:46 pm ateanalennFinding info for this show / how to write about / pitfalls to avoid was a pain :( I guess that's part of having fandom on Tumblr. Since Tumblr's search function only works by selling a kidney and sacrificing a goat, I had to rely on Google. Which, not great. Anyway, useful stuff I found to understand this fandom: • MDZS on Dreamwidth: theuntamed_mdzs (active) mxtx (community focused on all the works by the author Mo Xiang Tong Xiu. Not active, but it's there) theyilingweisect (community sharing fics, meta, discussions. Not active either since jan 2020) • MDZS aka Mo Dao Zu Shi (book) aka Grandmaster of Demobnic Cultivation / The Untamed (drama) (there's also an audio drama, a manhua, a donghua, ...) - the novel's en glish fan translation at Exiled Rebels (complete ) As far as I know, this is the most popular translation, though I would like to know if anyone has another translation that they think fit best. - the drama is streaming on Netflix, Viki, WeTV & Youtube. From what I heard around, Netflix and Youtube are the most accessible, obviously, but Viki has the best subtitles (and a whole lot of annoying pubs though). I think that I heard somewhere that there are fan subtitles made, will update if I find the link again). • About names: • The Untamed: A Primer Basically an overview of what is this drama, a few spoilers (but under arrows to open so less risks to see something you didn't want to see). Useful list of titles for the main charas! (ex: Wei Wuxian:    Young Master Wei    Wei Ying (use of this name denotes “I feel affection for you”)    The Yiling Patriarch (use of this name denotes “I think you are evil”)    A-Xian / Xianxian (use of this name denotes “I am your loving older sister, have some soup”)    Lan Wangji:    Second Young Master Lan    Lan Zhan (use of this name denotes “I feel affection for you”)    Hanguang Jun (use of this name denotes “I respect you, and you are also famously very beautiful”)    Wangji (use of this name denotes “I am your older brother and I wish you’d make a friend”) ) • Another primer tumblr by sonickitty with a few where-do-I-find links • Alexandra Rowland explains What Is The Untamed twitter (with pics) • How Ancient Chinese Names Work - Learn from The Untamed Detailed explanation of what's going on with the names (aka Lan Wangji, Lan Zhan, Hanguang-jun) • Dramatis Personae for Modao Zushi the book dw (another detailed who's who/names list) • Names again, Chinese/Mandarin conventions twitter (aka ex the accents aren't necessary, they're there for pronunciation and some explanation of who would use full name/shortened name) • Infographic: birth name vs courtesy name vs title vs respectful address  twitter • Quick table / honorifics guide tumblr by cleyra • Mo Dao Zu Shi | 魔道祖师 The various adaptions tumblr by gravitydefyingtears • A list of MDZS FanFic Common Misleading tumblr by kazeki • A conversation about linguistic register, Lan Wangji, and I guess Wei Wuxian can come too tumblr (pretty important text to understand how lwj speaks) • Writing Lan Wangji's speech patterns (aka say the most in the least words) and the follow up Lan Wangji moving into the lowest, most vernacular linguistic register to try and get through to Wei Wuxian tumblr by hunxi-huilai • Using "You/I" vs "Title-as-you" tumblr by hunxi-guilai • Sword names tumblr by hunxi-guilai • Honorifics: jun vs zun tumblr by hunxi-guilai • THE spreadsheet: Mo Dao Zu Shi Character Name Chart, recced by flamebyrd (of who uses what for whom) • Misc Info: • 59 slides of awesomeness by chatcolat. Who's who, plot summary, humor. Beware, so full of spoilers you'll cry if you want to keep some mystery, but! concise recap of what happens in the show to keep the timeline in mind. • Everything about those cultivation sects in ‘The Untamed’ Quick who's who of the various sects (Gusu Lan, Lanling Jin, Yunmeng Jiang, Qishan Wen, Qinghe Nie. Protip: first word is basically the location, second is the sect/clan name). • Reference for Modao Zushi Writers: Chinese terms ao3. "This is to provide a reference for writers who are unfamiliar with Chinese literary conventions or terms used in canon." • Resource list dw: Libitina's twitter links for Meta, Linguistics, Costumes, Food, Edits, Art. • Actual drama title vs English drama title twitter • How "Mo Dao Zu Shi" became "Chen Qing Ling" became "The Untamed" tumblr by hunxi-guilai • Very necessary meta about why the novel/extras seems to have so many sex consent issues and how translating to English potentially gives a very different overall feel to the scene (ex: ExR = "you're too much, you're way too much" becomes chiaki_himura's "you're good, you're too good", becomes bigbadredpanda's "you're amazing, you're the best"). Also, Chinese language enables to shorten sentences which makes stuff implied, 's your job to see context clues.) • hunxi guilai's master list of various detailed topics re-Chinese language/customs tumblr • "Wangxian" is such a clever portemanteau tumblr by untamedconnotations • Song Lan didn’t just say that Xiao Xingchen was “nice-looking,” he basically said that Xiao Xingchen was smokin’ hot except like, in two characters and blanketed with literary respectability. tumblr by hunxi-guilai (this is only relevant because xxc IS the most beautiful person, really and needs to be protected at all cost) • The Unclean Realm isn't "unclean" has in dirty/bad, it's most probably to show the difference of way of cultivating vs the other sects tumblr by hunxi-guilai • WuJi, the love song's fan translation tumblr by iarrod • Timeline: • 59 slides of awesomeness by chatcolat. Who's who, plot summary, humor. Beware, so full of spoilers you'll cry if you want to keep some mystery, but! concise recap of what happens in the show to keep the timeline in mind. • A google spreadsheet, via mihanada's GoDC timeline wip (Year/Event/Notes/Ages/...)     • MDZS Timeline, that meta AO3 post on speed by TheWickling. Useful if you want all the details, a bit difficult to navigate/understand when you just landed in the fandom. Still very useful. • And the sequel: On Character's Ages  ao3 "A collection of meta on the possible ages for different  characters in MDZS and what ages they would be during key events in the  timeline." • Modao Zushi, birthdates/timeline dw Dirthdates starting with 0 = wwx's birth year. Succinct & useful. • Maps • Fan made mdzs / untamed worldmap twitter • Places of The Untamed - Where They Are in The Real World • IRL sect locations reddit • Google Map of clan locations in Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation tumblr • Lotus Pier really is one of the most underrated but beautiful places. twitter • Gifsets and images: - Mo Dao Zu Shi / The Untamed drama character guide! deviantart picture = name, who's who in pics. - The Untamed sect sigils - In Which LWJ Gives Not A Single Shit, A Thread #LanWangji #WangXian #cql #TheUntamed SPOILERS for most of the show twitter - The various stages of hairstyles + accessories twitter - SongXiao are in love, got married, are living happily ever after,(FITE ME) twitter by shenweiss - Realizing that wwx is wearing lwj's silk undershirt and the follow up: Qiren's face when he notices xD twitter - gingersnapwolves's Untamed tumblr tag - thewickling's mdzs tumblr tag - hunxi-guilai's cql tumblr tag - compilation of wangxian just being gay and making everyone feel like a third wheel twitter by weiwxngji - wwx swoons a lot and he's gorgeous twitter - Alexandra Rowland explains What Is The Untamed twitter (with pics) - grinding ink requires great patience, often represents that one is willing to wait for another’s feelings twitter - sad compilation of wangxian gazing into each other’s eyes that no one asked for, you’re welcome twitter - This frontal view of Wei Wuxian laying on Lan Wangji’s lap is everything. twitter - Lotus Pier really is one of the most underrated but beautiful places. twitter - Sometimes you see something, a picture, a video, just a snippet of a short moment, and you SEE the love. twitter - CQL’s working title was hot murder husbands twitter (this is amazing) - Lan Wangji just looks a thousand times more intimidating with golden eyes twitter - #TheUntamed’s spinoff webmovie #FatalJourney posters twitter (yessss, nhs, one of my fav) - Don’t you love how exactly 0.5 seconds of this video is Lan Zhan explaining that only spouses are allowed to touch the headband and the rest of the entire 2(!) minutes is a complication of Wei Ying touching it anyways... he said I wanna marry you. twitter • Fic Recs: - DW guest Post: Untamed Fic Starter Pack (a few fics for each subject (ex post canon, juniors centric, ...) - Twitter thread starting with Alexandra Rowland asking for fluffy MDZS/Untamed fic recs. (good new-fandom starter too!) - That twitter thread collecting a list of lady-centric Untamed/MDZS fics Which, good, because as much as I love the fandom, once again women don't exactly come out on top. How many are still alive at the end? I can think of one previously Jin sect lady, but that's it on top of my head, soooo. - Libitina also has posted a lot of mdzs fic recs dw - A "they're students in lockdown and socially distancing" WangXian ficlet tumblr by besanii And bonus: a capybara enjoying a good scritch because I love those dog-sized guinea pigs, seriously, that twitter account is my daily dose of cuteness Also, have some guinea pig on a cutesy bridge PS: I thought that this would be fast because I didn't have that much info to collect at one place, buuuut. It's been 5 hours and it turns out that I did lol.   Still, if you have anything else of potential interest, don't hesitate to leave a comment, please :D

[amongwriters-archive]

11/11/11 tag game —

I was tagged by @alalawrites ; thank u!

❥ one — favorite line(s) you’ve ever written.

- one of my favourites rn is “her head ended where my heart began.”

❥ two — how did you come up with your story?

- okay, let me shortly remember....

flight of a warrior

well flight of a warrior was just elise manifesting in my head and me starting to get curious. who is that girl? why does she look so different? what’s her story? and so I started to tell it.

kingdom of thorns and arrows

this is the oldest story I have dhsjjs. while i was in sixth grade, my friends and i were obsessed with books and were talking about how to pronounce names. we talked about ‘gideon’ back then and one of them pronounced it very weird and wrong hdjdjd. and I was like ‘your pronunciation sounds more like a last name’ and then we started to daydream about a story we wanted to write together.

now we don’t talk anymore, not very much at least. they lost their interest for books and writing while mine just grew stronger and a few weeks ago I was like ‘I need to write that story’ and asked them if they were okay with it. they are and now I am completely changing everything sjskks

fallen like a god

actually, it wasn’t planned to be a greek mythology story. i wanted to write about shapeshifters and season spirits. and it should still be in the world of foaw. weird.

the land of crows and nightmares

tbh, I don’t quite remember. i was visiting my sister in the city she studied and lived in and we were walking around and then it hit me. it was quite inspired by frederic the great and time travel coz i love those books.

queen of night and soul

ouhhh my first lgbtq idea! i was really into spirit guides and yin yang at that time and it’s first name was “how the moon fell for the ocean” yes I watched atla at that time don’t look @ me. anyways, I came to chap one and it was shit so I threw off the idea and got the rest from a dream / walk home from school.

❥ three — do you often get interesting dreams that you then use to create a story and/or a character?

- well, I mostly have nightmares for some reason but if I get good dreams, they are affecting my stories. book two of kotaa (blood like water) is completely dream inspired.

❥ four — tell us 5 trivias about your WIP(s).

- i just say five trivias about foaw coz I am just at planning the rest :

1. never underestimate someone. just don’t.

2. scars have a meaning even if it’s isn’t obvious at first.

3. habits are the worst.

4. names !!!

5. think about everything. even about the things which might not be helpful.

❥ five — do you read fanfiction? if yes, link some of your favorites!

- i actually don’t read fanfics. I used to read a lot mlb ff but I don’t anymore. maybe this teen!lock fanfic ?

❥ six — favorite original character ever.

- EVER? uhhhh hard one, gosh. i think it’s cloelia. like i love this chick

❥ seven — do you remember the first character you’ve ever created? if yes, describe them the best you can.

- when I was younger i have always drawn little princesses and mermaids on papers and cut them out, gave them a name and played with them ignoring the thousand dolls i have. huh, I think those were my first, but like really created? i think it would be max gidgeon. he was an elf, had blue eyes and blonde hair, he had a sister and strange dreams hdjsjs

❥ eight — name 3 characters (not yours) that you love and 3 that you hate.

- love, hard : maxon shreave, cardan greenbriar, rhysand

hate, not hard at all: bella swan, emerson (hourglass), laurel (wings)

❥ nine — do you draw? If yes, do you draw mostly original characters/settings/etc. or fanart?

- yes i draw! mostly nature and original characters. or just random characters, for fun

❥ ten — how long does it take you to outline your novel?

- well... considering what u mean with outline. my outline is normally the first draft hdjsjs, and i am currently redoing that outline / first draft and I am at 2/5 hdjsjs. the very first outline /draft took me like two to four lunch breaks at school ( 90 to 180 min)

the outline / draft now takes much longer coz i am outlining every chapter kind of

❥ eleven — how long does it take you to write your novel?

- well, I haven’t finished one but i am quite good in time i guess! I am actively writing since january and have 53k words rn! i am planning 130k words tho but I think I could manage to finish that till end of next year! (if you think about it, in seven months more than 50k and the year isn’t over i think it’s realistic!)

⊱ ────── {⋅. ♪ .⋅} ────── ⊰

my questions :

describe your wip(s) in one word, one city and one colour.

what music genre fits your wip(s) best?

who would be the faceclaims for your main characters?

the best place to write? (not at your home?)

a place in a fictional wold you would live most likely?

choose an animal to be the gatekeeper to your world. why this animal in particular?

when would you like to have started writing? with what age?

the zodiac signs of your original characters.

a personality/ physical trait you give every of your character for some reason. (for example : everyone is loyal / has tanned skin)

deep dark writing fear?

describe your favourite character (not original) in one renaissance painting.

⊱ ────── {⋅. ♪ .⋅} ────── ⊰

tagging —

@farrradays @storyteller-kaelo @dancingwithwind @vandorens @theforgottencoolkid @omgbrekkerkaz @mybookisbad @disoriented-writer @vviciously @omniawrites @sorroways

[slipstreamborne]

Clearer with Distance (2014 fic)

rating: G summary:  Donatello is almost eight before they finally find a pair of glasses with his correct prescription.  Before that, the severely farsighted turtle just has to make do.  His brothers do what they can to help out, even if it means reading all his boring stereo instructions to him for the millionth time. notes: 2k fluffy turtle tot fic with just a touch of angst. read at ao3:  https://archiveofourown.org/works/15006035

The box is slick underneath Donnie’s fingers, glossy cardboard unwarped by water, the corners crisp and unworn.  New, or at least freshly thrown out, which for a mutated turtle scavenging the sewers of New York is basically the same thing.

His chest swells with excitement, expert fingers feeling at the seams until he finds the  opening flap.  The box is bulky but light—a promising combination—and rattles faintly when shaken.  Definitely some twist ties loose in there.  He gropes greedily inside, worming his skinny arm in between the broken pieces of protective Styrofoam until his fist closes on his prize: a thin paper booklet with staples along the binding.

“Oh no,” groans Mikey, somewhere off to his left.  “He found another one.”

“Not it,” says Raph automatically; a mistake, because he’s close enough that Donnie can pinpoint him by sound even if he has trouble picking his blurred form out from the rest of the garbage heap. 

“Raph!”  He thrusts the little pamphlet towards what he guesses is his brother’s nose.  “What’s this say?”

Shadows of hands shove him back, not hard enough to knock him over, though.  “I dunno, genius.  It’s dark.”

“Not that dark.”  A greasy yellow glow fills the far end of the tunnel, casting crisp shadows against the brick.  The light’s softer here, the edges of things increasingly smeared the closer he gets to them, but it’s bright enough that Donnie barely has to use his flashlight.  It’s easier for him to spot the gleam of a potentially interesting object than sort through every washed up boot and rusted can by hand.  Safer, too, as the still-thumping cut bisecting his left palm can attest.  At least it’s finally crusted over and stopped oozing.  “C’mon, read it for me.”

“I ain’t gonna!”

“Read it read it read it read it—”

“Hush.” 

Dad doesn’t shout.  Dad hardly ever has to shout, and never twice.  Not so close to topside, anyway.  Donnie’s mouth clamps shut obediently.

“This is not the place.  Raphael will read to you when we get home, Donatello.”

Raph whines (“Daaaad, I read the last one!”), but his father holds firm, setting him back to the day’s scavenging with a single clipped command.  Reassured that he’s not the one to have been assigned to the task, the soft, mostly-blue shape of Leo finally pops into view, a smear of white slashing crookedly across where his mouth should be.

“Over here,” he says, taking Donnie by the hand (something Donnie hates, but on unfamiliar territory has no grounds to object to).  “Found a bunch of onions.  Help me  pick out the rotten ones.”

*

Everybody has their place within the family.  If you  need somebody to boost you into a high pipe or check in the shadows for monsters (Raph says that the towering white figures from his dreams with needles for fingers aren’t real, but Donnie’s not so sure), you get Dad.  If you need somebody to tell you all the rules for Yu-Gi-Oh or tattle on you when you wander too far into the dark, you get Leo.  Mikey’s great at farting at the dinner table and whining until you feel sorry for him when he loses a game that he made up the rules to, while it’s Raph’s job to not share when you want a turn at shooting baskets and snuggle up tight against you under the blankets when winter blows ice cold through the Lair.

Donnie’s got strong, nimble fingers and can recite long passages of Harry Potter from memory, even does a pretty good job of mimicking the voices that Dad uses, but when Leo finds a coverless copy of The Order of the Phoenix—their one missing title in the series—nobody asks him take over when Dad gets too tired to do another chapter.

It’s not that Donatello doesn’t know how to read.  Dad taught him his alphabet same as his brothers, one warm hand at his elbow as he guided Donnie’s finger through the thick, ever-gathering dust of the fan room floor, tracing out the shape of each letter over and over until Donnie had every stroke memorized. 

If he writes large enough, going back over each word twice with the long side of their few precious pieces of grubby sidewalk chalk until the pastel lines stand out bold against the dark concrete floors, Donnie can make out whole words.  Kanji is harder, crucial, tiny strokes lost amidst the overall shape of the character, but Dad has a long scroll of poetry in oversized calligraphy hanging above his sleeping mat that Donnie has had memorized since he was three:

A lovely thing to see: through the paper window's hole, the Galaxy.

For reasons he can’t yet explain, he has no trouble at all reading the oversized text of the bulletin boards he occasionally glimpses through narrow storm drains, hungry eyes devouring every line of copy even if he lacks the context needed to appreciate the appeal of things like “semi-annual sales” and “now in theaters”. 

He has never seen a star, much less a galaxy, but after some careful questioning, he doesn’t think Leo or Raph or Mikey have seen one, either. 

The bigger something is, the further it is away, the easier it is for Donnie to understand. 

The problem is that the things that interest him, that confound him and make him burn for more, are close and very, very small. 

He gets so frustrated.  So angry.  It’s there, it’s right there, but he can’t—

“Please.”  He shoves the stack of books into his brother’s hands.  “Please please pleeeeease...!”

“Fine,” Leo sighs, even though they both know that technically, it’s Raph’s turn again.  “Fine.”

There’s an old beanbag chair that Dad sewed up that’s almost big enough for two.  Leo tucks his feet under him primly while Donnie wedges himself firmly against his side, long legs braced against a crack in the concrete to keep them from toppling over. 

“I’m not reading you Advanced Wiring again, I know you’ve got that one memorized.”  He tosses the battered book to the side with a thump.  “So which’ll it be?  Heating and Plumbing or Decks, Porches, and Patios?”

“Decks.”  The meager collection of Time Life Home Repair and Improvement books is one of his most prized possessions.  Heating and Plumbing is his second favorite, but Leo’s terrible at describing all of the diagrams.  “The part about load-bearing footings.” 

The book smells comfortingly of mildew when Leo cracks it open.  He’s smaller than Donnie by almost half a foot, his head wobbling precariously on a neck barely bigger than Raph’s wrist, but he has a nice voice, smooth and even with an extra puff of breath behind the t sounds that Donnie finds himself echoing for hours afterwards. 

“Where do you want me to start?  Concrete forms or how to determine the frost line?”

“Doesn’t matter.”  He hasn’t told Leo that he’s actually memorized that one, too.  All of them, to be honest.  It’s just that sometimes he needs something, anything, to help his brain go quiet.  “Frost lines.”

Leo flips to the appropriate page, squirms until his shell is nestled more comfortably in the folds of the beanbag, and starts to read.  Donnie digs his sharp chin into the hollow of his brother’s shoulder, closes his eyes, and listens.

*

Mikey is the best at it, despite being the least interested in schoolwork of any of them.  Maybe it’s because of his blasé acceptance of his own academic shortcomings.  Where Leo huffs and repeats things over and over, trying to get it perfect, and Raph storms off with a growl at the first barrier he can’t punch his way through, Mikey plunges right along unrattled no how many bumps he hits, accepting any corrections to his pronunciation with a casual shrug. 

Even when the manual turns out to be written in French. 

“En-lev-ez le...’  The heck is this word, bro?  One of the letters is wearing a hat. ‘Buh... Booty-er?’”

“Spell it if you can’t sound it out.”

“B-O-I with a pointed hat-T-I-E-R.”

Donnie frowns, fingers retracing his steps across the condensation pump, trying to figure out which piece is most likely supposed to come off next.  “I think that’s the cover for the fan.”  He gives the fan enclosure an experimental pull, then a twist, then a harder, more determined pull, but it doesn’t budge.  He runs his fingers around its rim, looking for the telltale round bump of a screwheads, but finds nothing.   “Uh, is there a tab I’m supposed to press to make it pop off or...?”

“Maybe?”  A rustle of paper as Mikey folds the directions back to look at the diagram.  “Are you sure these are the right instructions for this pump?  It doesn’t quite look like the drawing.  That fan cover piece is a completely different shape.”

Donnie’s stomach does an anxious somersault.  And he’d been so excited to find something thrown away in its original box.  “I mean, a pump’s a pump, right?  How different can they be?”

Half an hour later, Donnie’s managed to remove the fan cover, but not without a sickening crack of plastic and a muffled swear from his brother that tells him he broke something.  Hopefully it wasn’t anything crucial.  He’ll have to run some tests after he’s finished cleaning it and putting it back together, but since the pump wasn’t working in the first place it will be hard to— 

The main hatch creeks open, then closed again.  “Tadaima!” call two voices.  Leo’s voice cracks on the last syllable, and Dad sounds tired, but pleased.

“Okaeri!” Donnie and Mikey call together, Raph chiming in faintly from the other side of the Lair.  Donnie sniffs the air.  Beneath the gust of sewer smell is the unmistakable odor of wet fur and back alley dumpster he’s come to associate with food. 

He puts down the tools to help Dad and Leo bring in the last of the groceries—bags and bags of iceberg lettuce with browned outer leaves (his mouth waters, knowing the cool, wet crunch awaiting inside), and a box of short pull tab cans that could be either tuna or cat food.  Mikey makes a pleased little chirrup as he passes him the cans, which means it’s probably the latter.  Fancy Feast is his favorite.    

The chore is quickly finished with five sets of hands.  Leo keeps bumping into him, thin limbs still quivering with the excitement of getting to go topside.  Donnie tucks his own arms close and starts edging out of the kitchen and back towards his corner of dissembled stereos, suddenly not a excited about the prospect of lettuce heart supper.  He’s never been above ground.  It’s too dangerous with his limited eyesight. 

“Ah, Donatello.  A moment more, my son.  I have a gift for you.”

A large, grey-brown shape crouches before him and presses a closed cardboard box into his hands.  Too large for a clock radio, too small to be a VHS player, but mostly empty either way. 

“You got Donnie an iron?!” asks Mikey incredulously, crowding close on his left. 

Raph huffs dismissively, but presses in close to his right.  “It’s just the box, dummy.” 

“Go on,” Leo says, fidgeting anxiously from one foot to another.  He’s too close for Donnie to make out his expression, but his tone suggests that there’s a surprise that he’s in on, or maybe some sort of joke.  “Open it.”

Something heavier than an owner’s manual is rattling around inside. Batteries, maybe, or an overlooked set of cables.  Dad couldn’t have been lucky enough to find him a discarded remote.

His family looms over him expectantly as he opens the box and reaches inside.  The shape of the object is bizarre:  two thick, curved circles, each attached to a long, hinged piece of plastic.

Glasses.  His heart sinks.  He’s lost track of how many pairs he’s tried, over the years.  His thumbs swipe idly across the lenses, noting with dull surprise how thick they are, the pronounced outward curve at their center. 

“Try ‘em on!” Leo grabs at his wrists, pushing the glasses up towards his face.  “Try ‘em, try ‘em!”

There’s a break in the bridge of the nose, he realizes as he unfolds them.  Somebody’s tried to fix them with tape but not done a very good job of it.  The glasses bend alarmingly as he slips them over his beak, one lens slipping down his cheek as he struggles to hold the other in place.  He looks up. 

The world looks very, very strange.  On his left, Mikey’s familiar smudged shadows.  On his right, a stranger in a red bandana peers at him through narrowed eyes, each pale green scale of his face glimmering  faintly gold under the bare kitchen light bulb.  In front of him, two more strangers, one skinny and green, fading back and forth into Leo's blurred shape as he bounces excitedly, the other tall and dark and covered in a thousand, million lines, each strand of drying fur casting its own shadow, blue robe speckled with tiny white and yellow stars, the pointed, black-eyed face haloed in a bristle of long, white whiskers.   

He gapes, speechless.

For the first time in his life, Donatello sees his father smile.

[athenawroughtarchive]

         A LETTER TO AMBROSIA’S MOTHER.          THAT SHE WILL NEVER READ.          inspired loosely. 

By the time I was four I realized they handed her that same piece of paper every day. Sometimes they go through the task of laminating it, or color coding it in highlighters with tips that have been blended with other pens and for a moment it looks like the sky bleeds through the ink. But the paper is this: on a scale of one to ten, what is your level of pain? One is a smiling face. Ten is a crying cartoon. There isn’t any explanation, or a category of pain. If there are as many minds as there are heads, there must be as many pains as there are injuries, but I don’t question it. Natasha picks seven, always seven. She exists in a constant state of seven. I can almost answer for her. You look at me, push your red hair behind your ear, and nod. Mascara clings to your bottom lash-line, a residue lipstick to your upper-lip. All at once, I am convinced that I’m doing god’s work. When they hand me the paper, I push it away. None. Zero. I smile for good measure. I catch a glimpse of your nod out of the corner of my eye, and hum to myself. Your rumpled collar. Your knees propped against your chest, sandals hanging from your fingertips. There isn’t enough pain in this family for me to share in it.

I’m in second grade when when my teacher, Ms Brandon, reads me a book. Fannie in the Kitchen – I think it was – but I can’t remember and it haunts me. In the story, the main character is listless. Her hair is red like mine and she’s ambitious like me. And her mother is a great baker, who guides her through the kitchen like a dancer on wheels. I was struck by it. My mother never baked, never pried open the oven, never taught me that knives were dangerous and a flame can burn. I learn this on my own. You weren’t a mother who baked. I complain, of course, and I’m pulled by the collar into the kitchen – Natasha is watching television on full blast – and I’m reprimanded for being selfish. You know how hard I’ve been working. How busy I’ve been with Natasha. I’m busy! When I started to cry, a torrent of apologies surging through my tears, you wrap me up in your arms and kiss my head. Be a good girl. I know you are. And I am. I can’t do anything but appease you.

I suppose I am accustomed to being treated with kid gloves. Delicate hands, sallow hearts. The teachers at school know my sister is sick. They forgive my absences. They know that my father is busy. My fatigue is permissible. They know that my mother, whose English steadily improves over the years, doesn’t know any one of them by name but picks me up at the same time every afternoon, and writes me notes in my lunchbox that I tuck into my pocket. I’m treated like a doll by nurses and doctors – they know me to be charming, enthused, an eager pupil. I answer all their questions, I follow them as they present patients. I know Natasha’s medical history by heart. Eight year old presenting with Wilms’ and acute myeloid leukemia, undergoing blood transfusion – it takes me a while to pronounce everything right, and when I do I am rewarded with a room full of smiles. Except you. How could they smile at that? And then I present myself. Because I’m a patient, too, and I’m reminded day in and day out that I’m a blessing. Not one of those ‘accidental babies’ that are born by virtue of whiskey or a quick fuck (you tell me not to say this). Ambrosia Reynolds. Donor. Blood type AB. So when I come home and you are fuming, and you yell at me, and I’m in tears, and you promise me that it isn’t your fault and mommy is just stressed, I react. I don’t know what it is to be treated like something disposable. But you make sure I learn. In the next breath, you tell me I’m blessed. That I’m saving Natasha.

For a few years, you stop picking me up regularly. I count the minutes. Four-thirty. Four thirty-five. The principal asks me where you are. I don’t know. Dad sweeps into the guidance counselor’s office at half past seven. Natasha was sick and had to be taken to the hospital and for a brief, brief moment, you forgot you had to pick me up. But daddy is charming, and he promises it will never happen again. But it does. He shelters my hand in his and braces me to his chest. I am only happy to be found. And then my birthday comes round and we’re in the hospital. Easter follows. Christmas comes and goes. A new year is among us and we’re still in the hospital. Every holiday, the same story. Natasha is always sick. I study at home now. I’m not allowed to have sleepovers at the house, because what if Natasha gets sick? I’m not allowed to play soccer. I play chess and cards, because those won’t mess with the kidney that’s going to Nat when she feels better. But she never feels better.

We’re not allowed to lock doors. In every room there is a sanitation station. You quit your job and Natasha becomes a full time workload and the ladies in the grocery store and daddy’s business associates and their wives snub you. They laugh at your pronunciation, your quick wit but dull grasp of English. Your own mother tells you to give it a rest. Natasha’s vocal chords are laden with the blood she spews out, and she’s pale and deathly. And maybe if it weren’t for you she’d be gone–– we’re not allowed to say dead. But you’re doing it all alone. And I’m lonely, too. For years. My pain doesn’t manifest, so when I cry your palm hits my cheek. My skin is imprinted with your ring.

We have to be stronger than this, Ambrosia. We have to work twice as hard to get what they have. 

Pain management is the first thing a patient is taught. When I cry, you close the door to my room, turn out the lights in the hallway knowing I’d be too afraid to walk out. I hate the dark. I am accustomed to light, static and white noise. I sit on the floor, my knees pulled up to my chest, and I learn to manage my pain. It works. I can never tell when you cry. Your nose is never red, your skin never blotchy. But sometimes you lock the door to your room, run a bath, and I can hear you heaving. And you walk out like nothing ever happened, grinning down at me and running your hands through my hair and God, I love you so, so much mommy. Please don’t ever go. And sometimes, just sometimes, when you let me slip between the sheets and cuddle up to you, you wake up in a cold sweat, gripping the rails of the bed like a gun. You never told me. You never told me what you had run from. Why you scream and lash out when I come behind you and hug you and yell boo! You wouldn’t tell me why I couldn’t play with GI-Jane. Why your voice sounds like a war-cry.

When you call me sweetheart and strap me in a car seat and tell me we’re going to get ice-cream I’m surprised. I am delighted that you love me. I am filled with an otherworldly joy. But when our destination is another operating table, I wonder if I’m only useful to you as a spare. I wonder how easy it is for you to trick me. 

About as easy as it is for me to love you.

 I do everything I can to please you. I paste my own certificates to the fridge, askew and ripped up at the edge where the heat of my own fingers tore at them. I ask daddy to hang up my medals and awards in my bedroom but all you do is purse your lips and nod, arms crossed over your chest. I can see your ribs through your camisole as you take in breath. You tell me to keep going, not to get lazy just because I’ve won. This is the soundest piece of advice you’ve ever given to me. And I carry it with me forever.

I’m a little bit older, stand a little bit firmer, and the trees are shedding and the wind is cold again when I wonder if I love you. I do. I need you. I don’t think I could survive without you. But when I wake up from anesthesia, you’re always at Natasha’s bedside. Daddy sits next to me. He’s on the phone. I turn, groan, and place a hand over the incision site. Five-thirty. Six-thirty. You breeze into my room, lock yourself in the bathroom, turn on the water and I can hear you heave. Did I do something wrong? 

I imagine your youth – lately and intermittently. I like to kid myself and think you were happier then, that your emotions were never void, that you did not lock me out when you cried. You had not buried your first born in the cold September earth, you had not lost your husband and daughter in one fell-swoop.Armies had not bordered your town. Serbian infantry had not wrecked bombs on parishes and schoolyards and your father has not left your mother to do the same in Herzegovina. I imagine you sitting on the top of a hill. The swells of Marjan swallow you whole and the clouds tug at your red hair flowing like charred debris. You are unscathed, and you look up, and the sky is painted in your eyes as your mother cries out your name; Lucija, Lucija, in a language you know well. You can no longer fathom agony, and your thoughts float in clean, cool air. Your arms, which are steeped in lavender fabric, are, after so many conflagrations, fireproof.

That’s good to think of.

It’s so good.

[180abroad]

Day 183: Operation Market Garden (and a not-so-brief primer on Early Modern Dutch history)

For today, we had booked an all-day tour of the sites of Operation Market Garden, an impossibly bold operation that ended in failure and has been immortalized in movies like A Bridge Too Far and featured in the HBO miniseries Band of Brothers. Being WWII history buffs, we were already familiar with the broad strokes of the operation, but today we'd get to learn some of the blow-by-blow details while standing in the actual locations where they happened.

Market Garden was far too large and complex an operation for us to see everything in the one day we'd allotted, so we opted to focus on the parts of the operation handled by the American paratroopers of the 101st Airborne Division. It seemed appropriate, given our previous crossovers with the 101st in Normandy and Berchtesgaden.

And at the risk of continuing to say this so often that it loses what little meaning it might still possess, this day was truly one of the highlights of the trip.

We met our guide Murk outside the train station, where we discovered two cool things about him. First, he was a former history teacher with an extensive knowledge and passion for teaching European history. Second, it was actually a private tour, so we had him all to ourselves.

There was a third cool thing, too. Murk was a massive Rolling Stones fan. He even wrote his masters thesis on the socio-historical significance of Mick Jagger and Keith Richards' early songwriting.

Operation Market Garden took place in the eastern part of the Netherlands, so we had a little bit of time to kill on the drive over. Luckily, Murk was a fountain of knowledge and more than happy to answer all the random questions we could think of.

We learned that he loved being a teacher, but he finally quit after years of frustration with the increasingly restrictive lesson plans he was being saddled with. Making sure that every student gets an equivalent education is an admirable goal, but when the scope of a WWII history class becomes so rigidly defined that the teacher isn't even allowed to discuss the importance of WWI for context, something has clearly gone wrong.

As a private tour guide, he can now teach history as holistically as he wants, and only to people who are interested enough in history to hire him for essentially a full-day private field trip. (Appropriately enough, his business is called History Trips.)

We also enjoyed an interesting lesson on Dutch names. It started with a seemingly simple question---Nic asked what the proper pronunciation of the surname Van der Veen (the last name of some of his close friends). Murk laughed goodheartedly at our American pronunciation, then gave us the correct pronunciation, which I would describe as roughly like "Fahn dur Fen."

He explained that it was a place name, meaning "From the…"---he trailed off as he searched for the right English word. "Like, when plants die and turn into a bog."

"Peat?" I suggested after a moment's hesitation. After all the talk of peat in Ireland and Scotland, there was no way such a niche topic could come up as fortuitously as this. But it did. "Yes! Peat!" (Which is a delightful exclamation to hear in a Dutch accent, by the way.)

Van der Veen means "from the peat bog." And as I thought about it, it makes sense. If you pronounce "veen" as "fen," you get an English word that means basically the same thing. And the more I looked after that, the more I noticed that a lot of Dutch words actually sound a lot like equivalent English words once you know the right way to say them.

Speaking of surnames, we went on to learn that most Dutch people didn't have last names until the early 1800s. And they would have kept on not having them were it not for Napoleon. After the Netherlands were absorbed into Napoleon's empire, he ordered a census to determine how many able-bodied men he could conscript into his armies. And to complete their forms, the French census-takers needed a last name---even if it meant having to make one up on the spot.

Some people went with occupational names---like the equivalent of Smith or Miller---while some used their father’s given name, and others named themselves after the place they were from. Van der Veen was a common choice among people from the northern peat bogs, and one of the most common of all was “Van Dyke,” meaning (obviously) from the dyke.

And that dovetailed into a neat little linguistic history lesson. Modern Dutch uses the letters “IJ” more-or-less in place of the English letter “Y," and they're basically treated as a single compound letter. At the beginning of a proper noun, both letters are capitalized together, and the main river that runs through Amsterdam is simply called the IJ---a "single" letter with both characters capitalized. The Dutch even pronounce the name of this letter the same way that Americans pronounce the name of the letter “Y." The Dutch refer to the letter “Y” as the Greek Y, since it resembles the Greek letter Upsilon. The bottom line of all this is that if you see a Dutch word with the letter “Y” instead of “IJ,” that means it is an older word---most likely a name---that was cemented before modern Dutch spelling was standardized.

Finally, we reached our first stop in the village of Overloon, the site of a major battle between British and German forces just after the end of Operation Market Garden. The Allies had managed to secure a spaghetti-thin strand of road all the way through the Netherlands to the doorstep of Germany, and the German army threw everything they had in an attempt to cut the strand while it was still thin.

Today, the village is home to a British war cemetery, as well as one of the most impressive war museums that we'd never heard of. The Overloon War Museum was listed on Murk's website as a highly recommended add-on to the standard tour, but I think even that is seriously underselling just how incredible this place is.

Opened in 1946, Overloon was one of the very first WWII museums in Europe. It is set in a patch of woods where a massive tank and infantry battle between the Allied and German forces during Operation Market Garden. The disabled tanks other vehicles from the battle were left in the woods and converted into an open air museum. Since then, the museum has amassed a stunning collection of tanks, trucks, and other military vehicles.

A few vehicles and art installations are still outdoors, but the bulk of the collection is now kept safely indoors. As we walked through the forest, Murk commented that he liked the movie Fury because it showed how it took a clever use of multiple American Sherman tanks to take out a single German Tiger.

As we moved inside the museum, we got a quick refresher on the backstory of Operation Market Garden. Inspired by the successful use of paratroopers on D-Day, British Field Marshal Montgomery drew up an even larger, more complicated operation. Essentially, the Allies would try to capture a two-lane highway cutting 60 miles deep into German-occupied territory

(Source: Wikimedia)

The ultimate target of the push was the town of Arnhem, which sat astride the furthest branch of the Rhine just after it splits up into a delta that spiders across the Netherlands. If the Allies could capture Arnhem and fortify their supply lines, they would have cut the German forces in half and given themselves an open path eastward into the heart of Germany.

It was a bold plan, to say the least. And according to Murk, pretty much everyone outside of Monty's inner circle knew it was crazy from the start. It was audaciously complex, requiring clockwork cooperation between tens of thousands of soldiers among multiple divisions, and the slightest misfortune or miscalculation could bring the whole thing toppling down.

General Eisenhower---recently promoted to the role Allied Supreme Commander---had a different plan for Monty’s troops. The Allies had already surrounded the Belgian port city of Antwerp and secured the south bank of its estuary to the Atlantic. A good push with the help of British paratroopers support could have driven the German forces out of the city and off of the north bank of the estuary. That would have allowed the Allies to begin shipping war supplies directly to the front line in Antwerp instead of using the existing, painfully stretched supply lines running hundreds of miles back to Cherbourg in Normandy. It also would have allowed them to then pivot toward Germany and advance eastward without fear of counterattacks from behind.

Eisenhower was shrewd enough to appreciate how much Montgomery resented being made to serve under an American general, and how eager he was to find a way back into the limelight. Eisenhower told Montgomery that he could do his operation, but only with British troops. Eisenhower wasn't about to sacrifice any Americans for Monty’s suicide mission.

Then everything changed when Germany started barraging London with their deadly new V-2 rockets. Churchill and the rest of the British government was intent on cutting off the V-2 launch sites in Holland at any cost, and Montgomery convinced them that his plan would be the fastest way to get it done. Eisenhower was compelled to support Operation Market Garden to the hilt---committing the entire strength of 101st and 82nd Airborne divisions to the job.

It was a mess from the start. Speed and surprise were key, yet it ended up taking three days just to drop all of the men and equipment because there were so many of them and not enough planes. Many troopers landed only to find their equipment---dropped hours or even days earlier---had been long since stolen or blown up by the Germans.

There were around a dozen bridges that needed to be captured, and there were no provisions made for repairing or replacing a single one if it was sabotaged by the Germans. So when multiple bridges where inevitably ruined, it took days to fix the problem. And all the while, German artillery rained down on the jammed convoy and the paratroopers stuck far behind enemy lines. The British paratroopers that were dropped on the city of Arnhem---the operation’s ultimate objective with its bridge across the Rhine---were sent in with only 48 hours' worth of supplies. They managed to hold out for nine days without reinforcement before finally running out of ammo and being forced to surrender.

Inside, the museum holds a stunning collection of military tanks, trucks, and other vehicles from WWII and beyond. It started with some life-size dioramas telling the story of the Allied invasion of Europe from D-Day leading up through Market Garden.

We saw firsthand the massive superiority in size, armor, and weaponry that the German tanks had over the American tanks. Germany had designed its tanks to take on the Soviet Union, which at the time had the most formidable tank corps in the world. By comparison, British tanks had fallen woefully behind the cutting edge, and American tanks were still in their infancy.

The most memorable tank on display was one that actually fought in the battle of Overloon and was disabled by a landmine. Enshrined on the front of the tank is a grisly letter written by the tank's driver after he learned that the museum had put it on display. The letter recounts in grisly detail the moment of the explosion and the driver's efforts to save his crew members, several of whom died from their horrific wounds shortly after being pulled from the wreckage.

There were a number of planes in the collection, too, including a Spitfire, a B-25 Mitchell, and a C-47 transport in the middle of being restored.

The museum includes a small collection of more modern tanks as well, including a Dutch tank that served in UN peacekeeping missions.

In addition to tanks, the museum has a stunning variety of other vehicles, including jeeps, motorcycles, gigantic logistical trucks, and even a snowmobile.

It was amazing to see just how much variety and specialization there was.

One corner of the museum highlights how black American soldiers were mainly used for logistical operations and unskilled labor, with only a relative few assigned to black combat units. (The US military remained strictly segregated by race until 1948, three years after the end of the war.) Despite being disproportionately relegated to the more ignoble roles during the war, many black soldiers came to enjoy a level of pride and respect for their service that they had never gotten back home. When they returned from the war, however, it was like nothing had changed at all. They were once again treated as mere "boys," socially inferior even to the former German POWs who had opted to become naturalized US citizens after the war.

There were other fun curiosities, too, like a sign used on the "Red Ball Express"---the complex convoy system that carried essential supplies from Cherbourg at the tip of Normandy all the way up to the front lines.

There was also a pretty impressive display of just about every type of explosive and ammunition used during the war.

And we probably shouldn't have been surprised to find some LEGO dioramas there, too.

We could have easily spent an entire day in the museum, but it was really just the appetizer to the main event. Like I said before, we were already having to pick and choose what we would get to see today, focusing on the American half of the operation. Getting to see the entire breadth of the operation would have required a two or even three day trip, which in retrospect would have been incredibly cool, though perhaps not the best use of our time when we only had a week in the country.

We started in the village of Son, just north of the city of Eindhoven in the southeastern Netherlands. Between Son and Eindhoven runs a major waterway called the Wilhelmina Canal. The bridge crossing the canal was one of the many bridges that needed to be successfully captured as part of Market Garden. And it was at this very river crossing where Murk told us the story.

As the convoy of British ground forces (”Garden”) pushed up through Eindhoven to secure the bridge from the south, the 506th Regiment of the 101st Airborne (including Easy Company), was dropped near Son to secure the bridge from the north and stop the Germans from blowing up the bridge as soon as the British troops reached it. The American paratroopers were held up by an unexpected German gun battery, however, and the Germans destroyed the bridge. This set the operation back until the following morning as the British engineers scrambled to bring in a replacement Bailey bridge.

Leaving the modern bridge behind, Murk took us around the village of Son, showing us where the German guns that held up the 506th had been entrenched. Comparing the photos to the town today, we could actually see where some of the original buildings still stand.

Meanwhile, the 502nd Regiment of the 101st was locked in a brutal fight just a mile west, in the woods between Son and the neighboring village of Best. Best had its own bridge across the canal, and the 502nd had been tasked with capturing that bridge as a backup. The village was heavily defended by German forces, however, and the 502nd couldn't break through. Furthermore, the Germans began to counterattack into the woods in an attempt to recapture the fields where the 502nd and 506th had landed, cutting them off from their supplies.

Those woods were our next stop. Murk had wanted to take us on a shortcut that ran along a series of dirt roads, but they were too muddy and treacherous after the recent rainstorms, so we backtracked and took the paved country roads instead. (Which would prove to be a bit of foreshadowing.)

Stopping at an intersection on the western edge of the woods, we learned the stories of two particular men of the 502nd---one a lowly enlisted man and the other a high-ranking officer.

Private First Class Joe Mann was a Toccoa man, having gone through the original batch parachute infantry training with the 506th Division at Camp Toccoa before being transferred to the 502nd. (Anyone who’s seen Band of Brothers will recall the grueling training that the troopers of the 506th went through at Toccoa and the significance of being a “Toccoa man” later on in the war, as more and more veterans were wounded and replaced with fresh-faced recruits with no experience and little sense.)

During the attack on Best, Mann's unit had been dispersed by enemy fire. Taking a rocket launcher and his M1 rifle, Mann crept up to a fortified German 88 mm gun and took out the entire crew by himself. He sustained four wounds in the process, but he refused to be evacuated. The next morning, the Germans assaulted his unit's position. A German grenade landed within a few feet of Mann. His arms having been bandaged tightly to his sides, Mann threw himself onto the grenade and sacrificed himself to protect his fellow soldiers.

Lieutenant Colonel Robert Cole was already a legend, having lead his battalion of paratroopers in a bayonet charge into the hedgerows of Normandy on D-Day. That was the kind of leader Cole was---always at the front, always taking the riskiest position himself. While commanding his battalion in the woods outside Best, Cole radioed in for air support. But his troops were very close to the German lines, and the woods were obstructing the pilot's view. To avoid friendly fire, Cole needed to set out some bright orange markers to show the pilot where his men were positioned. Cole chose to deploy the markers personally, and he was killed almost instantly by a German sniper after breaking cover.

Both PFC Mann and Lt. Col. Cole were posthumously awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor.

Moving north, we saw the fields used as drop zones for 502nd and 506th, as well as a farmhouse that was used as a supply headquarters. The current owner of the farm is an older gentleman who was there on the day of the drop as a young boy. He keeps a nice little monument to the 101st Airborne near his driveway. It's private property, but the owner is friendly and allows Murk to visit with his tour groups. At least, that's what Murk says.

We learned that in addition to the C-47 transports, gliders were also used to bring in supplies and support staff that weren't parachute trained. The gliders eventually had to go back where they came from, it was painfully time-consuming for a C-47 to land, attach a glider, and take off again. Instead they developed a clever skyhook system where the transport planes could snatch the gliders off the ground without having to land at all.

Our goal was to keep cutting northwards along country roads, following the path of the paths of the 101st Airborne and the British ground forces. But at almost every turn, we ran into closures caused by road resurfacing projects. It was almost as if the resurfacing projects had been strategically placed to prevent us from moving more than a kilometer or so in any direction from the Paulushoef farm. Murk had never seen anything like it, and his knowledge of the Dutch east-country back roads was tested to the limit, but he pulled through for us in the end.

Our next stop was the town of Sint-Oedenrode, just north of Son. It was here that General Maxwell Taylor---commander of the entire 101st Airborne---established his divisional headquarters during Market Garden. He originally set up shop in a nice building near the center of town, but he soon relocated to an old fortified manor house on the outskirts of town. Complete with a moat, gatehouse, and tall crenelated towers, it seemed to Taylor a much more fitting residence for someone of his station. (And honestly, who wouldn't take the opportunity to set up shop in a castle if they could?)

On our way out of Sint-Oedenrode, we stopped to visit another monument. In a touching reversal of the usual story, this monument was built by the 101st Airborne in honor of the Dutch citizens who aided them during the campaign.

The next village north of Sint-Oedenrode was Veghel, and it had another essential bridge that the Allies needed to capture. Fortunately, the elements of the 101st that landed near Veghel were able to capture the town on day one with relative ease. Unfortunately, the two towns were separated by about three and a half miles of exposed two-lane highway running through open floodplains and farmland. It was stretches like this that helped to earn this route the nickname "Hell's Highway."

The land to either side was soft and marshy---impossible for the Allied vehicles to drive on. If a vehicle broke down or was damaged by enemy fire, the rest of the convoy couldn't just go around them. Everyone behind the disabled vehicle came to a dead stop until it could be pushed off the side of the road. And all the while, the rest of the convoy were sitting ducks for the German artillery and 88mm anti-tank guns.

A full week into the operation that was only supposed to last two or three, the Germans launched a major counter-offensive to cut off the highway between Sint-Oedenrode and Veghel. Since there was no alternative path for the Allied supply convoy to take, the Germans knew that if they could capture just a tiny sliver of the highway and hold it for even a few hours, that might be enough to put the final nail in the coffin of the already floundering Allied operation.

And that's exactly what they did. The American 501st Regiment of the 101st Airborne was able to repel the German attacks against Veghel itself, but the Germans succeeded in capturing a small stretch of the highway south of Veghel and held it for a full day before finally retreating. The Allies retook the highway only to find it covered in mines and booby traps that took hours to clear, by which point the operation had already ended in the failure to take the final bridge across the Rhine at Arnhem.

A wide, modern highway now runs along the route of Hell's Highway, but sections of the old two-lane highway still run alongside it. And we were able to stand at the side of the road where all this happened as Murk recounted the story.

Our next stop was a windmill in the small community of Eerde on the western fringe of Veghel. It was here that the 501st Regiment fended off a fierce counterattack from the German 6th paratrooper regiment, a unit that the 101st Airborne had previously faced off against during the invasion of Normandy. With the help of some British tanks, the Allies were able to hold off the German assault, but at great cost.

The windmill was badly damaged during the fighting, but it has since been rebuilt by donations and volunteers. There's a small shop nearby with murals inside that tell the story of the battle.

Our last stop was the town of Veghel itself. We saw the Klondike Manor, which served as the headquarters of the 501st and still bears the Screaming Eagle crest of the 101st Airborne. We also saw a monument to the 101st Airborne that included an inscribed boulder, a bronze kangaroo, and a buried urn containing soil from all 50 US states. The kangaroo was a bit perplexing until we learned that "Kangaroo" was the call sign for the 101st Airborne Division during Operation Market Garden. That's also where the name of Klondike Manor comes from. All of the units in the 101st had call signs starting with the letter K, and the 501st's call sign was Klondike.

Translated into English, the inscription on the monument reads:

In honor of the heroes of the 101st Airborne Division of the American Army under the command of General Maxwell D. Taylor, Operation Market Garden, 17 Sept. - 28 Nov. 1944, North Brabant, Gelderland.

In everlasting gratitude, the government and people of the Netherlands

As we drove back toward Amsterdam, we had more time to ask Murk our random questions about Dutch history and culture.

Nic asked about why so many people call the Netherlands “Holland” when Holland is just one part of the country. We learned that at one point in its history, the Netherlands were a confederation of independent states---a bit like the United States before the constitution was signed. Hence the plural name “the Netherlands.” Holland was the richest and most politically powerful state in the Netherlands. Amsterdam, The Hague, and Rotterdam are all in Holland. If someone from another country did business with a Dutchman, odds were good he was from Holland. So Holland became synonymous with the Netherlands as a whole. And to be fair, while plenty of people are more than happy to correct those who mistakenly refer to the entire country as Holland, the Dutch have heavily bought into name's brand recognition. "Holland" is emblazoned on almost all of the tourist trinkets we saw, and even the country's national soccer team goes by the name Holland.

Next, I asked Murk for some clarification on the history of the Netherlands as a nation. During the Golden Age of the 17th century, the Netherlands was a republic. But today, it is a kingdom. And before it was an independent country, they belonged to the duchy of Burgundy at one point and the kingdom of Spain at another point.

He explained that the Netherlands–including Belgium and Luxembourg–became a territory of the dukes of Burgundy during the Middle Ages. Through marriage, the Burgundian house of Valois intertwined with the Austrian Habsburgs and the royal family of Spain. Thus, it came to be that a boy named Charles was born in the Netherlands in the year 1500 and grew up to become Duke of Burgundy, Master of the Netherlands, Emperor of Austria, Holy Roman Emperor, and King of Spain and all its overseas territories.

Charles was a Catholic, but he let the Dutch continue practicing their Protestantism. Charles’s son Philip, however, was not so accommodating. He cracked down on the Dutch Protestants, which lead to the Eighty Years’ War and the independence of the Dutch Republic. According to Murk, though, the religious persecution was merely an excuse for the Dutch, who realized they could make a lot more money if they didn’t have to pay taxes to Philip.

The Netherlands stayed a republic for the next hundred and fifty years or so, until Napoleon swept across Europe. After Napoleon’s defeat, the rest of Europe’s leaders decided that they wanted a strong kingdom---not a wishy-washy republic---guarding the northern border of France. They elevated the most powerful Dutch nobleman, Prince William VI of Orange-Nassau, making him King William I of the United Kingdom of the Netherlands (whose royal barge we'd seen the previous day at the National Maritime Museum). The house of Orange-Nassau has served as the figurehead royal family ever since, hence the reason why orange is the national color of the Netherlands.

And if you're wondering, yes---the "Orange" in Orange-Nassau refers to that old Roman city in the south of France that we'd visited months earlier with Jessica's mom Donna. How does a Dutch royal family get its name from an ancient city in southern France? The story is as complicated as the story of Western Europe itself.

To start with, we have to go back over a thousand years to Charlemagne, who managed to unite all the lands of modern Germany, Austria, France, the Netherlands, Switzerland, and northern Italy into a single empire. After Charlemagne's death, the Empire was divided between his three grandsons into the kingdoms of West Francia (France), Middle Francia (the Netherlands, Burgundy, Provence, Switzerland, and Northern Italy), and East Francia (Germany and Austria).

Middle Francia was nominally the most prestigious of the three Kingdoms. It contained both the imperial capital of Aachen and the holy city of Rome. But it lacked the overarching cultural and geographic ties that unified the other two kingdoms. Almost immediately, it began to crumble and splinter into smaller and smaller kingdoms, duchies, and principalities, which then fell into political orbit around either France to the west or the Holy Roman Empire to the east. The lines became messy, loyalties became divided, and conflict inevitably arose.

At the risk of grossly oversimplifying the story, this is the reason why the borderlands between France and Germany have always been so fiercely contested---a thousand-year squabble between two siblings over how to divvy up their older brother's toys.

But back to the House of Orange-Nassau. For complicated political reasons, the city of Orange was elevated to a principality within the territory of Burgundy. Even though Orange was geographically tiny and economically insignificant, it was still highly desirable because whoever owned it got to call himself a prince. Through a series of strategic marriages, the title "Prince of Orange" was eventually inherited by the House of Nassau, a noble family whose original territory was centered around the German town of Nassau (sort of near Koblenz) but who had managed to marry their way into ownership of various valuable territories, including much of the Netherlands.

The family also made marital connections to the British royal dynasty, and Prince William III of Orange-Nassau eventually became King of England and Scotland after the ousting of James II (a move which would in turn lead to the Jacobite rebellions whose ultimate failure at the Battle of Culloden resulted in the near annihilation of Scottish Highland culture).

William III was a staunch enemy of Louis XIV of France, and it was during Louis' consolidation of French territory that the city of Orange was taken by force and made part of the Kingdom of France.

William III died without any direct heirs, so his titles and territories were divided among their closest respective claimants. The title "Prince of Orange-Nassau"---now having basically no connection to the actual territories of either Orange or Nassau---was inherited along with several Dutch lordships by William's closest male-line relative, a man named John William Friso. Friso died at just 23 years old, but his son became Prince William IV of Orange-Nassau, and Friso's great-grandson Prince William VI became King William I of the Netherlands after the end of the end of the Napoleonic Wars.

Friso’s progeny thrived across the rest of Europe as well. So well, in fact, that all ten hereditary monarchs currently ruling in Europe can find Friso in their family trees.

European history is unimaginably complicated, and all the threads are intertwined. One of the coolest things about the way Jessica and I did this trip is how it let us appreciate this connectedness. Trying to understand it all is like trying to understand the books of a massive multinational conglomerate with a thousand years of mergers, acquisitions, and spin-offs.

Anyway, I think that's enough history for one day. To sum up, the Operation Market Garden tour was amazing, Murk was amazing, and we would heartily recommend them both to anyone planning a trip in the Netherlands who has at least a moderate interest in history. You can find Murk at www.historytrips.eu.