Like this:

My name is Arthur Frank Van Campen.  Or, VanCampen.  I began deleting the space in my surname some time ago because the system doesn’t recognize a last name with a space in the middle.  The bank I’ve used for the last 14 years has me as “A Campen.”  The receptionists at the doctor’s office look me up under the Cs.

I also have used my middle name all my life because, well, because my parents decided to call me Frank instead of Arthur.  Hence, I have signed my name A. Frank for years.  I guess that’s why my bank knows me simply as A.  I have begun using Arthur F or Arthur Frank on all important documents, such as health insurance cards, to avoid confusion.  But, I didn’t begin doing that until recently.  If I were Pennsylvania Dutch (German), I would probably say, Too soon old, too late schmart.

Over the years I have acquired a number of AKAs:  A.F. Van Campen, A Campen, A. Frank VanCampen, and Arthur F. Van Campen are a few.

The one constant is the very last part of my surname – Campen.  I received it, along with the Van that precedes it, from Arthur Henry, who received it from Robert Frank, who received it from Amzi Decker, who received it from…well, I won’t bore you further; but the surname comes down from one Gerrit Janzen, a Dutch man who came to America in 1650 to New Amsterdam.  He married a woman named Machthelt Stoffels (also Dutch), and they founded a family in the New World that includes me and my children, among many, many others.  Perhaps thousands, in fact.  Many, if not all, of the Van Camps and the Van Campens in the USA trace their lineage to this man.

Gerrit Janzen was from Campen, Netherlands.  Today it is spelled with a K, but it is the same city.  In his day it may have been a village, but it was a village that was founded at least 400 years before he was born.

How do I know this?  Well, today Luana and I took an 80 mile one-way trip by train to that place.  No, we didn’t discover any long lost relatives.  But we did find the people of Kampen to be genuinely warm and friendly – especially when they learned my last name and my story.  The streets were narrow, bricked, and lined with shops and houses.  And many of the buildings were very old.

We ate a piece of apple pie (Luana said it was like a kuken) and drank a great cup of strong coffee that the proprietor of d Olde Vismark, Alex VandenBosch, and I agreed most Americans wouldn’t tolerate. d Olde Vismark means “the old fishmarket,” and it is the site of that establishment from antiquity.  In more recent times the market was removed from that location because of the smell.  Alex’s restaurant is a really neat place with fine furnishings and a great welcome.

We strolled down the narrow street that was home to most of the shops of the town, and we weren’t the only ones on the cobblestones.  Scores, if not hundreds, of folks were out on this pedestrian-only road at the end of which we encountered a monstrous church building.

This facility, named Bovenkerk, was built in the early 1200s as a Roman Catholic structure; but the man I spoke to inside the assured me this was not “catolic,” but a Reformed church.  It was a massive building, with the floor composed of large, flat stones that also served as coverings for the graves of the faithful beneath.  I read names inscribed on the floor, names of folks that had died as far back as the time of my ancestor.  The pipes for the organ occupy one end of the large hall, the roof of which is supported by gigantic pillars.  The whole thing was awe-inspiring, and I wondered how many of those who fill it every Sunday personally know the God whom it honors.

At the very least, the time we spent inside Bovenkerk was cathartic, far removed as it was from the spiritual squalor we’d observed yesterday in downtown Amsterdam.

In fact, more than once we received indication from the inhabitants of Kampen that they are not pleased with either the goings on or the reputation the chief city of their tiny nation has acquired.  This, of course, does not mean that Kampen is a righteous stronghold of committed believers in Jesus.  There are needs there too, I am certain.

As we made our way back through town, we encountered a parade of ancient, horse-drawn vehicles – carriages and farm wagons dating back at least 150 years.  Many were drawn by jet-black animals.  Frieslands, we were told – from that area of the Netherlands.  Hairy fetlocks and proud demeanors.  A few teams of Haflings, small horses from Italy, were in evidence.  And, at the end of the whole line was a large farm wagon drawn by two stunning pairs of roan Belgians.  More about these equines in a moment.

The parade of buggy and beasts was sort of the equivalent of a parade of classic cars in our country.  Those in the wagons and buggies were dressed in period costume.  They had driven their animals from 30K outside the city, and the parade halted in that narrow street as the mayor recognized each entry.

We had a great time talking with the folks in the carriages.  Indeed, that’s how we learned about the horses.  And, that’s how we received our first taste of mare’s  milk.

That’s right.  You read correctly.  The Belgians were all mares, and at least the left front one had a colt or a filly back home.  The man that was driving them actually milked that mare into a small paper cup and handed it to any in the crowd that would take it.

Yeah, I took it, and Luana and I both agree that warm mare’s milk tastes a good deal like cow’s milk, skimmed – not nearly the butter fat of a Holstein, let alone a Brown Swiss.

My Van Campen name, I, and the woman that shares it, found our way back to the train (Kampen is at the end of the line, east of Zwolle, if you care to know), and eventually back to our hotel.

It was a tiring but delightful day for old A.F.V.C. and his bride.

Tomorrow morning we fly for home at 8 o’clock.  It will be another long day.

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