Trading spaces

My subscription to Better Homes and Gardens is on its last issue, and I’ve decided not to renew. I’ll pick up my subscription again when I move back to the States. Mentally caught in the middle between two places, I’ve lost interest in decorating for the first time in my adult life.

I became a homeowner at the tender age of 21, moving into a brick ranch that E and I bought in Oklahoma. A small house set on a long narrow lot in a blue collar neighborhood, it was modest in every sense of the word, but I loved it. I thoroughly enjoyed decorating it--choosing paint colors, accessories, and furniture to create a mood and make it ours. Outdoors, E built a garden shed in the backyard, added a deck off the kitchen, and began developing his landscaping skills.

We lived there for six years, rented a townhouse briefly when we first moved to Virginia, and then bought a Cape Cod with big windows, French doors, and cozy places under the eaves. It sits on a generous corner lot filled with hardwood trees and pines. We lived there for 15 years, and we’re renting the house to friends while we’re overseas.

The interior of that house has been painted more times than I can count—beginning the day we closed on it. We drove straight to the property with paint supplies in hand and got to work because I’m not a fan of white walls and couldn’t wait to lay some color down. The light peach I chose looked mighty orange under incandescent lights that night, and I thought I’d made a huge mistake. But when daylight streamed through the double colonial windows and all our furniture was moved in, the color gave the rooms downstairs the perfect soft glow.

After Mr. A was born, we added onto the house, a big room with vaulted ceilings, hardwood floors, built-in bookcases, lots of windows, and a fireplace with gas logs. Over the years, we replaced carpet with oak flooring, chose new vinyl for the kitchen, had the master bath renovated, changed window treatments, furniture, art, and wall and trim colors. The house, like any house, was a work in progress, and the changes we made, big and small, were a source of joy.

Being a stay-at-home mom and a work-at-home writer, I can honestly say the house and all its accoutrements was my world. Because I spent all my time there, the comfort and design mattered to me even more. I was always tweaking the interior to get it just right.

And then we moved to Belgium.

We looked at close to 20 homes before deciding to rent the one we’re in. It’s bigger than our house in Virginia but the yard is small and less suitable for kids, though it’s private and fine for adults. The house, a traditional European brick cottage, has lovely stained doors and trim, iron hinges and hardware with “birdcage” handles, exposed beams, knotty pine paneling on portions of the ceiling, brick walls highlighting some of the downstairs rooms and walls that are nearly all glass looking out on the garden. It has a sunny kitchen, a stone fireplace, a covered terrace, beautiful casement windows, tile wainscoting in the kitchen and baths, a curving staircase, and lovely views from the attic. The driveway is cobblestone, the retaining walls are made of stone, and there’s a wraparound patio. Sure it has its quirks—not many outlets, only one closet, no space for built-in appliances in the kitchen, ongoing issues with hot water—but most days it’s easy to forgive these minor shortcomings.

Yet as lovely as this house is, the fact that it is not our house affects how I feel about it. It has been strange to live in a place and feel disconnected from it, to admire it and yet feel so detached from it. I can’t paint these white walls. The house came with curtains but they were dingy. I washed the ones that I could do in the machine, but I refused to have the drapes dry cleaned because it would cost more than $400. I won’t pay that to clean someone else’s curtains. Nearly all the art I had shipped over has not been hung, partly because I can’t find the right spot for it, but also because I don’t want to put holes in the wall of someone else’s house. No matter how much I like this house, my heart and purse-strings are drawn tight—I won’t invest myself emotionally or financially in making this house a home. Sure it’s comfortable and beautiful, but it’s not MINE.

It’s a strange frame of mind, I know. Renting vs. owning has pinged on my subconscious in a way I never expected. Instead of living where I am and making the best of it, I make imaginary lists of improvements to the Virginia house. I visualize how things will be arranged and changed, make to-do lists, mentally budget resources, and set priorities. I can hardly wait to go to Lowe’s and linger over the paint chips. I’ll be reclaiming my space and making a home, mentally and physically, with each stroke of the paintbrush.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

May 16, 2006

Comments

[Arabella]

It must be hard to be away from your home. It must be like missing a person.

[annie]

All we've ever lived in is rentals. And half of them military housing. I do what I can to make each place home, but I know how discouraging it can feel. In base housing in Okinawa (where our shipment was weight limited, so very few of our belongings came along) I painted one wall in the living room bright blue. I knew I'd have to paint it back but didn't care. It made it feel less like a government office. It can make your whole life in a house feel very temporary.

[TB]

It's sad in a way isn't it? But it won't be for the rest of your life and perhaps the next place you live will be one you can make your own again.
Would you believe me if I told you I was just looking at my Home magazine and thinking I should probably cancel the subscription for the next year? Renting really isn't the same, is it?