Discoveries in the attic

Summer delivers the type of leisure that allows me to tackle the projects I put off during the school year—like sifting through and straightening the contents of the spare room in the attic, which we use for storage.

Before we moved, I’d stocked up on some basic clothing items for my kids. What I thought would be a two-year supply of socks and underwear all went into my children’s dresser drawers in the first year. My son grew so dramatically that some of the trousers, shorts, and shoes I’d purchased and set aside for him were never worn—he grew past them, not into them!

There are toys that need new homes: tea sets, helicopters, pretend food, a McDonald’s play set, a mini veterinary clinic, doll strollers, puzzles, and crayons. I stack them up to take them to the basement, the launching post for charitable donations.

My kids play with toys less and less—they still love dolls and stuffed animals and tinker with building sets, but mostly they pass their time with outdoor games, arts and crafts, books, and the computer. It’s a relief to witness the number of toys in the house dwindling, but it’s also a bit sad to see my children leaving that part of childhood behind. When we return to the U.S., there will be far fewer play things to store in the family room cabinets—my son will be almost 13, my daughter nearly 11.

The spare wardrobe contains clothes I haven’t worn since moving here, many no longer fit and others represent a professional life which is now on hold. Some just don’t suit the climate and fashion here. I stare at them wistfully, wondering if I’ll ever lose the weight I’ve piled on in Belgium and get to wear my skinny skirts, my little black dress, my sundresses, and my business pantsuits again. Will I return to my former self physically and mentally or will I ditch them and start over when I repatriate? New life. New me. New clothes.

There’s a big plastic box full of assorted toiletries from the U.S—skincare products, various body scrubs, shampoos, conditioners, toothpaste, sunscreen, lotions, deodorants, toothbrushes, razors. Somewhere along the way in the months preceding our move, some well intentioned expat writer had suggested I stockpile favorite things from home. I’m not sure why I didn’t question this advice and followed it a bit too well. I guess all this squirreling away reflects an attempt to keep life “normal” in a foreign environment. In retrospect I think stockpiling products reflects equal amounts of practicality and anxiety, an odd mix of desiring to “be prepared” and also hang onto the past.

Underneath the slope of the eaves are boxes of artwork I brought with me—mostly favorite paintings and prints that I envisioned transforming my Belgian home into something personal and familiar. After we settled in our house, each painting and print was unpacked, unwrapped, studied--and packed away again. My home has many huge windows, radiators, brick walls, and slanted ceilings. I couldn’t find a place to hang most of what I brought and I was nervous about desecrating the plaster walls with nail holes. Now I don’t even remember exactly what lurks in those boxes. When I unpack them two years from now in the States, will the artwork still hold my heart or will it be donated to the next church white elephant sale? Will I still be the person who loved it in the first place?

Who knew tackling the storage room would unearth so much psychological as well as physical baggage?

It’s the place where the past, present, and future intersect and I suppose that makes it the perfect setting to reflect on my expat experiences and envision what life will be like when I eventually return to the U.S.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

July 13, 2006

I can't stand it anymore

Yahoo is running this disgusting banner ad for some freakin anti-fungal nail treatment. Every time I check my e-mail I have to face scurvy, yellow-nailed rotting toes popping up on my screen. GAH!

The ad says 1 out of 7 people has nail fungus. That means the other six of us don't need to see this ad. Spare me, please, my toenails are fine! Take your crusty, discolored, raggedy-ass decrepit toes and get them out of my face. NOW!

The truth

E brought home a bag of currants from the garden of a woman who works in his office. I'd never seen or tasted fresh currants before.

E:        What do you think?

V:       They're kind of like blackberries, a little tart.   I like them, they're good.

E:        She's got a ton of them. You could make currant jelly!

V:       Not me.  Have you forgotten I'm currently lazy?

Give me the keys and I'll drive you crazy

Here at Chez V, the E-Man and I have been hot under the collar.

The air conditioning unit in our car is leaking coolant, and we have been trying to get it fixed for five weeks. We have brought it in twice and paid to have the system checked for leaks and recharged, only to be without coolant again within 48 hours. We even brought the car’s professional shop manuals with us to share with the mechanics in case they were thrown off by something unusual in our American car.  When we brought it back to the car dealership on July 3 to try and get it fixed again, we were told they couldn’t look at it until July 26. This was not what we wanted to hear after having endured two all day drives in 93 degree heat without AC. Did I mention that all this has cost about $600?

In the U.S., I used to think having to wait a few days to get my car into the shop was a hassle. Nothing compares to the headaches we’ve had here trying to get our car serviced. Even routine maintenance takes forever, and the costs are quite simply unbelievable because both parts and labor command a higher price. I so miss Jiffy Lube with its $30 oil change and checkup and its in-and-out in 30 minutes credo.  I've heard that some Americans take their cars to Germany to be worked on to avoid the expense and the long waits here in Belgium.

To add insult to injury, we recently received our Belgian car tax bill. We pay more than $1,600 a year to drive our 1999 Oldsmobile here. We’ve already paid more in Belgian taxes than the Blue Book value of the car.  (Thank God for the public transit system--it's clear there are many incentives to use it in lieu of owning a car.)

No matter how well prepared you think you are for expat life, you’re always smacked with the unexpected in the most ordinary circumstances. Sure there are lots of benefits to counterbalance the disadvantages of living here, but right now I'm homesick and I miss how good old-fashioned U.S. capitalism and competition empowered me as a consumer and made shopping, repairs, and service so much easier and so much cheaper.

(Anybody know where the title comes from? Hint: It's a line from a song by a popular 80s band.)

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

The oldest of eight in a large Irish Catholic family, my dad was born in Brooklyn and pushed into poverty at the age of 14 when his father died of pernicious anemia at the height of the Great Depression. Soon he and his brothers were working paper routes and odd jobs after school and during the summer to support the family. His mother, her youngest child a toddler when her husband died, did house cleaning, home nursing, whatever she could find and manage along with her family responsibilities.

Still the family often went hungry. As an adult my dad would not let grape jelly into our house because it reminded him of the days when all they had to eat was bread and jelly. In his group senior class photo,  my father is skinny and hollow-cheeked and the only one in the class not wearing a cap and gown. He couldn’t afford them.

While my dad had dreams of going to college and becoming a doctor, he eventually gave up taking classes at Fordham University and worked fulltime at Grumman’s before joining the Navy and serving in World War II. His plans for higher education and a professional career weren’t realized, but he never lost his work ethic or his love of learning.

He built our family home himself (with some help from his brothers) and all his life he planted huge gardens and raised organic vegetables for us to eat. He liked to cook. He never took a vacation, and I can’t remember him ever taking a day off.  He was stubborn single-minded and loyal, especially to his family. Like many Irishmen, he was a great story teller and loved the printed word. 

My dad was an electrician who came home every night from work and settled into a chair after dinner to read the newspaper, the latest issue of National Geographic, and a library book. He never watched TV. He could care less about sports. He had a sharp mind, an incredible memory, and could quote passages and facts from books he’d read once. He read only non-fiction—books on science, agronomy, nutrition, and medicine were his favorites. He’d sometimes veer into quirky and unorthodox subjects, and he was interested in alternative medicine long before it entered the American lexicon.

I’ve been thinking about Dad a lot lately because I’ve been reading A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith. Teebs on her home page at Soul Gardening declared it one of the best books she’d read in the last 10 years, influencing my decision to check it out of the library. Prior to her endorsement, I was familiar with the title, knew it was a coming-of-age-story, but on some level I’d believed it was geared toward sentimental adolescent girls.

I was surprised when I discovered it had been written in 1943. A bestseller in its time and a modern classic, the novel is based on the author Betty Smith’s own life and is set in the early 1900s. It follows the story of a poor Irish Catholic girl growing up in a tenement in Brooklyn with a hardworking, practical mother, two younger siblings, and a charming, alcoholic father who dies young.

It’s a literary story, not romantic in the least. Smith brings the gritty world of the struggling immigrant underclass to life, explores the small joys and daily perils of their hardscrabble existence, and introduces us to Francie, the story’s heroine, a smart and resourceful girl who will use her love of books, her incredible reading skills, and her drive to support her mother and siblings and achieve her own dreams.

The title refers to a type of tree that grew in the tenements. Unplanted and uncared for, hale and hardy like weeds, they thrived in the unlikely places, emerging from cracks in the concrete and littered vacant lots to grow tall and form umbrellas of greenery and shade. Cut down, they’d spring to life again, new shoots pushing toward the sky from the sorry stumps.

That was Francie. That was  Dad. I aspire to be as tough and resilient.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

July 9, 2006

What I discovered while doing laundry

• Lots and lots of wilted, stained, and sorry looking t-shirts in my hubs drawer--a veritable history of the last five years.
• Under the t-shirts, three pairs of brand new LL Bean athletic shorts that have not been worn. Why?
• Several pairs of underwear that are so sad looking they’re not even worthy of the rag bag. These gems, which, belong to yours truly, are taking a one way trip to the landfill.
• Enough lonely socks to start a singles club: “Single white athletic sock seeking partner. Must be medium height, flexible and into fitness.”
• A basket full of exhausted pajama tops and bottoms—none of which match each other. I still sleep in them. Is that a reflection of poor self-esteem--or practicality? Do I subconsciously relate to their saggy, baggy appearance?

Is there psychological significance to our tendency to hold onto things long past their prime? Does that make us loyal, blind,  stupid, or lazy?

Wait, maybe I don’t really want to know…

Fourth of July

American Independence Day. In the U.S., it’s a day for parades, festivals, bands, cookouts, and fireworks. The stores hang streamers and have special sales on hamburgers, hotdogs, rolls, beans, corn-on-the-cob, watermelon, chips, ice cream, soda, beer and other barbeque dinner essentials. Flags are flown, bunting draped, and the women’s magazines feature recipes for red, white, and blue desserts and ideas for decorations.

In Virginia, it’s always hot and humid on the Fourth, but the heat never kept us from the parade or the vendors lining the streets of downtown Fredericksburg. Standing on the Chatham Bridge with the sun hot on our necks, we’d peer over the rail at the Rappahannock River below, full of folks on homemade rafts with patriotic themes.

Traffic is heavy, the gas stations are jammed with people buying drinks and ice for their coolers. The afternoon is quieter as people retreat indoors or park their lawn chairs in the deep green shady places. At dinner time, the smell of grilling meat wafts through the neighborhoods. As dusk approaches around 8 p.m., people start to queue up and sprawl on blankets in parks for fireworks displays in the city. The suburbs crackle and pop with firecrackers and bottle rockets bought from dusty roadside stands.

It’s hard to be in Belgium for American holidays. This year as well as last year, we attended celebrations hosted by the U.S. military, American Embassy, or NATO-related organizations. There are carnival attractions, music, and American food. Sometimes there are races, contests, and other types of entertainment. It feels good for just one day to be able to wave a small American flag, but while I appreciate the effort and expense put into organizing these events, I always leave them feeling a bit empty, a little homesick.

Cruising home on the Ring around Brussels, everyone is going about their business. The stores operate as always, the workers toil away in offices and business places, the neighbors don’t have the day off. Until I left the U.S., I never understood how the essence of national holidays goes beyond the actual event being celebrated and includes a myriad of small rituals. It’s not enough to replicate the rituals—sharing them is what’s most important, what unites a community and a nation together.

This Independence Day, I felt too independent--missing home, my neighborhood, my community, my country.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

Life by the numbers

20 years ago

I was living in Oklahoma, working part-time as a newspaper reporter, preparing for my first trip to Belgium—a three-week vacation that would include trips to Amsterdam, Paris, and North Sea beaches with E's Belgian relatives.  This would be my first trans-Atlantic flight and terrorist threats were in the news. The U.S. had bombed Libya in April after it downed a commercial airliner with a bomb.  Amazing that 20 years later, I'm living in Belgium and terrorist threats are still in the news.

10 years ago

My son was less than a year old, and we were having a family room/home office added onto our house so that I could work from home. We designed it ourselves and were choosing brick, hardwood flooring, gas logs, windows, and trim. By November, the addition would be finished and would be our favorite room in the house.

5 years ago

The summer had a certain poignancy. My son was getting ready to start kindergarten—a huge milestone for him and for me. Soon he'd be in someone else's care all day. My daughter was excited about being asked to be a flower girl in a family wedding. Summer was full of trips to the pool, programs at the library, visits to the berry farm, days at the beach, and backyard play.

1 year ago

It was cold and grey, and I attended a Fourth of July celebration hosted by the Army wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and a fleece jacket. We’d been living in Belgium for four months and I still felt unsettled. I was retreating further and further into myself, lacking energy, and wondering if I should see a doctor about my depression. I was following the Tour de France and debating whether to go to Paris for the finish.

1 month ago

We were submerged in end of year school activities: softball, Scouts, awards assemblies, and summer plans.

1 week ago

We were enjoying a day at the zoo in Karlsruhe, Germany.

Yesterday

I woke up early and went walking at 6:30 a.m. The washer hummed all day with laundry from our trip to Germany, we ran a few errands, I pulled out my scrapbooking stuff and worked on my travel scrapbook, and watched the movie Rumor Has It (only worth watching for Shirley Maclaine’s sassy performance).

Today

Warm, sunny and perfect weather for a Fourth of July celebration at a nearby military base. We’ve had beautiful weather in Belgium over the last month, and I’m enjoying every minute of it. With Jan Ullrich and Ivan Basso out of the Tour de France, I doubt I'll follow it  closely. To my surprise, I'm loving all the World Cup coverage.

Become the change you want to see in the world...

It wouldn’t be too big a stretch to say I’ve been a writer all my life. I took my first creative writing class in second grade. I began a journal when I was 11 years old and have been writing ever since, both personally and professionally.

Why do I journal and blog? Mostly I’m driven by the relentless urge to record, dissect, understand, and come to terms with my life and my world. Other times my motivation is to create art, entertain, or to start a conversation. I would never tell anyone I am writing to change the world.

Yet this is exactly what Mary Pipher has titled her latest book: “Writing to Change the World.” In it she explores the power of words to connect human beings and affect change. In a world that often seems overrun with intractable environmental, political, and social problems, she challenges her readers to be hopeful and become an instrument of positive change. Blogging can do just that, whether you’re sharing stories from your life or commenting on larger issues. Here’s why:

“Good writing facilitates the making of connections in a way that inspires openheartedness, thinking, talking, and action. All totalitarian governments achieve their ends by frightening and isolating people, and by preventing honest public discussion of important matters. The way to promote social and economic justice is by doing just the opposite: by telling the truth, and by encouraging civil, public discussion.

“Good writing enlarges readers’ knowledge of the world, or empowers readers to act for the common good, or even inspires other good writing. We all understand the world from our own point of view, our own frames of reference, that allow us to make sense of what our senses take in. Writers help readers construct larger, more expansive frames of reference so that more of the world can be more accurately perceived.

“Good writing connects people to one another, to other living creatures, to stories and ideas, and to action. It allows readers to see the world from a new perspective. Writers are always asking people, ‘What is your experience?’ They listen, they observe, then they share what they have learned with others. Writing to connect is empathy training. And, as Gloria Steinem once said, ‘Empathy is the most revolutionary of emotions.’ ”

(From the introduction of Mary Pipher’s book, Writing to Change the World, 2006)

Home Again

Little things that made a big difference on vacation:

fresh baked pretzels in every bakery, warm sunny days and cool nights, air conditioning,  fresh white towels delivered daily, the beautiful black granite vanity in the bathroom sparkling with mica, never running out of hot water in the shower, the promise of new colored pencils, the fun of jazzy pink-flowered Birkis, cool and sweet fruit salad for breakfast,the magic of  deep green tree tunnels, the luxury of endless roses, cold beer, guilt-free reading.

Home again:

Four full suitcases of dirty laundry--and high speed Internet access. Yahoo.