Art Journal Entry #22

The men from Chez V survived camping in 18 degree weather and commemorated the anniversary of the Battle of the Bulge with a memorial walk across the ground where 70,000 American lives lost their lives defending Belgium against a final attack by the Germans during World War II.

E-Grrrl and I had a really busy weekend together, shopping for birthday gifts for our Belgian cousins and a Christmas gift for her brother, baking cookies for her class cookie exchange, and putting finishing touches on the papier mache pinata I've been working on all week (also for her party).

And now I'm off to Antwerp to visit Di and go wandering together with Gert, Jess, and the Wee Curly Grrrl.

It's very cold but the sun is shining and I'm HAPPY. Really happy.

Hope you are too.

December 16, 2007

Like a bad dream

E-Grrrl and I were in high spirits. The guys are camping this weekend, and we're on our own with plans to make art, bake cookies and finish making a pinata for her class. We also needed to buy gifts  for our Belgian relatives who have birthdays in December. The sun was shining and the air crisp. I knew parking anywhere near the mall would be impossible, so I layered my fuchsia down vest over a black sweater and together we headed to the Metro station, walking arm and arm and laughing.

Everything changed the moment we got off the Metro and began walking through the station. We watched in horror as an older woman a short distance ahead of us stepped onto the escalator, lost her balance, and fell straight backwards as the escalator climbed. 

I sprinted forward to reach her, telling her in English, "It's OK, you're not alone." She was stunned, flat on  her back at a steep angle, her head facing the bottom of the escalator and rapidly turning  crimson as the blood rushed downward. I grabbed her under the arms and worked to pivot her prone body around so her head would be facing upward, hoping that I could then ease her into a seated position on a step before the escalator reached the top. While I managed to turn her, she was shocked and panicked and I couldn't get her to sit up. She was like a beetle trapped on its back.

A crowd had gathered at the top of the escalator and I yelled for someone to stop the escalator, terrified her hair or hands would get trapped as the escalator reached the top and the steps flattened. She was still on her back. If there was an emergency stop button, no one saw it or knew how to activate it.   In just a moment, we were at the top of the escalator, her head bumping over the top edge.

At that point several people came to our aid. I grabbed her bags and trolley and a man reached under her arms and brought her to her feet. I was very concerned she might faint if she was pulled to a standing position too quickly, but my French was failing me and I didn't know how to convey that. I thought she should sit for a while, but there wasn't a bench in sight.

Luckily, the man and two women at the top of the escalator spoke French and asked if they should call an ambulance. She said no, and then a woman offered to call someone for her. I stood by knowing she was in shock and that she really should sit down, that she was bound to begin feeling the pain of her fall and her rough ride up the escalator at any moment.  Still, the other people attending to her seemed in a better position to help her (due to my limited French), so E-Grrrl and I left after she thanked us for helping her.

By some freakish coincidence, that very morning E-Grrrl and I had been lying together in my bed talking about how scary it is to fall down stairs. She was recounting dreams she'd had of falling, and we were talking about how when we first moved to Belgium, we ALL fell on the stairs regularly. In our house here, there are three sets of  narrow, curving stairs that have a different rise and proportions than the American steps we were used to. Our bodies were programmed to a particular step height and position, and it took a long time to retrain our senses and not keep tripping and losing our balance on the steps.

Both kids took some dramatic spills, especially my son A who tripped at the top of the stairs and fell forward, hitting his head hard and putting me on a concussion watch for 24 hours. I told E-Grrrl how I'd tripped on a laundry basket at the top of the cellar stairs when I was a little girl and fell down the steep steps to the concrete floor below. My forehead was bruised and my eye so battered it swelled shut--my first and only black eye and one of the few times I ever remember my parents taking me to the doctor.

Those stories made the woman's horrifying experience all the more frightening to witness and participate in. We walked in silence through the holiday buzz of the mall with an adrenaline hangover, our spirits flattened with concern. Had we done enough? Was there a better way to handle that situation? Had those people stayed with the woman? Was someone coming to take her home?

I'm glad she didn't crack her skull on the sharp metal edges of the step and I was grateful she was wearing a well padded winter coat, but I know from experience how the extent of  injury and bruising from falling isn't fully seen or felt until hours later. I hope she's not alone and that she's OK.

The vision of the woman's body arcing backward and falling onto the steps is a moment I'll never forget. I'm sure it's etched in E-Grrrl's mind as well. 

December 15, 2007

He brought me flowers....

Thanks E!

A great way to brighten a dark December night....

December 14, 2007

Good things

E-Grrrl was doing her homework and I was down folding laundry in the basement when I heard her holler, "Mama! Mama! Come quick!"

The urgency in her voice was alarming, but when I bounded up the stairs, she had the camera in her hand and said, "Look! Look! Look! A rainbow!"

She was so excited and I stood at her side until the light shifted and the colors faded away.

She commented on how magical it was, all those colors! I reminded her that the colors are there always, in every bit of light, but we just don't see them until conditions are right.

Life is like that too. Here's a short list of ordinary things that colored my day:

• the satisfying snap of pistachio shells opening and dropping a crunchy salty nut in my hand
• having E-Grrrl tell me "When you wear that shirt and those boots, you look ten years younger!"
• using a heat gun and embossing powder to magically make gold Christmas trees bloom on a piece of cardstock
• the delicious feeling of having my hair shampooed and conditioned before my haircut at the salon
• getting a long awaited package from LL Bean containing, among other things, a hot pink down vest and black berber fleece vest ( I am ALL about vests in the winter, y'all)
• realizing yet again how much my achey back loves the heated seats in my car
• the smell of freshly laundered flannel sheets and blankets
• big hugs and lots of thank yous from my son
• sharing a Snickers bar with my daughter
• laughing out loud over a story about a bus driver who was using a GPS system to drive 50 British tourists to Lille, France. They ended up in Lille, Belgium instead--four hours away from their intended destination
• enjoying more than one glass of Slovenian white wine, made by friends who own a farm and vineyard there. This wine tastes like the grape, not like the oak cask--better than good.

What colored your world today?

December 13, 2007

My son loves me because...

...I think like a 12-year-old boy:

Son: What are those green things in the fruitcake?

Mom:  Candied boogers! Why do you think fruitcakes don’t appear until December? It’s because they have to wait for the fall cold and flu season to produce enough snot to use in the cakes!

***

After a long full day at a very crowded Christmas market in Germany, mother and son are part of an enormous mob of people waiting for a ride on a shuttle bus to the parking area outside the city. We can’t even see where we’re supposed to be going, we're hanging onto each other's jackets to keep from being separated as we’re being pushed along by the crowd:

Mom: I feel like a lemming. Any minute now, we’re going to discover we’re part of a group being pushed off a cliff.

Son: No, there’s a big hole in the street up ahead that swallows up all the pesky tourists…

Mom: Yeah, all the tourists fall in a hole and slide down a chute into a meat grinder. They turn them into sausages which are sold at the market!

Son: “Mmmm, isn’t this Bratwurst fresh! So much better than what you get in stores…”

Mom: “American sausage is the best. Tastes like pork!”

Son: “First we take their money and fatten them up on waffles, pretzels, candy, latkes, and frites…”

Mom: “And then we eat them…”

Son: “A new form of recycling!

Mom: “An efficient green initiative. Kinda like eating boogers…”

December 11, 2007

Changes in Christmas tradition

It used to take me days to decorate for Christmas. I was one of those women who left no surface untouched by holiday merriment. My bannister was dressed in greens, ribbon, and gingerbread men. My doorways ALL swathed in garland. Every hutch, cabinet, and table featured a nativity set or plate collection or tableau of adorable snowmen or wooden reindeer or a bowl of holly and pinecones. Stockings were hung in the windows and along the mantel. There were angel suncatchers, candles, ribbons, greenery, wreaths, decorated baskets, all of it. I photographed my decorative themes  so I could remember how to set things up the following year. Everything had to be "perfect."

Every holiday season we did the same events: the Christmas parade, a gingerbread house museum, a festival of decorated trees, the Nutcracker, choral performances, church Christmas pageants and services, office Christmas parties, and bunches of other holiday events we received invitations to. I baked cookies, made fruitcakes, and every other year, I hosted a big open house at our home and invited 50-60 people. Each child had an Advent calendar and a mini Christmas tree and every night we said Advent prayers and lit the candles on our Advent wreath. We had everyday Christmas plates and mugs to use all through December and fine holiday china for the big day. E decorated the front of the house with lights. Throughout December I wore holiday jewelry and sweaters and was Little Miss Christmas. For at least fifteen years, that's what Christmas looked like at Chez V.

Today, the thought of all my over-the-top holiday celebrations makes me shake my head in wonder because now I celebrate Christmas so differently.  I've been scaling back  for years, and I'm down to the essentials. I left many of my holiday decorations in storage in the U.S., and I don't even put out all the ones I brought with me to Belgium. Now it's all about hanging a few wreaths, setting up ONE nativity set (I used to do four or five!), having a Christmas tree, and attending church.  Forget the rest.

The kids make paper chains and hang them where they choose. We still have an Advent wreath but I'm late getting it out this year. I send out some cards and small gifts  but don't host parties. As for holiday events, the kids didn't even want to attend the local tree lighting on Friday night, preferring to sit by the fire with books. We've gone to one Christmas market in Germany, we may attend a parade on the 28th, but other than that, only church services are on our schedule--and no one seems to mind a bit.

Yesterday we put our tree up, and for the first time in 26 years, we have COLORED lights on it. I've always liked the tree to have a slightly rustic, old-fashioned look and white lights were part of that. When the kids asked E if we could have colored lights, he said, "Ask your mother." I'm sure he expected me to shudder slightly before saying no, remembering all the Carefully Orchestrated Christmases of years past. Instead I said, "Sure, why not? Whatever you want."

Yes, I still like white lights better, but over the years I've seen that how Christmas looks has little to do with how it feels. When we're gathered together around a table in December, sharing love with far flung friends and family, attending church, or sitting around the tree together, life is perfect whether it's wrapped in garland and bows or not.

December 10, 2007

Visit the Ugly Shoe Hall of Fame!

I have sometimes described myself as "Just a grrrl traveling in comfortable shoes." Some people named Nance might say "really ugly shoes." But hey, I'm not insulted even if the truth hurts: my foyer closet is home of The Ugly Shoe Hall of  Shame Fame.

Long time readers may remember this post about my mother's hideous feet and the way they contributed to my anti-fashion shoe sensibilities at a young age. A few years spent selling shoes in my 20s didn't enhance my sense of style. Instead I came to appreciate ugly comfortable shoes all the more because I was standing on my feet for at least seven hours at a stretch. Owwww. No way I was doing that in heels!

When I moved to Belgium,  I began a life that involved walking everywhere.  It was almost two years before I had a car of my own, and I spent plenty of days on the cobblestone streets and brick sidewalks of Brussels, Paris, London, Rome, and other cities that we explored on foot. The walks got longer and my shoes just kept getting uglier.

I came to Europe with these:

They're the station wagons of female shoe wear. So suburban, so not sexy.

Then my first winter here was long, gray, and especially cold. E's travels to Australia influenced these purchases:

When I wear these Uggs, E-Grrrl says it looks like someone stuck tacks in my legs. She's just hoping I'll discard them and she'll inherit them in all their ginormous fleece-lined glory.

And before you say it, NO, these are not slippers, they're CLOGS. Please don't say they're Ugg-ly. They're so cozy and almost cute. Note the charming artsy embroidery! Very European!

My sturdy black walking boots were finally declared "terminal" after carrying me across Brussels, London, Bath, Portsmouth, and Paris. No amount of polish could revive them. So when we went to Italy last year, I had to buy new tourist shoes. Keep in mind that anyone who travels with my husband E is going to go on numerous urban death marches through the concrete and cobblestone jungles. Miles and miles and miles.  I got this pair of Eastlands from Zappos:

Don't you just bet the Italians in their slick designer shoes were awed by my good taste? I refer to these as Frankenstein's Baby Shoes. Admit it--that nickname makes sense. And that grease stain on the toe? It seriously disturbs E, but me, um, not so much. With a shoe this ugly, why worry about stains?

But I'm proud to announce that there's an all new entry in the Ugly Shoe Hall of Fame. See these babies?

These are an early Christmas gift from E.  He bought them for me when I dramatically declared they were the most comfortable shoes I had ever put on my feet, boasting a high-tech molded insole that perfectly balances gel-like softness with firm support.  I love 'em so much, I might wear them to bed tonight. 

December 7, 2007

Cleaning up inside and out

I've been battling the blahs this week. Unlike having the blues, which makes my heart ache and results in pathetic crying jags, the blahs make me want to clean. On some level, I think I believe if I can remove the cobwebs and grime from my environment, my spirits will be lighter too.

Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't, but it's a lot more productive than overeating or watching too much YouTube.

This week's combination of howling winds and cancelled excursions left me longing for clean toilets and sinks. I was determined to tackle the buildup of calc and lime in the bathrooms. It's hard to fathom just how hard the water is here until you live with it. Calc accumulates quickly on and in everything that is touched by water. I buy vinegar in gallon size bottles and have to clean my teakettle with it at least twice a week. I boil vinegar to clean the calc off the sinks and faucets, and yes, I pour hot vinegar into my toilets. I also use a Belgian product called Anti-Kalk and American "Lime Away." Even with that chemical arsenal, it still takes scraping to remove calc deposits from certain surfaces. After three days of the blahs and a lot of hard work, my toilets and sinks are very, very clean.

I've also continued to pare down our belongings, preparing for our move. As with any clutter-busting enterprise, I find going through storage spaces multiple times is most effective. While the first round of sorting moves a heck of a lot of stuff out of the house, it's just a warm up for the second and third rounds. The first round you tend to get rid of true junk, dated stuff, and the things you didn't really want in the first place. Subsequent rounds bring you to a place where you can part with perfectly good items just because you know you don't use or appreciate them enough.

The U.S. Army's support center in Brussels has set up a place to leave blankets and cold weather clothing for the homeless. I had already given trunk loads of clothes away earlier this fall, but seeing that collection bin sent me back into my closets looking for more. I wanted to help. We had piles of real baby blankets, comforters, and throws that E-Grrrl had outgrown and then used to play with her baby dolls. I washed them and took them to the center first. Then I started picking through our sweaters, jackets, and mittens, and got E to go through his as well.

After all we'd already given away, I was astounded we were able to fill two gigantic bags with LL Bean and Lands End sweaters, fleece pullovers, sweatshirts, hats and scarves, and kids ski pants.  I'm happy to share a bit of warmth with people whose lives are so cold, but the amount of excess we have is telling. While some people rarely purge their belongings, I do it REGULARLY, and the fact that I can still find so much to give away is a reminder of how much we can live without if we raise our consciousness a bit and challenge our ideas.

Tomorrow I'm going back into my closets again and digging through the storage boxes in the attic. I'm sure there's more to share and give away. There's ALWAYS more to share.

December 5, 2007

Sigh

The day started so well.

I put a change of clothes in a duffle bag, a selection of books and magazines for my favorite Wee Curly Grrrl, and something for Di. I added my pajamas, slipper sox, and my favorite perfume. A mini bag of toiletries and a surprisingly heavy bag of makeup. I counted out my pills like a pharmacist and checked and double-checked them like old grrrls do.

I slipped a guide to Amsterdam into the bag and a Dutch dictionary into my purse. I made sure my bus, Metro, and train passes were easily accessible. I zipped my money and IDs into the inside pocket of my ski jacket. I wrote down contact info for E and taped it to the refrigerator door. I pulled the children’s IDs out of my wallet and set them aside for E. I made sure I had lip gloss, reading glasses, and my charged iPod and cell phone. The train schedule. Di’s phone number.

I tucked the camera into my duffle, along with a few granola bars and struggled to zip it shut. I secured Petey in the master bedroom and was all ready to set the alarm and step out the door to catch my bus to the Metro station when the phone rang.

If I answer it, I might miss my bus, and the bus I need only comes once an hour. But I answer it anyway. Happiness at hearing Di’s voice is tempered with a sad tale of sickness. Jessie, her 21 year old daughter, was up all night coughing. And Gert, her lovely husband, was sick over the weekend and should be getting better but may be getting worse instead. The terrible truth is that the inhabitants of Kiwi Villa in Antwerp have been colonized by the evil flu. There will be no three day grrrl getaway for Jessie, Di, and me after all.

No photo viewing and ordering, bookshop browsing, or Mexican lunch. No catching the early train to Amsterdam on Tuesday, visiting the Anne Frank house, taking a canal boat tour, and exploring the city. No late nights, no wine, no talk of writing, creativity, life, and family. No mocking. No laughter. No secrets.

I look at the overstuffed duffle bag by the door and see it is stuffed with disappointment, not anticipation now.

I touch the wad of euros in my pocket and realize I’ll be spending them at the grocery store, not at the train station, not in Amsterdam.

The wind picks up and wails. The day gets a little colder, a little darker.

December 3, 2007

Art Journal Entry #21

Shirley Valentine is an Academy Award nominated film from 1989 that was highly recommended to me by Di.  She'd brought her personal copy over to my house, but we were unable to play it on my American DVD player.  When I logged on to Netflix one day, it was under the list of recommendations for me as well, so I figured when both my best mate in Belgium and my DVD provider recommend a movie, I really should watch it.

What can I say--I loved it from the opening song and pencil drawings in the introduction to the final scene and the rolling credits. It had more quotable lines than any movie I've seen in recent history. Time after time, the main character, Shirley Valentine, delivered zingers that I knew I'd never forget.

Shirley Valentine is a woman who reclaims herself and her dreams and dares to believe in fresh starts and a different future.  After 20 some years of doing what she should instead of what she wanted, she challenges everyone's expectations of what her life should be like and blazes a new trail, learning not only to silence the critical voices of her family and friends but her own nagging doubts about who she is and what she's capable of.

Y'all can see why I needed to see this movie. I highly recommend it, especially to women over 40, but hey even old guys like E might find it entertaining. 

Initially E was put off by the official description of the movie, which said it was the story of "a housewife who decides in her middle age that there's more to life than stifling domesticity. An unplanned trip to Greece with a friend expands her horizons in ways she could never have predicted, allowing her to fall in love again beyond the bounds of marriage, find herself, and grab the reins of her future."

Yes, I guess I could understand why he might find that a bit threatening  inappropriate and why he was a bit concerned when I watched the film alone and gave it an enthusiastic review, foolishly saying how well I related to it. That would probably explain why he asked me if I'd like to watch it again--with him this time. OOOOOKKKKK. (Head upstairs with fingers crossed that he'll appreciate its delicious mix of humor and drama, the fine tuned performances, and the way the writers made Shirley Valentine both larger than life and incredibly real and down to earth. Hoping he won't get That Look on his face. Married people know all about That Look. Every couple has their own version of it.)

To my delight, he did like it. He liked it a lot. AND he got Shirley's humor, including my favorite line (quoted roughly from memory): "This isn't about what's reasonable. This is about marriage. There's nothing logical about it. Marriage is like the Middle East. There is no solution."

When he completely cracked up over that, I knew we'd be fine for the rest of the movie, and hey, maybe even fine for the rest of our lives, you can never tell.

December 2, 2007