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My grandparents were my whole world when I was a little girl. Their presence was a buffer in the midst of my parents' nasty divorce. It is my wish to honor them here as death was not much kinder to them than life was. They survived countless difficulties and died in quasi anonymity in Florida, away from their comfort zone, away from most of their loved ones, yet not forgotten.
My grandparents met in Brussels where my grandmother worked in a pastry shop. Grandpa raced bikes. After a race one day he stopped at the shop.
What the 50th anniversary speech does not tell: He became a pro-racer in 1937. He never had much luck as mechanical problems always seem to spring up on him. While in High School I interviewed him for a school paper and found out that my teacher remembered reading about him. I have however not been very lucky in obtaining any newspaper clippings, except for one that only mentions his name as a participant. In that particular race, he wrecked his bike in Namur and had to abandon. Their parents didn't really approve of their marriage because they came from such different cultural background: the Drossart were Walloon, while the Wauters were Flemings. Over time though the families overcame these differences. They bought a big house by the bike shop. My mother was born there one month before the Germans invaded Belgium. The older generation, remembering the First World War and the atrocities committed by the German soldiers as they made their way through Belgium, encouraged their young people to flee. With just their clothes on their back, they picked up my mother and ran with thousands of others. An air raid over a nearby woods, for a time, led the family to believe they had died, but they managed to make their way to Brussels where they boarded a train that took them to Southern France. Things weren't great there either as refugees were many and the accomodations were far from comfortable. But France soon surrendered and my grandparents returned to Belgium. During their about-4-months absence, the bike shop had been ransacked and they had a lot to do to clean up the mess. Grandma soon found herself expecting again and in December 1941 my uncle was born. She took her children with her everywhere. There were rations for everything and that didn't help them stay in business so she often travelled to Liege to buy tires for the bikeshop with her toddlers in tow. People could not pay and Grandpa's big heart caused him to make poor business decisions. "Pay me when you can", he said to those who could not pay, but of course "when you can" never came and after the war the government came collecting taxes on money he never received and they lost their home. That's why they left Jauche and made their way to the Liege industrial basin where Grandpa worked at L'Esperance in Seraing. They had so little money that he would pick up the coal dropped along the railroad tracks so they'd have some to heat their house. Bankrupcies in Belgium in the 1940s were not like those experienced in the USA at the turn of the 21st century. Not only did their house go on the auction block but they still owed more. It was in 1958, right about the time my parents married that they were freed from that burden, scarred forever by the experience and bound and determined never to be in that spot again. By then Grandpa was working for Phenix Works and they had just moved in a new housing project where their rent was tied in to their earnings. It was a brand new house, even though it was small. They lived there until 1991, when they decided to emigrate. They survived the 1960 generalized strike, with my parents recently returned from the Congo and without income, and me almost born, as well as a son in the military. They didn't have a car. Grandpa rode a motorcycle, a Vespa. It's only after my parents separated that he broke down and learned to drive. After that he was always meticulous in the care of his cars. We returned to Belgium in 1988 to celebrate their golden wedding anniversary. The last time I saw my grandfather was at the airport in Luxemburg. Somehow I knew I'd never see him again. He had begun to show signs of senility, which turned out to be Altzheimer's disease (illness that also took his mother and his older sister, Marie) Grandma had a tough time dealing with him after he got sick, and after having to have surgery, and being unable to take care of him, they decided to come and live with my mother in Florida, where they both died years later. There were no obituaries, no funeral services, no burials... I believe their ashes were scattered somewhere in Miami. They lived anonymous lives, almost, but they lived good lives, lives of example in love and endurance and resilience and service. I hope to create somewhat of a memorial to them here. Image Gallery
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