Compost Studios

So strange to have my heart in two places. I was checking the Brussels weather today and then clicked over to see the forecast at home in King George and suddenly felt so divided, longing for home yet glad to be here in Europe.

It’s getting much colder at night in Virginia now, though sometimes the day time highs are about the same as here in Belgium. I visualize my old neighborhood, the kids in hooded sweatshirts at the bus stop in the morning, their hands jammed in their pockets, their breath turning white in the brisk air.

The fall colors are probably just past their peak. The acorns are rattling off the oak tree in our back yard and clattering onto the roof and the back deck. The gutters are undoubtedly stuffed with leaves, the backyard afloat in them. I’m sure there’s a hint of wood smoke in the air at night.

I miss gazing out my kitchen window and taking it all in, especially the flutter of falling sweet gum leaves and the forlorn rattle of the brown pin oaks’, many of which will cling to the tree until the spring. The persimmons are ripe, I’m sure. I used to be able to spy them on the tree from the big window in Emily’s room, but maybe by now the white pines that rim the yard are blocking the view. They grow so fast.

The swing set has only the wind for company. I remember how the children used to rake leaves into a heap at the bottom of the slide and gleefully plow through them. And every fall, I’d stand my September “babies” in front of the garden gate and take their picture, watching them rise higher against the fence line each year. I miss the bright-colored mums Eric planted each fall by the front sidewalk and the big round pumpkins we’d post like sentries at the door.

We used to buy them at Westmoreland Berry Farm, relishing the fall foliage as we trekked out farther into the Northern Neck, the drive as satisfying as the destination. We went there at least once in the fall—buying pumpkins and plants, going on hayrides, letting the children climb on the hay bales. The kids would order hotdogs and ice cream from the kitchen while Eric and I relished the BBQ sandwiches and hot cider.

One October we took a horse-drawn wagon ride around the farm at night and saw the full moon rise over the Rappahannock River and spill silvery shadows onto the fields. They had a bonfire that night, and the kids’ faces glowed as they roasted marshmallows. We always saw people we knew. And last year Emily’s best friend, Hannah, celebrated her birthday at the farm.

Fall is different here. Yes, a few homes have mums but I rarely spot a pumpkin on a doorstep. I don’t have any sense of there being a harvest celebration or holiday. I’m wondering if children will appear on my doorstep in costumes on Halloween night or if that’s strictly an American custom. At home, I planned for 50 kids, and each year there would only be a few pieces of candy left in the trick-or-treat bowl when I switched off the porch light at night’s end.

Living here has made me realize how important holidays and traditions are to the psyche and how difficult it is to preserve them away from home. I didn’t realize until I left the U.S. how much the communal sharing of holidays matters. Sure, you can reproduce some traditions from the U.S. in Belgium, but the fact that everyone else in the community isn’t sharing the holiday greatly diminishes its appeal. It’s not just putting your own Halloween decorations out, it’s seeing that others have done the same thing. It’s the collective experience of looking forward to something, sharing the excitement with strangers. The holiday store displays, even the grocery sales (and crowds) all made the U.S. celebrations bigger and better.

Sure, this year we had a cookout on Fourth of July and attended a festival hosted by the U.S. Army here. The crowd seemed sparse and knowing that everyone else in the country was working and there would be no fireworks or parades to applaud dampened my spirits. Even Labor Day felt strange. In the U.S. it marked the official end of summer, one last hurrah, one last cookout, one last trip to the beach—a complex mix of jubilation and melancholy. Here it was just another weekend.

I couldn’t bear the thought of celebrating Thanksgiving in Belgium, so far from family and our homes and the long lines of grocery carts loaded with canned pumpkin, apples, cranberries, turkeys, potatoes, green beans, and sweet potatoes. I decided I’d rather not celebrate at all than cook a huge dinner for four on a day undistinguished from all the rest across Belgium. No, we’re going to take that holiday and transform it into a European adventure. On Thanksgiving morning we’re having croissants and coffee and catching a high-speed train to Paris. We’ll spend five days in the city of heavenly lights—and skip the traditional American feast.

Maybe I’ll roast a turkey for Christmas, and we’ll count our blessings then. Just knowing my Belgian neighbors are gathered with their families around a table doing the same thing will give me one more thing to be grateful for.

October 27, 2005