Bristol, Vermont
It
is my first Halloween since moving to Bristol, Vermont. I go about my usual
Saturday morning routine. I gather my laundry together. I meditate while
holding a cup of hazelnut coffee softened with milk. I enjoy slow time and
there seems to be more of it since I have moved here. Around ten o’clock, mild hunger pangs ensue,
so I walk to the bakery café in the village center. I step through the door and
prepare to order my traditional weekly cinnamon roll. There is a buzz among the
patrons, especially the kids. The din is a few decibels higher than usual and reminds
me of the noise and clatter one hears in an audience before the curtain goes
down and the shhhhh falls over the crowd.
Main
Street seems to have more action than usual, too – more cars on the road and
people milling about on the sidewalks. The weather is calm and still, the sky a mix of clouds and sun. The autumn season fades quickly, and late October
in Vermont means the trees are nearly bare. This morning everyone seems to be
out to get a piece of what may be the last good day of the year.
I’ve
felt it before, autumn in Vermont, years ago when I visited my sister before I
came to live here, too. Its subtle beauty absolutely must be experienced in
real time. No calendar or post card can convey the scent of apples from the
fields or the jumbled reds, golds and greens of the hills. It’s best just to
give yourself over to the spell. Fairs and festivals offer sheep’s wool, apple
cider- making, art and craftwork. These events and activities fill our days as
fall wanes.
There
is tension or bustling that occurs before the curtain goes down, as
if we prepare for hibernation. Rest follows the activity of readying ourselves for
slumber, and like the squirrels who gather nuts in a flurry, Vermonters
celebrate All Hallows Eve in a crazed fervor.
I remember the excitement of finding the right costume and the fun of
hoarding treats doled out by neighbors as a child. But Vermont takes Halloween
to a way higher level.
During
the afternoon I go back into town to the “Sip n Suds” with my weekly laundry in
tow. I’ve never used a laundromat in my life. If I knew before I moved to
Bristol that I would be shoving coins into a machine and carrying a basket like a laundry lady, you might as well have told me I’d be beating my
clothes on a rock by the river some day, but I actually enjoy this chore. It
forces me to pace myself, to slow down. I read a book, I watch the other
customers, and I often have the opportunity to speak with people whom I might
not meet otherwise. Passers-by notice me sitting in the big storefront and
wave. On this afternoon, my friend, Jen,
stops by to keep me company while I wait. I tell her how sometimes I feel lost
despite how much I love my new home. She asks me if I consider returning to New
Jersey. We pause and simply look at each other because there is no way I want
to go back, but it is true, I feel the pull of family left behind. It is good
to have Jen as a confidant, but ultimately, all decisions are mine, and with
that, she goes off to walk her dog, and I finish my laundry alone.
As I
fold the last of my clothes, I gather up my basket and walk outside. Shop
owners stand out on the sidewalk, heads together. It’s as if they are synchronizing
their watches, or are spies working on a secret mission. I walk back to my
apartment and fix a small dinner for myself. Afterward I step out into the
evening to meet my new friend, Charlie, for coffee. By now we have both been
tipped off to the fact that Bristol’s Halloween is a big deal, so we set off to
explore for ourselves.
Main
Street is desolate except for diehard diners enjoying an evening meal at the
only two restaurants in town, but as we walk deep within the grid of streets, most
of the homes are decorated in honor of the night. One porch is rigged with
dressed-up dummies, which move about mysteriously. Eerie moans
emanate from an old farmhouse, and there are carved pumpkins everywhere, one
display more elaborate than the next. Taiko drummers do their thing on a front
lawn; the exotic beat makes me crazy. It’s like a Yankee Mardi Gras, and I am enchanted
by the wildness of it all.
Throngs
of children and their parents roam the streets. Few people nod hello. Maintaining secret identity seems essential. Charlie and I are not wearing
costumes, nor are we escorting little ones. We feel as if we are illegal
gawkers. We stop at Charlie’s friends, Rob and Aggie’s on Maple Street, where we share warm cider and good conversation.
Charlie
and I begin our walk back toward the center of town. We come to a house on the
corner of Spring and Mountain where a woman sits on her porch step. At least forty
carved pumpkins crowd around her on the small plot of front yard. I walk up
to her, stoop down and introduce myself, complimenting her artwork. I wonder
if this is another woman who lives in Bristol alone. She
looks so contented sitting among her pumpkins, like a beaming Buddha. There are angels and devils, screamers, monsters, cartoon characters,
and even a pumpkin baby, all of them lit from within by votive candles. Did she work alone or did she have helpers? I
see no children nearby, no baby carriage, no swing set, no husband, and I can
tell that she is close to my age. This is not the first lone woman I meet in
Bristol. My friend, Jen, is one, too. I refer to us as “runaways,” although I have no
proof this is so, except in my own case, of course; but I prefer to
believe they are like me because it makes me feel more at home.
Bristol
gives much attention to this day. After all, it’s a feast day really, referenced by my knowledge of Celtic history and myth. The town takes it seriously
with celebrations, bonfires, music, and gatherings. The noise and activity is
enough to scare away the dead. The citizens of Bristol party hard because they
know that once winter comes to Vermont, there is a feeling that, indeed,
everyone is dead. You’ll be lucky if you see your neighbor twice before the end
of April.
But
as the new girl in town, I sense life. And the beginnings of belonging.
