Every year, our neighborhood in Rumford has a parade on Halloween. Friends and family from the neighborhood gather for the annual event. Everyone, including the dogs, are in costume. Some are quite extravagant; others are homemade—they’re really fun, especially the creative ones. A police car leads the walkers, and homes along the short parade route are decorated to the nines — ghosts, goblins, witches, ghouls—you name it.
I always associate this community event with being rooted. Those of you who know me will remember that my family fled Budapest during the Hungarian Uprising. We lived in Switzerland and Germany, before getting permission to immigrate to the United States. Even after our arrival, we moved frequently. My childhood was quite uprooted.
Years ago, when Bernard and I were first dating, we ran into a friend of his at a restaurant. They greeted one another joyfully, taking a minute to catchup on what had been going on in their lives. After she and her husband left, I asked Bernard how he knew her. His answer stunned me. “We were in kindergarten together.” I knew then that that was what I wanted for my own children.
My husband took my son to the Rumford parade when he was a little boy. Forty years later, my son takes his little girls to the parade. Halloween reminds me of the continuity and rootedness that I, as a refugee, always craved. And it reminds me to be grateful.
Thanks for tuning in,
Margaret
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