A New Season Approaches

Tuesday, September 1, 2009









Today, as I often do, I walk the three kilometers from St. Vincent to Monce. Though so close, we can't see Monce from St. Vincent. Nor can we see St. Remy, about the same distance in the other direction. I nearly missed St. Pierre, another village with a beautiful old church, between Monce and St. Remy. All are within walking distance of St. Vincent.

On our fist walks in early August, we saw hundreds of butterflies, clusters of ten or more hovering around a wildflower, and bees hummed the eternal background music of summer, often the only sound we'd hear.

In the weeks since the landscape has changed. Fields along the road have been harvested, first the wheat, then the straw. Blackberries have ripened; hundreds of thousands of them line the roads.

Today there are fewer butterflies and only an occasional bee. Many of the wildflowers are gone.

Queen Anne's lace remains.

I'm seldom homesick anymore, no matter where I go. As a child, though, and sometimes even much later, I found comfort when in a strange place by finding things that were familiar. I'd begin with the sun, moon and stars and then look for trees and plants that grew at home.

This habit has stayed with me, and I was pleased to find the lacy white flower of the wild carrot growing along the roadsides in France.

For many years I'd gather the blooms on my daily walk for a bouquet.

That changed in the summer of 2007. As Jacob's life hung in the balance I was unable to find joy. I walked occasionally that summer but when Queen Anne's lace began to bloom I refused to pick it. When Jacob comes home, I told myself, I'll make a bouquet.

I'd not picked Queen Anne's lace since. Then, a couple of weeks into our stay here, I gathered some as I walked, along with a variety of small purple flowers. I put them in a vase on the kitchen counter.

They were pretty, of course. The little thrill of pleasure at seeing them never came, though. After a couple of days, I let them go.

As I walk today, something has changed, something indefinable yet definite. Summer is closing up shop, folding the flowers back into the earth, stripping the fields in preparation for the new season.

I feel a pleasant loneliness. Our time here will soon be over. I've loved every minute of it. I'm not eager to leave; I believe I could stay on, live here.

At the same time, I look forward to being home. I want to be with our family. Juliet will have grown so much. The other grandchildren are back in school. We have plans.