Christmas Memories

Genius of Christmas December 21 2009



We call it Christmas, say we’re celebrating Jesus’ birth.

But that’s not why that night we feel such joy and mystery.

We light the dark, and warm the cold,

Huddle close with family,

Become one with universal Love,

Abide in mystery, eyes opening in awe.

We party through the longest night times of the year,

Sharing hope that daylight, sustenance, and grace

Will return and help us to survive.

In the dark, we make believe that all is well

And, as always with imagination,

We create new legends that outshine by far what’s real.

We celebrate the mythic magic of our wishful thinking ,

Basking in its curious fairy tale glow.


Reflection:

Christmastime is here. It’s the day that, when I was a child, expanded the hours and minutes spent waiting to the point of being unbearable. How could Christmas take so long to get here – an eternity?

Christmas was a testimonial to the power of dreams and wishes. Everything seemed possible. I imagined myself happily playing with a bicycle, a sled, skis, an electric train set. The wait for such manifestations, in which I inexplicably trusted year after year, imagining complete happiness, brought glorious feelings of fulfillment. Yes, I know now – I’ve actually learned over the years – that the lasting joy comes from giving, being with others, celebrating joyously – not in receiving material gifts. But I hadn’t learned that then. I vested wondrous power in possessions.

Since growing up, I still find Christmas a magical time – just because of the celebration and sharing the excitement with others. I’ve also been influenced all my life by two Christmases I spent on my own in France. At both times, I was totally on my own, yet joined with the spirit of those among whom I'd found myself for a day or two.

The first of these Christmases was in Nimes, in southern France, in 1961. I had wanted to see the Roman coliseum there – it was an ancient town indeed. The coliseum was impressive and extraordinarily well preserved.

What was even more extraordinary was the sense of Christmas celebration in the streets. Father Christmas, robed in white, with a long white beard, was walking through the streets, holding a long staff, accompanied by his donkey who carried mysterious packages in two packs slung over his back. It snowed that day, a rarity in that southern place. It really felt like Christmas. I discovered the charm of provencal “santons,” the hand painted clay folk figures that are made in these southern French towns to surround crèche scenes – the gypsy woman, the baker, the hunter, the pipe smoking idler – in addition to traditional shepherds, angels, and wise men. I purchased a small set of tiny figures, which still, over 45 years later, graces a place near my Christmas tree each year, taking up a whole 6 square inches, and reminding me of a special day spent in a faraway place where I was on my own to observe and to enjoy Christmas vicariously.

I also spent the following Christmas in France. By then I was studying at the University of Nancy, in the eastern portion of the country. Nancy was a short ride through the Vosges from Strasbourg and other “Wine Road” Alsatian towns. These were German speaking cities in France. As in the German Rhineland, the towns were either Catholic or Lutheran, each with its majestic church spire rising from the highest point of the village, the Catholic spires topped with a cross, and the Lutheran ones with a rooster.

I rode the train that Christmas of 1962 to a small town south of Strasbourg. It was a picture postcard perfect Alsatian village, In the middle of the town square at the bottom of the hill stood an ancient horse watering fountain, from which people said – perhaps in jest – that wine flowed each year during their annual wine festival. Snow had fallen the day before I arrived. Its pristine whiteness crunched under my feet as I walked through the town, which consisted of three parallel streets rising from the fountain to the church at the top of the hill. Half- timbered centuries-old houses lined both sides of each street, snow sparkling in crevices of gray tile roofs.

As dusk fell, I repaired to the inn where I was staying, for a sumptuous dinner of roast goose, complete with sauerkraut, chestnut dressing, and jellied quinces. After this bounteous meal, I had a couple of hours to wander through the village, before joining all its residents in a mass movement up the hill to Midnight Mass. As I walked by houses, diamond paned casement windows were cracked open, and in house after house, I could see a tall fir tree decked with lighted wax candles, as whole families gathered round, singing traditional carols. “Stille Nacht,” “O Tannenbaum,” and “Adeste Fideles” rang out across the snow covered streets in pleasing harmonies, young and old voices blending beautifully. It was another magical Christmas night and day. I was utterly alone, yet was somehow buoyed by the festive spirit that I was sharing with those around me.

When Ellen and I shared our first Christmas, in New York, I felt that sense of magic again. I was surprised that this Jewish woman had a full set of Christmas tree ornaments, and loved decorating her loft for the Christian holiday. I learned much later that she had learned to enjoy Christmas while in the hospital during her childhood. St. Giles the Cripple was a children’s hospital in Brooklyn run by Episcopalian nuns. Through their Christian religious ceremonies, Ellen first learned to appreciate the great liturgical music of the Baroque and classical periods.

Ellen and I always celebrated Christmas together – never Hanukkah. I only acquired a Menorah in 2008, after she had died. In her family of origin, Hanukkah had been a minor holiday; it was not a major event in their family life. Nevertheless, Christmas never had for Ellen the magical quality that I had learned as a child and young woman to associate with the holiday. It never had for her the ancient winter solstice associations that I’m sure lie behind my own sense of wonder. For me, I think those Christmases I spent in France as a student shaped my delight in the Christmas season throughout my adulthood – the sheer joy of celebrating cheerfully amid winter’s darkness and cold weather.


Rosemary, from 2008:

NEW YORK WINTER December 15, 2008

We traveled back and forth, thinking we could be “bicoastal”,

And I’m so glad I had that chance to live with you

In your beloved loft, your neighborhood, your building,

Learning a little what it meant to be, like you, a New Yorker.


I think of:

That first Christmas, schlepping the six foot spruce

From the corner grocery, down the street, and up the elevator,

Boots, mittens, knitted scarves and hats shielding us from knifing wind.

Then decorating, in our first shared spell of Christmas magic.



The stiff courtesy of doormen, stationed all day, all night, -- hailing, guarding, helping.

Your telling me you asked the doormen to put on your earrings or button your shirts

Because, one-handed, you couldn’t.



The icy drafts stabbing in through lofty windows, impossible to block,

Making us set the heat to 80 so we didn’t freeze.



The friendly firefighters in the station down the street, smiling and waving

As we walked by to the barber, the cleaner, the grocery, the deli.



The purity and quiet of fresh city snow, so quickly blackened.



The surprise of glancing from the 7th floor

To see yellow cabs everywhere, sole traffic, horns honking.



The sound of sirens through the night, background symphony to sleep.



The excitement of walking to a busy restaurant or hailing a cab to Lincoln Center,

Of passing stalls selling items you later said you “got on the street.”

Walking, wondering, past cracked brick houses and regal brownstones in The Village,

Exploring the Green Market with its winter New York produce –

City moments, always hustled, elbowing with others.



The naked fear of cancer checkups at Sloan Kettering,

Where everyone – respectful -- called you “Dr. Scheiner.”



The intimacy of spending all day and night together, burrowed in your loft --

15 foot ceilings and classic modern furniture, like a photo in House Beautiful.



The pleasure of sitting side by side in black leather chairs,

Cheerful morning eastern sun warming our heads and arms

As together we read today’s New York Times and drank fragrant coffee.



The tender moments spent cuddled,

Iimmersed in each other, before the crackling fireplace,

Bach Inventions gently pouring over us.



The bare emptiness of that beloved loft

When, off to California,

We sat side by side on kitchen chairs, all else taken by the movers,

Floors and walls starkly clean,

Seeing our honeymoon suite for one last time

Before flying, excited, to our new house:

To the life that we would build together.



Now you’ve gone alone to your next venture,

And I wrap around me that first season’s precious memories,

To help warm me through this long and solitary winter.