Christmas Windows

CHRISTMAS WINDOWS

It has started to snow.

It isn't much and it still isn't the right time for it to stick around, but it's snow and a step in the right direction.

It's dark too. Not pitch black night time dark, but the fuzzy dark that happens as the sun makes its final exit and the day comes to an end.

And it's cold. Not really cold temperature-wise, but damp cold: the kind that gets into your joints that you don't really understand until you get older.

Ronin and I are out walking.

This is our time.

I try to mix up the routes we take just to keep it interesting. I think I am doing it for him, but the truth is he doesn't care. We could walk the same path every day and he would be fine with that. He makes new discoveries every day and everywhere. All that matters is that I honor the commitment and take him out.

As it gets darker outside, we become more aware of the lights on in each of the houses we pass. We are not voyeurs, but, on these dimly-lit streets, the lights from the houses just naturally draw your attention.

It's hard not to notice as the occupants move from room to room and turn on lights. It's hard not to notice who's having dinner and who's watching TV. And, at this time of year, it's hard not to notice who have already put up their holiday lights.

As the blue-gray of dusk becomes the charcoal gray of twilight becomes the black of night, we cross streets and round corners. At every pole, sign or hydrant, Ronin stops to read and/or sign the guest book while I search my pockets for anything I can find with which to wipe my running nose.

We pass more houses and more of them have a tree, or a wreath, or one of those inflatable lawn sculptures. Each reminds me that I need to find our decorations and get started on our house. Each is like the open door on an Advent calendar reminding us that Christmas is coming ever closer.

Each window is also a reminder of every Christmas past: the trips to the Atwater Market to pick out the tree, untangling the gordian knot of lights and promising myself that I would take more care putting this year's lights away so as not to have the same problem next year, sitting in the living room late at night bathed in the warmth of the decorated tree and Mahalia Jackson's version of “Silent Night” on the hi-fi. Each is a reminder of gifts given and received and the growing list of family and friends who have “gone on ahead.”

As Ronin and I walk on through the darkening evening, I become aware that I am looking at these decorated houses through the soft-focused lens of memory. It doesn't snow much around here, but at each house I see with a yard tree, I am imagining it poking up through a snowbank, its limbs staggering under a thick frosting of snow. As our six feet move silently along the pavement, I am hearing the sound of them crunch in snow—the same sound you hear when you chew a mouthful of cereal.

There is a real danger of being kidnapped by memories of Christmas Past: it robs you of your Christmas present and the ability to appreciate the here and the now. Just as Hollywood stars of a certain age look better in soft focus, too much time spent looking in the rear view mirror can give you a false sense of how things really were. I know that and yet the nostalgic warmth that emanates from these houses seems really tangible to me tonight.

We walk past a house with a screened in porch and right at the corner there are a pair of figures from a large molded Nativity scene, but instead of being arranged in the traditional semi-circle around the manger, the figures of Mary and Joseph are right up against the screen looking out toward the street. In this context, without the figures of the Wise Men and the Baby Jesus, the figures look like the expectant children who used to crowd around the Morgan's Department Store window watching the animated holiday window display. They literally have their noses pressed up against the screen in anticipation.

I am struck by this image because it seems to capture my own arrested perspective on Christmas.

Without a doubt, this was my most favorite time of the year and now....

I guess I tend to approach each Christmas with the same ambivalence that I have for my own birthday. There is a hope that is mixed with disappointment; there is fear and anger, there is depression. (I'm not sure that I am not confusing Christmas with New Year's.)

Christmas is a benchmark, a milestone and a goal. “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus,” “All I Want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth,” “I'll Be Home for Christmas”: the notion of comparison and contrast is built right in. “Look what Santa brung me!” “You have to put up the lights, everyone else has theirs up already.”

I suffer by comparison.

I had goals and expectations and each year they seem to be further away, like Santa's sleigh at the end of his hard day's night.

I walk past these windows and see glimpses of the Christmas of my past and I can still feel the scratchiness of the new clothes, smell the aromas of the holiday baking and hear the frantic competition of oneupsmanship in the telling of the horribly corny riddles from the Christmas crackers. It calls to me like the memory of the ocean's roar trapped in a sea shell.

Ronin and I pass more windows with different degrees of lights and decoration. Many of the major movements in art history are represented in the houses we pass: realism, impressionism, expressionism each are expressed in light and texture, line and color. There are even some nihilists who don't bother decorating.

I write about Christmas because it has the same sort of all and nothing meaning represented by our neighborhood's decorators. It informs where I am by reminding me where I came from and also that another lap around life's racecourse is coming to an end. It's a time to be warmed by the familiarity of “A Charlie Brown Christmas,” mourn losses, and be reminded of victories.

That is Christmas's present to us all.

It's getting darker and I have forgotten to bring my gloves.

We turn the last corner and enter the final stretch of our walk.

Ronin stops, stiffens and, from somewhere deep in his massive chest, a growl begins to form.

He's staring at something but, try as I might, I can't make it out. There's only one street light on this part of the walk and everything beyond its beams is out of focus to my stigmatic eyes.

I hear them before I see them, a trio of deer wander lazily into the light from between a pair of houses.

Ronin barks.

They stop, turn in our direction and then, in a twinkling, they are gone in a flash. They clear the split rail fence that encloses the golf course on our left as it it didn't even occur to them.

The dog stares after them as they disappear into the darkness.

I tighten the lead and pick up the pace. Time to go home and get warm.

Posted by Graham Campbell at 11:31 AM No comments:

 

Originally published by http://notanotherslideshow.blogspot.com/

Silent Night

Thanksgiving morning I went out to get a coffee and drove past some well-insulated souls who were camping out in front of the neighborhood big box electronics store. With their coolers and lawn chairs, thinsulate and sweaters, they were bound and determined to be first in line when the store opened early the following morning.

It's always struck me as strange that we refer to the "official" start of the holiday season as "Black Friday." It's the "most wonderful time of the year" and yet the associations with the Great Depression and its own black weekday are undeniable. (More undeniable when the January credit card statements arrive....) And while I can think of little more intolerable than wading into the shark-infested waters of bargain-hunters hell-bent of finding the perfect holiday gift for their loved ones, I know that there are a great many people who look forward to this experience every year. It has become a holiday tradition right up there with any depicted by Currier and Ives.

I've been thinking a lot about holiday traditions.

It seems like the older we get, the farther we are prepared to go to honor the memory of a Christmas past.

People do things at Christmas that they don't do at any other time of the year: they go to parties, eat strange foods and even watch Hollywood musicals. People make appearances at soup kitchens, nursing homes, churches; they donate money and clothing, go sledding and even sing. And they do things to their homes that they would never do at any other time of the year.

I saw a television special about the "most extreme Christmas houses." They interviewed people around the U.S. who each year install ever more elaborate holiday light shows. Each of the people interviewed talked in terms of the hundreds of thousands of lights they put up and the hundreds of extra dollars in additional electricity they consumed. One man, a law enforcement officer who proudly identified himself as Mr. Christmas, even runs a low power radio station from a closet in his home during Christmas.

It would be easy to default to the bromide that Christmas is for children but, like most things adults say, I think it's more complicated than that. I think adults extend themselves at this time of year as a way of finding their way back to their own Christmas Past.

From my Christmas past, I can remember being excited to go to have my picture taken with Santa. I remember going downtown for the Christmas parade. I remember looking forward to the annual showing of "A Charlie Brown Christmas." And I remember sitting on the floor in the gym in my elementary school and watching "Babes in Toyland" just before the Christmas break. But as I have been thinking about Christmas this year, the dominant image has been surprising in its stillness.

In our living room there was a bay window and window seat and directly across the street there was a very bright streetlight. Each year, when it came time to put up the tree, we would experiment with different locations, but one of the most popular was to center it in the bay window. Lit or unlit, decorated or undecorated, it was thrilling to see a tree standing in the living room framed by the yellow curtains and silhouetted by the light coming through the window from across the street.

The image that I have been carrying this year is from my polo pajama days--I can't remember what year. I do recall waking up way too early and, like Cindy Loo Who, going into the living room just to see what Santa had been up to.

We had apparently been very good that year because in addition to the wrapped gifts that had been there when I went to bed, there were unwrapped gifts from Santa for my brother and sister and me. But what I am remembering is the site of that tree and the light from the street as it bounced off the snowbank and into the living room. The house was still, the scene was magical and like the wrapped packages, the day had promise.

Growing up is a lot like unwrapping those packages: despite wishing and hinting for a Major Matt Mason with jet pack, you never know when you're going to get something practical like socks, or a sweater.

Over the years I have spent quite a few Christmases organizing events for children and generating donations for worthy causes and so by the time that the 25th rolls around, I am pretty Christmassed out. I try to "gear up" for the holidays by playing the holiday music and I really do look forward to watching "White Christmas" every year, but Christmas for me happens late in the evening the night before.

Round about midnight I like to go outside and just listen.

It gets quiet in a way that doesn't happen at any other time of the year. After the last of the retail warriors has hung up their coats, after the kids are in bed, after everything, there is silence. There is no traffic, no car alarms, no dogs barking: it's still. As I listen, I am standing again in the living room of my childhood. All too soon the air will be cut with the sounds of traffic and children, dogs and sirens, but for a couple of hours it really is a silent night.

The escalating chaos of the ever-lengthening holiday season is over. The preparations are as complete as they are going to be and, as the poem says, people are at last able to settle their brains.

It's kind of like when your computer locks up and the only way to move forward is to turn it off and wait a couple of minutes before turning it back on again. In the silence of the Christmas overnight, we are rebooting.

I recently read a news item about research that showed children are innately sociable and helpful to others. As we get older, we learn other behaviors that seem to be driven by our need for protection and self-preservation, but right at the very beginning we seem to have very strong instincts to help other people. That, as adults, we are more likely to manifest these same behaviors at this time of year suggests that we are driven by a spirit from our past.

As our brains are settling and we are reconnecting with our most essential selves, we humans are capable of some remarkable things.

Not a year goes by that someone does not reference the Christmas of 1914 and the 48-hour spontaneous truce that broke out through the trenches. World War I would claim approximately 9 million lives, but for a brief period, the enemies exchanged gifts, shared food and even played soccer. It only happened once, during the War's first Christmas, but it speaks volumes about the difference between our instincts and our learned behaviors.

Out of the silence of the Christmas overnight can come the ideal gift, the ideal moment and even our ideal of who we want to be. I am not a person of faith, but, in my own way, I do recognize this night as being different from every other night and one that is full of promise and for that reason I do look forward to it every year.

--Graham Campbell
Associate Director