FIVE DAYS OF CHRISTMAS
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JOY! Five days ago I was driving through Kennebunk when I spotted a group of 20 teenagers with big smiles and audible laughter, ice skates draped over their shoulders as they walked from the high school to the Waterhouse Center on Main Street. Instead of an indoor gym class, their teacher suggested the students spend an hour skating on the open- sided 100' x 120’ skating rink in the heart of this picturesque New England village. Norman Rockwell would have leapt for his paintbrush if he’d witnessed this joyful tableau.
NOSTALGIA. After driving through the E-Z Pass gate on the Maine Turnpike heading to Portland, I boosted the sound on my XM radio to sing along with “Hark! the Herald Angel Sing.” And yes, immediate and unstoppable tears. Plus the etched memory of a Christmas Eve service 75 years ago at the Methodist church in Central Valley, New York, 50 miles north of New York City. Bookended by our parents, my two brothers and sister and I fidgeted nonstop in the pew, carefully holding white candles while awaiting that special part of the service when the overhead lights dimmed, the choir sang “Silent Night,” and the minister lit our candles. I don’t recall what I ate for dinner two nights ago but that Christmas Eve service remains crystal clear today. Where did the years go?
A WINK. Another day, I stopped in to visit my dear friend Ellen Fagan who’s about to turn 100. The gracious lady was dressed in a bright red Talbot’s top and black-and-white check slacks, crowned with her enviable mane of thick white wavy hair. While we sat and chatted, the doorbell rang announcing the arrival of a workman to tune-up the furnace on her first floor. He took a long look at the rusty grey behemoth and said, “This thing is really old.” Ellen asked, “How much longer will it last?” He answered, “Maybe a year or two.” “Okay,” she said, “that’ll work.” And then she winked at me.
MEMORIES. My brother Robert texted a photo of his seven-month-old granddaughter Wells two days ago. “Guess who’s coming for Christmas!” the 83-year-old first-time grandfather asked. I thought back to when eight-month-old Max, now nearly 22, flew east from San Francisco with my daughter Alex and son-in-law Tim for Christmas in snowy Kennebunk. He arrived in a fuzzy red onesie, his cheeks the size and color of Macintosh apples. Alex announced that Max was just starting solid foods, then handed me a jar of Gerber’s mashed carrots and asked, “Mom, would you like to give Max his very first bite of vegetables?” There’s nothing sweeter — or more memorable — than a fat little baby at Christmas.
THOUGHTFUL. Yesterday, I opened a Christmas card from Lindsay Knowlton, a Skidmore classmate from the early 1960s. She wrote, “Val, have a wonderful holiday and, if you’re looking for a good read, get LAST OF THE DONKEY PILGRIMS: A Man’s Journey Through Ireland by Kevin O’Hara.” Lindsay had never recommended a book to me before so I sensed this must be a good one, and ordered it immediately from Amazon. It’s delightful. I’m smiling and laughing while reading this charming autobiographical tale of a young man who, with his cantankerous donkey named Missie, spends nine months traveling the 1800-mile perimeter of Ireland using only his legs, the donkey and the cart for transportation. It’s witty and wise, replete with amusing locals and sagas of the Old Sod, a perfect fireside December read, especially for someone who adores anything Irish.
May your Christmas week be equally joyful, nostalgic, “winky,” memorable and thoughtful! Tis the season.
