Christomas Stories

This week I have been working in London and Milan. For the many years I have been traveling to London my point of orientation, always, is Hatchards on Piccadilly, one of the oldest of the many bookshops in London, founded in 1797.  There are several floors of books and there is usually one book, often more, that I cannot resist.  This visit it was an anthology entitled Christmas Stories, edited by Diana Seckler Tesdell, an Everyman’s Pocket Classics published by Alfred A. Knopf.

Probably the most classic Christmas story is Charles Dicken’s “A Christmas Carol”, followed by
Clement Clarke Moore’s Christmas poem,  “Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. …”, traditionally read in American homes on Christmas Eve. Neither is included in Christmas Stories. Some of the short works are written by authors one wouldn’t necessarily associate with Christmas – Anton Chekhov, Saki (H.H. Munro) and Arthur Conan Doyle.

Truman Capote’s story  “A Christmas Memory” which is becoming a classic is included. Willa Catha writes of a homeless son being reunited with his natural mother in a tale of redemption in “The Burglar’s Christmas”. Leo Tolstoy’s story, “Where Love is, God is” is based on a cobbler who believes the Saviour has entered his life because, “I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat; I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink; I was a stranger, anad ye took me in.”

There are no Santa Claus’ and stockings hanging from the mantle in these stories and as I read through them, one after the other, while riding high speed trains, waiting in airport lounges or wending my way through the bowels of the London Underground, I recognized the poignancy, points of empathy, regret and loneliness that threaded through many of the texts.

I began to reflect on Christmas.    What were the special memories that could form a narrative and become Christmas stories in my life?

The first thought that came to mind is how magical Christmas morning can be for children, when disbelief is temporarily suspended.  I vividly recall running down the stairs from our bedrooms on Christmas morning and feeling a sense of awe at the number of packages that spread out from the tree and spilled into the room.  A drum set, an electric submarine, a beautiful Alexander doll in a pink medal case and even a walking plastic Mr. Machine.

Just as vivid is the recollection of the Christmas we helped another family who, because of difficult circumstances, couldn’t celebrate Christmas one year.  Our family joined with others to make theirs special bringing gifts and baskets of food to their small home. This helped us recognize that Christmas Joy emanates from thinking more about the gifts one gives to others and not just focusing on our own Christmas wish lists.

There were the Christmas festivities that were over shadowed with sadness after the death of someone I loved. There were Christmases spent in New York City and Washington that didn’t have the same traditions as those spent in New Hampshire, but have left special memories of the Nutcracker at Lincoln Center, an elegant Christmas dinner at the Plaza Hotel overlooking Central Park and Christmas at the National Cathedral.

My visit to Milan and Bologna was short and there wasn’t time to visit the beautifully decorated shops or to attend an opera. In the Piazza del Duomo, the main city square in Milan, there is an enormous Christmas tree decorated with gold balls and white lights that stands in contrast to the historic, century old buildings that surround the square. It was visible through a dense gray fog as we were having dinner.  Because it was a holiday weekend in Italy last week there were lots of people shopping and gathering in café’s for coffee and biscotti.

The Italians celebrate Christmas with food and there is nothing as sweet as a piece of Panettone, that literally melts in your mouth, or being served a bowl of tortellini, in a delicately light broth, for dinner in Bologna, as that is where tortellini originated.

As I traveled I observed people enjoying the Christmas season; filling pubs in London for a festive holiday lunch of roast meat and potatoes, followed by mince pies and Christmas cake or carrying large shopping sacks filled with gifts.   With each person who caught my eye I knew there was a story.   Of forgiveness, happiness, a lost love, a cherished moment, hope, or perhaps, regret. Yes, Christmas is, after all, a story. A story about a birth in a manger, shepherds, sheep, wise men and a brilliant star high in the dark night sky.  What is your Christmas story?