Christmas thoughts

The sun is shining, the grass is green,

the orange and palm trees sway.

There's never been such a day

in Beverly Hills, L.A.

But it's December the twenty fourth,

and I am longing to be up north.

Not everyone knows this introduction to “White Christmas,” probably the most popular holiday tune of all. Bing Crosby didn’t sing it in his classic version and many others don’t either. To me, it’s essential, as it sets up the whole song.

I AM up north but I too can only dream of a white Christmas. Temperatures are in the 50s here in New Haven and while the grass is no longer green, it isn’t painted white either, and there’s little hope it will be.

It’s a low-key Christmas; I’ve been unable to cut a live tree, so there’s a small artificial one on the coffee table. Likewise the knee has kept me from climbing a ladder to put candles in the windows or hang the large wreath on the front of the house. But the usual ornaments float over the dining room table (above), which is laden with gifts, candles and reindeer.

I didn’t grow up with a lot of Christmas traditions. Some years we went to midnight mass, some years we didn’t; often we opened presents on Christmas eve; just as often it was Christmas morning; the tree had icicles or it didn’t; angel hair or not. I remember driving around Richmond singing carols, looking at house lights, but I think that happened only once. Likewise I participated in a community Christmas pageant -- once.

As an adult I had a Christmas Eve party several years in a row. It was during my touchy-feely Education of Self days and so at some point in the evening we’d gather in a circle on the floor and take turns reading “The Velveteen Rabbit.” One of my more cynical friends was overheard telling his date they’d better leave “before Walter brings out that damn bunny book.” (Wait; there was someone more cynical than I?)

Ransom spent our first Christmas together sick in bed. Of the twenty-four since, he’s often been sick. We kid that he’s allergic to Christmas but the truth is more likely that his body, having been pushed constantly for months, finally rebels when things slow down over the holidays. Most Christmas Days we exchange presents, take the dogs for a long walk in the woods and prepare a special meal.

In 2001 I returned to the church and to midnight mass; I loved it for several years. Trinity Church on the Green, New Haven, is well known for the quality of its music, which never shines more brightly as it does on this night: both the Choir of Men and Boys AND the Choir of Men and Girls sing. I haven’t been for two years and will likely not go this year, but I cherish the memory.

I think Christmas is largely for kids, and for old people who remember the thrill of being a kid at Christmas. I’m becoming more and more solidly in the latter group. It’s also a time for curmudgeons to shed their crusty skin a bit, as proven by the picture below.

As he has for maybe 30 years, this little fella tops my tree.