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WINTER
1999 George Crispin
Woodbury MM
The wind slanted across the afternoon bending the trees against the horizon. The steel gray sky looked down as if in warning, and the air was possessed of a chill that for the first time suggested an overcoat. The last of the geese wedged their way southward. Storm doors were going up. Wood was being split. Antifreeze was being checked. It was now December.
In my neighborhood, the first sign of Christmas, aside from the all-too-early advertising done in store fronts, is a series of winter candlelight tours held in our, and nearby, towns. Families and businesses open their doors to those willing to don coat and scarf and buy a ticket, the proceeds going to the local historical society. Street and stores are bright, front porch lights are turned on, and the town crier strides through town, bell in hand.
It was with this anticipation in mind, and memories of past candlelight tours, that I bought enough tickets for my immediate family and a few friends, all to gather at our home for the candlelight walk. Once assembled, wrapped in winter garb, off we went for a short drive to town, to park in the local Quaker meetinghouse lot, then debark for our winter stroll.
The Christmas spirit caressed the evening. People seemed to walk faster than usual, perhaps to get ahead of the cold, and a smile appeared to be on every face. From down the street came a tractor-pulled flatbed, and aboard it a brass band played music for the season. In the distance could be heard the giggling of children, and farther off the town crier lending assurance that all was well. In back of a row of Victorian houses glowed the campfires of an encampment of Civil War soldiers reenacting the vigilance of their ancestors. A high school choral group strolled by singing. A horse-drawn carriage darted by, hooves resounding on a surface made for cars. Lines standing before the doors of homes on the tours shivered silently in the dark amid quiet conversation and intermittent laughter.
The first house entered was a colonial dwelling, authentically refurbished by its owner, replete with the scraping of several layers of paint and an old staircase banister restored to its original position. In the air the scent of cinnamon and spice teased our noses, as soft chimes emanated from an unknown source. The owners were an elderly couple whose grandchildren looked on from afar. They were dressed in what reflected the apparel of a couple two hundred years ago. A brass kettle hung from the fireplace, wooden spoons graced the kitchen counter. Questions were asked.
"How long have you lived here?” asked one. “What condition was the house when you moved in?” inquired another. “Are those the original cabinets?” And so we moved from room to room, then out the back door into the now colder night.
The next house was built one hundred years later than the first, and because of that seemed more real. The dwellers wore no garb of the era, but were no less proud of their home nor welcoming of their momentary guests. Along the sofa were dolls of the 1890s, given to the owner’s grandmother in that very house at Christmas long ago. The lace was fragile, past washing we were told. Upstairs in the roped-off bedroom was an opened trunk at the end of a bed, across it a wedding dress belonging to that same grandmother. A quilt she had made as a young wife when our nation was acquiring its first automobile nestled the bed. In the study lay letters from a brother, dated 1917, from France during the Great War. Along the wall hung ice skates from the century’s turn, the kind that strap onto shoes, and a tennis racket, more a circle than oval, made of wood.
The shops were a veritable cacaphony of smells, sounds, and sights of the Christmas that was to come and memorabilia from the past. The bank had ancient paper weights, the camera shop antique trains, the jewelry store displayed brooches from past ages. The Methodist church held an organ concert, the Presbyterians had a choir recital, the Quakers a string quartet, the Baptists hosted with cookies and wassail.
Thus it was, one after another, we were invited out of the dark and the cold into the homes and hospitality of our neighbors sharing the anticipation of the coming Christmas, beckoning our seasonal reaffirmation of community.
No matter how delightful these Christmas candlelight tours are, the trip home after two hours of standing and walking is, indeed, welcomed. Home and hearth, warmth and bed, beckoned. We pulled into our long driveway, wound our way to the door, and, with a last rush of urges, aimed for the door. It was then, in that last bit of evening that had given us so much, that it caught my eye. The bright moon shone overhead, and in a straight line, four bright, clearly visible planets glistened. They were pearls lined perfectly on a string, sparkling, dazzling, brilliant. Then I remembered. This was one of the few times during the decade the planets would be aligned. In a moment of rare clarity — or was it inspiration? — I hurried into the house to get the binoculars. It was only then that I saw one of the most rare and beautiful sights. Now not four, but eight crystalline spheres glittered in the night, casting their light into the vastness of space, reaching my eye faster than anything known in the universe. It was at once a great source of spectacular beauty and scientific wonder. A gift. A string of pearls.
I called the others, and we stood a long time looking into the night sky. Our necks grew stiff. We shivered in the stillness as the cold closed in upon us.
I have thought about it many times since. We are given gifts in life, and they are all around us. Yet it is not until we slow down our pace and gather unto us the resources for a longer vision that we see our “string of pearls.” Meeting for worship is like that. We slow our pace, look within, and from that vantage take the longer look at life. It is from there that we see that the homes into which we have been invited, the smiles on the faces as we pass in the darkness, the bright sights, and the sounds, and the smells of the coming season are all pearls on a string, that precious string of community that connects us. It is when we are quiet and have our inner binoculars rendering the long view amidst the inner reflections of life that we see our “string of pearls.”
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Last modified:
Wednesday, February 18, 2004 at 08:19 AM
