The Stories of Christmas

Allen Say's Tree of Cranes, one of my many favorites.

The Christmas season has officially arrived. Thanksgiving leftovers have worn out their midnight snack welcome; our long national Black Friday is in full swing, and the song of conspicuous consumption rings in the crisp, wintery air.  But me, I just want to bury my nose in a book.  Or my pen in a blank journal. Even some store catalogs like American Girl, London Fog, Lands End, have a definite narrative, thematic appeal. The Yule urge, for me -- stronger than ever this year because of all my paper-writing, blogging, the pensive stretches of sabbatical time -- is all about story. I want to read "The Night Before Christmas" in Italian, write vignettes of my own childhood memories, light candles and crack out "Amahl and the Night Visitors," or consider thoughtfully the modern implications of "Away in a manger, no crib for his bed..." Isn’t December, very  naturally, the most literary of months?  Just as the cold and barren outdoors nudge us toward an inner, more communal and introspective pace, so does the year’s end sharpen our urge to think deeply, carefully, about ourselves and each other, with the help of the written word.  And, in need of distraction from the long, descending dark, we escape into a month crafted largely by story.  It has, it seems, ever and everywhere been thus.  The ancient Hindus had Diwali, brightened the frigid night with oil lamps and an epic poem celebrating the joyous homecoming of Lord Rama after 14 years of exile. Romans comforted and diverted themselves with Saturnalia, full of solstice song, silliness and stories of Saturn, the God of Agriculture, who himself returns after annual banishment.  And we have picked and borrowed from the traditions we dismiss as quaintly pagan, to patch together our own mid-winter mythology of cyclical abandonment and reunion, and human victory over celestial darkness .

The Decembers of my childhood were rife with seasonally specialized books and letters, lists and lyrics, poems and promises.  The old favorites were dusted off as my mother plunked down her semi-annual bottle of rye whiskey on the kitchen table and read the words we knew by heart, of The Night Before Christmas, or The Gift of the Magi, waxing fascinatingly philosophical and deliciously, pompously maudlin as she wet her whistle throughout the evening.  At the homes of friends, party-goers were supplied with the words for Christmas carol sing-alongs, which they hummed, then murmured, finally belted as the egg nog was refilled. Of course we kids would write letters to Santa.  These were pored over with the greatest of care, full of avowals of yearlong best behavior, and modestly phrased but coyly acquisitive wish lists for the loot we had come to expect as a rare over-indulgence, our hush booty.  Along with the cookies and milk left for Saint Nick, we wrote more intimate, chatty notes, with tidbits of family news, and friendly thanks, in advance, for his largesse.  On Christmas morning, the three of us took turns reading “Santa’s” jocular, all-knowing response.  There were New Year’s Resolutions on the 31st, with promises, to ourselves only this time, to be better than we knew we’d been cracking ourselves up to be.  It was a season lived in a fiction, with a healthy dose of self-inspection, all supported by a seasonal quaff of affection.

I hope for us all a good, truly peaceful winter. May the month be shaped by the quiet, contemplative urge to think, the joyous urge to regale, and the bright, warm moments to share your thoughts and tales with those you love best. And may you all be gifted with the time and peace to make an honest promise you’ve been good (because goodness know, you have), and a lifelong resolution to be better.  

I wish you a December of story: magical, redemptive, diverting. I'm off to order a moose-hunting vest from Cabelas, stirred by the fantasy, but smug that I will wear it hunting handbag bargains in Rome.

P.S.Here is a link to an interesting Italian take on 'Twas the Night Before Christmas. It's a little jarring at first, but stay with it. Even the subject of Christmas had some grit to deal with -- it's all part of the package.  


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MZON08Ynqt0 

Below is the written Italian translation. Buon Natale!

Notte Prima di Natale ('Twas the Night Before Christmas)

Era la notte prima di Natale e tutta la casa era in silenzio,
nulla si muoveva, neppure un topino.
Le calze, appese in bell'ordine al camino,
aspettavano che Babbo Natale arrivasse.

I bambini rannicchiati al calduccio nei loro lettini
sognavano dolcetti e zuccherini;
La mamma nel suo scialle ed io col mio beretto
stavamo per andare a dormire
quando, dal giardino di fronte alla casa, iunse un rumore
Corsi alla finestra per vedere che cosa fosse successo,
spalancai le imposte e alzai il saliscendi.

La luna sul manto di neve appena caduta
illuminava a giorno ogni cosa
ed io vidi , con mia grande sorpresa,
una slitta in miniatura tirata da ott minuscole renne
e guidata da un piccolo vecchio conducente arzillo e vivace;
capii subito che doveva essere Babbo Natale.

Le renne erano più veloci delle aquile
e lui le incitava chimandole per nome.
"Dai, Saetta! Dai, Ballerino!
Dai, Rampante e Bizzoso!
Su, Cometa! Su, Cupido! Su, Tuono e Tempesta!
Su in cima al portico e su per la parete!
Dai presto, Muovetevi!"

Leggere come foglie portate da un mulinello di vento,
le renne volarono sul tetto della casa,
trainando la slitta piena di giocattoli.

Udii lo scalpiccio degli zoccoli sul tetto,
non feci in tempo a voltarmi che
Babbo Natale venne giù dal camino con un tonfo.
Era tutto vestito di pelliccia, do capo a piedi,
tutto sporco di cenere e fuliggine
con un gran sacco sulle spalle pieno di giocattoli:
sembrava un venditore ambulante
sul punto di mostrate la sua mercanzia!

I suoi occhi come brillavano! Le sue fossette che allegria!
Le guance rubiconde, il naso a ciliegia!
La bocca piccola e buffa arcuata in un sorriso,
la barba bianca come la neve,
aveva in bocca una pipa
è il fumo circondava la sua testa come una ghirlanda.
Il viso era largo e la pancia rotonda
sobbalzava come una ciotola di gelatina quando rideva.
Era paffuto e grassottello, metteva allegria,
e senza volerlo io scoppiai in una risata.
Mi fece un cenno col capo ammiccando
e la mia paura spari,

non disse una parola e tornò al suo lavoro.
Riempì una per una tutte le calze, poi si voltò,
accennò un saluto col capo e sparì su per il camino.
Balzò sulla slitta, diede un fischio alle renn
e volò via veloce come il piumino di un cardo.
Ma prima di sparire dalla mia vista lo udii esclamare:
Buon Natale a tutti e a tutti buona notte!