Christmas Magic

When our sons were young, we took them to the Portland Symphony Orchestra’s performance of the Magic of Christmas a few times.  We dressed them up, brought them downtown in the evening’s cold of December to see the holiday decorations and the enormous tree in Monument Square, and held their hands in Merrill Auditorium while watching and listening.  My older son said he has no recollection.

“None?”  I ask.  “The Symphony’s music?  The crazy hats and reindeer antlers they wore while playing Sleigh Ride?  The 4-year old ballet dancers in leotards that brought out Santa’s sleigh at the end?  (There is nothing cuter than 4-year old ballet dancers with little buns in their hair!)  Really?  Nothing?”  I was incredulous.

“Nope,” he replied.  “I can’t remember everything.”

I can’t remember everything?  Now that my sons are grown, since they can’t remember everything, I can only hope they remember the good feelings that the things we did for them brought in that moment so many years ago.  If they don’t remember the actual events, I can only hope they remember the feeling.

Frank and I went to the Magic of Christmas with our friends this year.  How the show has changed!  Now it included the Windham Chamber Singers and an incredible illusionist.  We had attended the Deering High School Christmas Concert earlier in the week which we think is just about the best thing….but when the PSO began to play, it took my breath away.  Yes, they’re a lot different than high school.  Hearing live classical music by talented musicians, especially Christmas music, transports me to a place far, far away.  It can bring me to tears. 

This year felt different to me, in a positive way.  Maybe it’s my increased gratefulness of all things as I age; maybe it’s appreciating more what others bring to our society by means of beauty, color, music, warmth; maybe it’s my increased understanding of what community means. 

When conductor Robert Moody paused to give tribute to the recent shooting of an elementary school in Newtown, Connecticut and then said let us be the light, I could feel that the audience already held that thought before he even said it.  I could feel such a sense from the audience of happiness to be right there, in such a beautiful, historical arena, among the people of their community at this most blessed time of year. 

Collectively, the entire auditorium sang, laughed, clapped, paused amongst the bustle of our holidays for a few hours in the dark letting ourselves be swept away and dazzled.  The audience was magical that night.  Truly, I could feel the positive energy all around me.  Whatever we each brought to that auditorium to make us magic can only come from good; it can only come from letting us be the light.  

Photo: courtesy of Frank Kalicky

Struggling

I had change and a $20 bill in my pocketbook.  I was busy, running errands on a vacation day one morning, stopped at a light in Deering Oaks.  Only one other time have I given money to someone on the street corner, but in that moment, on that busy Friday before Christmas, the man and his sign brought me to tears, and I handed him the $20.  

Lots of forces came into play that morning.  

I’m troubled by the increase in people of all ages begging for money on Portland’s streets.  Each afternoon when I get coffee at Arabica, I pass the same man on our street corner.  My colleague gives him $1 regularly.  I was waiting for my $4 coffee to be made one afternoon when my colleague had a day off from work.  That man was leaving Arabica, not with a cup of hot coffee, but having used their restroom.  He emptied his paper cup’s change into the tip jar for the baristas.  I was awestruck.  I asked the workers about it and they said, “Oh, yeah.  He does that.  We’re good to him.  He comes in to get warm and use the restroom.”  I was so touched that he would give to THEM what he had, and I texted my colleague at home to tell her that her gift to him was the right thing to do.

The one time I tried to give a man $5 as I waited to turn left at a busy intersection in Westbook, I felt awkward rolling down my window and making him come to me for the cash, but I was in four lanes of traffic ready to pounce as soon as the light turned green.  I held out the bill…and then saw, the man could barely walk.  It was incredibly sad to see him stumble his way toward me and I leaped out of the car with complete disregard for the other drivers.  I was saddened beyond belief. 

And now for the tears last Friday.  My sister recently lost her job.  She’s a single mother of two autistic daughters.  I’ve never seen her cry.  I’ve never heard her say, “Why me?”  Kiddingly, over our family Christmas party, she said someone had stolen her schtick.  She thought she’d be a novelty standing on a street corner having never relied on welfare, having worked her entire life, well dressed, with a home…but definitely in need of cash very soon if a job wasn’t procured.  And lo & behold, she saw just that person on a corner in her hometown in New Hampshire – not a homeless man, but you or me (or her) standing begging.

It was this that I thought of when I looked at this man in Deering Oaks who looked like he could have been one of my friends, not someone who lived out in the elements.  His sign said 3 KIDS, NEVER TAKEN STATE AID… and on the back NOT 4 BEER.  

I can’t help but wonder how low a person must have to get to stand on a street corner in his town in the cold and beg for money.  Don’t say they’re lazy.  Standing there in that most vulnerable way must be the hardest work someone could ever do.  

Small Towns

There’s a lot to be said for the people living in small towns.  It has taken until midlife for me to fully appreciate how fortunate I’ve been to grow up and remain in a small town where so many people know each other, know a friend of a friend, know my history and lots of my fun stories from the past, and know my face.

Having begun dating my husband in middle school and now married 26 years, I am not unusual in my small town.  Most of our friends have dated nearly as long and have been married even longer.  It’s commonplace.

There’s a sense of acceptance, community, and a deep stability to people who stay in their small towns.  So many of these people I know in my town are “family folks” talking highly of their family’s traditions and their upbringing – the good and the bad with equal acceptance of what is. 

When I sit around friends’ dinner tables, sharing a home cooked meal, a green salad, a baked dessert and listen to the conversation, I can’t help but feel grateful and in admiration of these hard working, good souls.  They’re no nonsense.  They work, raise children with an honest depth of character, they plan family meals, they budget and scrimp pennies.  We talk about where to get good deals, the changing color of leaves and the turning to fall once again, about our kids, our parents, our successes, and our failures. 

I raise a toast to all my neighbors and friends in my small town.  You make my life rich with your presence, your conversation, your friendship.  You make me proud of where I’m from and so proud to be associated with you.

Photo:  Prouts Neck, Maine

Pretty

My estranged real father made me feel that I was pretty.  He teared up when looking at me in a  party dress, in a wedding dress, in jeans sitting on his couch.  My husband has always made me feel that I am pretty (short hair, long hair, weight up, weight down).  Perhaps that’s why I married him.  My Aunt Georgia, who embodies femininity, fun and prettiness has a way of making me feel, and actually wanting to be, pretty.  She makes me feel that pretty is fun.   

I could stop right there.  I’ve been blessed in my life with these three making me feel so wonderful – who could ask for more than that?

This is all rather odd to me though as I don’t think much about pretty.  I’m definitely a girly-girl, but I’ve never been a princess or a diva or had my looks be my most defining characteristic.  (I can only hope my smile has been my defining feature.)  

I do always wear make-up which I can apply in five minutes flat at the age of fifty.  I can get ready for an evening out in 10 minutes - high maintenance I'm not.  I’ve told friends that I wear lipstick not just as a beauty statement, but because my lips become too dry and chapped if I don’t.

But I write about pretty with really such a different meaning.  Pretty is in the eye of the beholder ….with a deeper connection than physical appearance.  Others looking at us are much less critical and far more appreciative than when we look at ourselves.  

Sometimes, it’s the special moments in our lives – the dinner at a beautiful restaurant, the evening out at a show or concert, the candlelight and conversation when it’s not forced or rushed – that exemplify life itself.  It’s these special highlights that we sometimes call upon in hard times or angry times to keep things in perspective and try to see the positive.  

When I, for just a moment now and then, feel pretty and looked at fondly by someone I love, I can feel a little taste of the elixir of life itself and all seems good.  And it has nothing to do really with how I look; it's how it makes me feel.  

It’s our sparkle and our attitude that will impact others.