An Elusive Spirit

Scenes from "A Christmas Memory" starring Geraldine Page and Donnie Melvin.
Based upon the short story by Truman Capote

I am beginning to feel the spirit.

I finished a presentation of “Messiah” of Handel last week and now I am enjoying the smell of scented candles and debating the pros and cons of “real vs. fake” holiday trees. The Senate has even given the country some good legislation with the help of some Republicans who have the spirit. John Boehner keeps crying and now it seems that Mitch is joining in as well. Is this a new tradition?

We don’t need Tevye to convince us of the value of tradition.

In my “elder” state, I find myself more and more passionate about making certain that traditions are remembered, maintained, and in some instances reborn. Especially those family customs around the warm and fuzzy celebrations like Thanksgiving and Christmas.

So, I am doing a lot of remembering.

My father was a shaker. No, not of the religious sect. I think he loved his Browning “Sweet 16” with the gold trigger too much for that. No, he was a package shaker. Each day, from the first appearance of brightly-wrapped, ribboned gifts under our Christmas tree, he would investigate each package. He would pick them up, examine the name tag, pausing at each and then shake them – his ear close to the side of the parcel to see if he could elicit information from the resulting sounds. It didn’t matter that he had done this same act the day before and no new parcels had been added. He was hopeful that perhaps a better clue would emerge if he shook it again. Sometimes he imagined he heard something informative, because you would see a wry smile appear.

Around December 20^th, a new tactic surfaced.

As our family sat around the breakfast table – by this time, school was on Christmas break, so there was no early morning rush to hamper the gathering of us all – he would get a gleam in his eye and say, “Don’t you think it would be ok if we opened just one present today?”

Mom would resist.

“Just one, maybe a small one?”

Of course, my sister and I would agree with him. We were also shakers.

After serious cajoling, Mom would reluctantly agree with the provision that she would select which package it was to be. Her choices would usually produce socks and underwear. The exciting stuff!

I don’t have any memories of particular treasures from these pre-emptive strikes. I do remember that by Christmas Eve, when we traditionally opened the gifts, there were sparse offerings since there had been a five-day assault on the booty.

Once this seemed to be an ongoing problem, gifts would appear under the tree without any name tags. This was a disaster since people forgot which belonged to whom and Dad wound up with a new cap pistol and I got a pipe. In later years, presents seemed to appear later and later in the season. It was the “out of sight, out of mind” defense.

I remember the tradition of my mother’s baking holiday treats.

There was always hot chocolate each morning during Christmas vacation. We had it in January and February too, but I remember it most at Christmas. It may have to do with the fact that there was a ritual of leaving a cup of hot chocolate and a specially selected Christmas cookie for Santa Claus. My sister would also leave a note for Santa which, in the years after I was a “non-believer” I had the job of answering.

She would dictate the note to one of the parents, later on she would write it herself. Those she produced alone contained endless questions which a large man in a red suit had scant time to deal with. “How do you keep from tracking soot in our living room?” “Where do you use the bathroom?”

On Christmas Day, she seemed more interested in his answers than in what he brought. So answers had to be provided.

It seemed that my penmanship was closer akin to a tired old man who had struggled down the chimney. Seeking authenticity, I even would rub lead from the pencil on my hands so that my fingertips appeared to leave soot on the hastily composed reply. I think that I told her that I always used the bathroom before I left the North Pole. The bonus for all this intrigue was I also got the cup of chocolate milk and the cookie.

Now, a word of warning.

If you have a tradition of opening your gifts on Christmas Eve – which we did, and Santa no longer calls on the household because there are no “believers” left to anticipate rooftop reindeer in the middle of the night – which happened around the time my sister was eleven, then Christmas Day can be a real let down.

My three-year old in Texas - the redhead - has let it be known that Santa Claus is not welcome inside her house. Mrs. Claus, yes, but the old guy - a very explicit, emphatic "NO!" She offers no reason behind her banishment. But, keep in mind, she rarely offers reasons for most things she decides - including her preference for "raw" oatmeal rather than cooked. Her current disfavor of Mr. Claus means there will be no photo sitting on his lap.

I wonder if this means I may have to shave my beard?

My favorite aunt, the wife of my father's oldest brother, had the tradition of always sending cards belatedly. She did this on purpose and the card always attested to the fact that it was late. We grew to expect it. She never forgot a birthday or Christmas, but she always came in after the fact.

My paternal grandfather was also a "traditionalist."

This was a man who was fairly well-off. He owned major farmland, had a logging business, owned vast amounts of cattle, and produced large quantities of cotton each year. Yet, each Christmas I received the same gift. He would send $2.00 to be distributed between my father, my mother, my sister and me. I will say that when I married, he upped the ante to $3.00 to be shared by the happy couple. It amounted to a 300% escalation.

My sister, the “note writer,” would always send our grandfather a thank you letter. The last line of which usually said, “I put my money into my savings, Joe spent his.”

Sometimes, you just can’t win.

Alabama was a difficult state for those who enjoyed the tradition of finding their joy in a bottle of Christmas cheer. Remember, there are a lot of Baptists in Alabama. In order to have beer, wine, or the stronger stuff, it had to be purchased at the “State Store” in Birmingham. Now, my father was not a connoisseur of fine wine. On the contrary, he preferred his on the kosher side. So each Christmas, a bottle of Manischewitz or Mogan David would appear in the back of the pantry. Along with that purchase, my mom would order a bottle of stronger spirits to be used to “season” her annual batch of fruitcakes. Sometimes there was more “seasoning” than others which mean a second trip to the State Store.

There is a wonderful little folk-song, I think called “The Song of The Salvation Army.” I know of only two verses:

We never eat cookies because they have yeast
And one little bite turns a man to a beast.
Oh, can you imagine a sadder disgrace,
Than a man in the gutter with crumbs on his face?

We never eat fruitcake because it has rum,
And one little bite turns a man to a bum!
Oh, can you imagine a sorrier sight
Than a man eating fruitcake until he gets tight?

The Missionary Circle at the Baptist Church had to lay down some strict
bylaws around the holidays because Mabel Walker’s famous “Lane Cake”
seemed to have a bit too much “lane.”  Seasoned with brandy, Mabel was
generous to a fault with her portions.  It was becoming difficult to
concentrate on the children in China!

Christmas cakes always remind me of the wonderful film based upon “A
Christmas Memory” by Truman Capote.  

Narrated by Capote, himself, it was made by Frank Perry and starred
Geraldine Page.  The story is autobiographical and looks at a time in
Capote’s childhood when he lived with relatives in Monroeville, Alabama.  
This, of course, is also the same timeline found in Harper Lee's "To Kill A
Mockingbird." Geraldine Page plays his cousin, his best friend and the
buffer between him and stern aunts.  

One crisp Alabama morning, the cousin awakens “Buddy” to announce
excitedly, “It’s fruitcake weather.”  It is time to prepare their annual
batch of cakes to be mailed to people they know or have merely heard
of.  President Roosevelt will be sent one. Pennies that they have saved
must be counted so that ingredients may be purchased. This means
they must gather pecans in a neighboring grove and face the fearsome
“Mr. Ha Ha Jones” to purchase the whiskey to cure the cakes.  Beyond
the kitchen door, the others are unsympathetic to their excitement.  

The film is a beautiful look at friendship and care.  There is a newer
version which stars Patty Duke.  Sorry, she cannot hold a candle to
Geraldine Page who cornered the market on askew southern women.

I saw Page in a Broadway revival of Noel Coward’s Blithe Spirit just
weeks before her death. She played the physic medium Madame Arcati.
Richard Chamberlain, Blythe Danner, and Judith Ivey rounded out the
cast. 

For me, a tradition is to watch “A Christmas Memory” at some point
during the holidays.  For others, there is the Frank Capra route.

When I married, I encountered a new set of traditions.  These had to be
considered and carefully merged into those of my past.  Now, my children,
both married with kids – “The Little People” – are beginning their own.

I have given Advent Calendars to both families – those in Texas and
those in Florida.  It is a wish on my part to make the road to Christmas
about the important values rather than those touted by Neiman’s and
Nordstrom. The calendar has 24 numbered books of about 4 pages. 
Starting the first day of December, a book is read each day until the
Eve when the Christchild arrives.  

The calendar seems to be a hit.  My grandson has been telling me about
the “Land of Judy.”  (Judea?)  However, he insists that the angels are
“tooth fairies.”

I journey down to Alabama and onto Florida next week.  I will spend
some time at my home and then go on to visit with my son and his family
in Florida. I am taking with me a DVD of Capote’s “A Christmas Memory”
in the hope that I can pass along a tradition.

Maybe I should order a Claxton.