Christmas at Stillmeadow by Gladys Taber

I enjoy reading Gladys Taber’s accounts of Christmases past, and today I am sharing some of her excerpts. As I reflect on the stillness of the Christmas season, here are a few of my favorites by Taber: 

We always think of Christmas as a time of snow and icicles hanging from the old well and snow over the valley. But I had a friend who was newly married and went to live in the tropics. She felt sorry for herself as Christmas drew near. She wept. And then her husband brought in some tropical flowers, to decorate the house, he said. And it came to her suddenly that Christmas was not a place, nor was it weather, it was a state of mind. After all, she thought, Christ was not born in the North, he was born in a stable in Bethlehem. And so she got a small palm tree and put flowers on the flat leaves, and was gay and merry. It was, she said, one of the best Christmases ever, although they afterward moved back to New England where the snow fell and the pine trees were silvered.

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It is certainly true that Christmas is only seasonal in the heart. The snow may be clean and deep outside, or you may be in a dingy city apartment, or you may be in a steaming tropical country. But it is still Christmas. Whether you serve the plump crispy turkey, or something exotic wrapped in pandanus leaves, the feeling of Christmas is there. It is in the mind and in the heart. The faith we have in the good rises like a tide and wherever we are, we feel it. Christmas graces any board and gives a new lift to our life, and as we hear on ce more the familiar carols, we thank God for the birth of His son. “O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie – Above thy deep and dreamless streets the silent stars go by.”

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As always when the old house creaks into quietly, I snuff the Christmas candles and check to be sure nobody has left a turkey bone where the Irish could get it. The colored ribbons and tissues are swept up, the fire has died down, and I let the cockers and Irish out for a last run in the new-fallen snow. They take nips of it, roll in it.

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And now, as always, I have a special reunion with my Honey, a golden cocker who died a time ago. I hear her paws softly padding beside me as I put the house to bed. I can see her golden feather of tail wagging happily. Some might say this is foolish for she was, after all, only a dog, and she is dead. But the fourteen years of love and loyalty she gave me are very much alive as I say, “Good night, Honey.”

The house talks, as old houses do. A beam settles. A chair rocks. A floor creaks with unseen footsteps. I like this, for it reminds me of all the lives that have been lived under this roof, and I feel their friendly presence as I poke the embers. Christmas is over. It is time to burn the wrappings, write the thank you notes, return the calls, set the house in ourder for the New Year. It is also time to consider where our lives are bound, what purpose steadies our course. How much have we helped our fellow men this year, and what good have we accomplished? Has the world been better because we were in it? If Christmas means anything, it means good will to all. I doubt manuy of us truly live up to that, but we can try again.

As I let the dogs back in, I smell the snow. The walk is silver, the picket fence wears pointed caps. Night herself is luminous with the falling snow. A flurry comes in with the dogs and melts on the wide floorboards. No two snowflakes, I am told, are exactly alike and this is a mystery. Now the intricate shapes are gone, and only a spot of water remains. It is not very practical to stand in the open door at midnight to let the snow blow in. But is has been my habit for years to close Christmas day just so, sending my blessing out to all the people in the world, those I know well and love greatly, and those I shall never see. And as I close the door, I repeat again my Christmas blessing. “God rest you merry, gentlemen.”