I had meant to tell you about Southern Christmases. I thought I would begin by saying the men spent the morning with their wives and the afternoon with their mistresses. But that was later, after we were corrupted by prosperity. Instead, I decided to tell about a Christmas that was long ago, in a time of innocence and war.
Christmases everywhere and in all times are fraught with danger and with sadness. It is the winter equinox. The festivals of all cultures at this time of year are meant to bring light to the darkness of winter. This is what the Jesus story is all about. The birth of hope. If winter comes, can spring be far behind? Or, as the poet Wallace Stevens wrote, “One must have a mind of winter to regard the frost and the boughs of the pine-trees crusted with snow … and not to think of any misery in the sound of the wind….”
I have always had a mind of winter. I have always looked askance at the efforts people make to cheer themselves up. I think this is because I loved the preparations for Christmas so much, when I was a child, that the letdown, by Edward Albee, let us say. We would build a fabulous set, rehearse the play 40 times, perform it 10 times, then it would all be over. The curtain would fall, the audience would go home, we would read the reviews, fini.
