Memories reside in the eyes, yes, and
also in the nose, from which they are awakened by sights and smells. But
ears hold memories as well, memories stirred by the special songs, both
secular and sacred, of this festive season. Stirred by the staccato
crackling of a roaring wood fire. Stirred by the crunch of late autumn�s
laggard leaves underfoot. And stirred by the animated conversations of newly
arrived company bustling breathless and chilled into a warm holiday
gathering.
During this season, holiday memories can
be revived even (perhaps especially) by the blessed quiet of midnight�s
approach, the room dark but for the glowing tree, the noisy wood fire now
but a steady hiss, and the day�s (nearly the year�s) work done ... These
are some of the sounds that mark and memorialize this season of contrasts:
when the sacred and the silly, the sublime and the superficial, the faithful
and the frenzied all jumble together in the mind and the heart and the
popular imagination.
We at Cooperative Living wish for you
the very best holiday season ever, from Thanksgiving through New Year�s
Day, and we offer herewith our annual gift: a selection of some of our favor�ite
passages from much-loved written works.
Late November brings an end to
full-fledged Autumn. The lasting warmth, the balmy days, the hazy in-between
time, seldom endure much beyond Thanksgiving. Then it is that the pines and
hemlocks stand out in cold-season strength of green; then the white reach of
the birches is clear and clean against the sky ... The season changes so
slowly that I must pause and listen to hear the silence. Autumn creeps away
in sandals woven of milkweed floss; Winter makes no noise until it owns the
land.
� Hal Borland, This Hill, This Valley,
1957.
�I knew it before I got out of bed,�
she says, turning away from the window with a purposeful excitement in her
eyes. �The courthouse bell sounded so cold and clear. And there were no
birds singing; they�ve gone to warmer country, yes indeed. Oh, Buddy, stop
stuffing biscuit and fetch our buggy. Help me find my hat. We�ve thirty
cakes to bake.�
It�s always the same: a morning
arrives in November, and my friend, as though officially inaugurating the
Christmas time of year that exhilarates her imagination and fuels the blaze
of her heart, announces: �It�s fruitcake weather! Fetch our buggy. Help
me find my hat.�
� Truman Capote, �A Christmas
Memory,� from Selected Writings of Truman Capote, 1956.
If you want to have a Christmas like the
one we had on Paradise Farm when I was a boy, you will have to hunt up a
salt-water farm on the Maine coast, with bays on both sides of it, and a
road that goes around all sorts of bays, up over Misery Hill and down, and
through the fir trees so close together that they brush you and your horse
on both cheeks. That is the only kind of place a Christmas like that grows
...
And you really should cross over at
least one broad bay on the ice, and feel the tide rifts bounce you as the
runners slide over them. And if the whole bay booms out, every now and then,
and the sound echoes around the wooded islands for miles, you will be having
the sort of ride we loved to take from town, the night before Christmas.
� Robert P. Tristram Coffin,
�Christmas in
Maine
,� 1935, 1941.
The miracle of Christmas is that, like
the distant and very musical voice of the hound, it penetrates finally and
becomes heard in the heart � over so many years, through so many cheap
curtain-raisers. It is not destroyed even by all the arts and craftiness of
the destroyers, having an essential simplicity that is everlasting and
triumphant, at the end of confusion.
� E. B. White, �The Distant Music of the
Hounds,� from The Second Tree from the Corner, 1949.