Christmas

We finish rolling up sheep fencing and head right into unrolling tar paper around hives to winterize. All is quiet as we staple the paper in place, tuck insulation into the cap and stuff some bee food around frames of the top box. Less than a week later snow begins falling.

Early December our temperatures are consistently below freezing, snow on the ground. I finish evening chores standing under the barn lights watching snow flakes swirl to the ground. All before winter has officially begun.

Ski areas report record snowfall and on Friday evenings, the line of cars on the interstate stretch out like a string of Christmas lights. Wonderously, the cold makes people think of holiday gifts made from wool. Checking emails frequently I find orders for blankets, throws, hats, mittens and yarn: 2025 seems to be the year of the skein. Long after our neighbor’s lights are turned off, ours burn brightly while we tuck our wool blankets into boxes and roll yarn with tissue paper and ribbons before stuffing into large envelopes for travel. Soon a routine develop[ed]s; daytime for shop work and teaching, evenings for fulfilling farm-store orders.

Outside we decorate the stones of our fireplace chimney with a star that Paul made from crossed sticks wrapped with tiny gold lights. We pull the wreaths and garland we traditionally order from our friends’ farm from the back of our truck. We string garland round our fence and hang our wreaths from doors and lamp post giving everything a Dickensian-feel.

The Christmas tree we had orange-tagged in October is waiting for us when we arrive at the tree farm. Seamus and Bronte lope ahead of us and stand, sniffing brush while Paul pulls our old hand saw back and forth till the tree slowly topples right. Later we transform the house from pumpkins to holly. When, long after dark, we finally finish, we flop on our couch near the tree and lean into each other, satisfied, content, exhausted. Only standing to begin packing more wool.

Cold mornings I lie under our wool blankets, trying to quiet my mind which races to create a list for the day. It feels impossible to conjure up the magic and peace I crave for the season.

Each evening Paul and I sit at our little black card table pushed in front of the fireplace, and have dinner. Sometimes we talk about the busyness and strategize on how to accept it, embrace it even, but also how to find a way to move things aside, carving a space for quiet, for Christmas.

We recognize[d] ourselves in the old farm adage, “make hay while the sun shines”:ours is “sell wool while the snow falls.” Peace and prosperity make odd bedfellows.

The Thursday before Christmas, arms loaded, I wish Wendy at the post office a Merry Christmas. Hurrying home I take a deep breath, play carols on the radio and notice the tree branches coated with snow, like shaving cream, which falls to the ground in slow motion plops. As I get out of the truck I fill my lungs with cold, clean, winter air. Dogs around my legs, I see the sheep standing at the fence watching me.

Friday morning self-imposed stillness descends. Too close to Christmas to arrive in time, orders began to slow down. My studio is on break until after the new year and the cello shop is working only on an ‘as-needed’ basis.

I see an ad that our local art theater is running a one-time showing of the Christmas movie, “ELF” on Monday afternoon at 1pm. Having children, we can pretty much recite the entire dialogue of the movie but, impulsively, I buy two tickets.

That evening we take my mother out from the place where she lives in memory care. We are unsure of the outcome as I leave Paul in the car listening to carols and head in to pick her up. Under my arm I tucked a red Santa hat festooned with lights that actually work. When, after helping her pull on her coat, I place the hat carefully on her head, she looks at me and laughs. I show her herself in the mirror and she stands quietly and studies her reflection blinking back at her. Her eyes, empty of memory, look at me searchingly, knowing this was something special but unsure of why. I nod and, reassured that her reaction was correct, she laughs again.

We go to dinner at the local diner. Customers stop at our table to mention my mom’s hat blinking festively. She grins and touches the hat. Paul orders chili while I order turkey with mashed potatoes. My mother pretends to read the menu and then orders turkey and mashed potatoes like me. I steer the conversation to the Christmases of her childhood which is where her mind is most comfortable now. She talks about her father in the present tense, how he brought their Christmas tree into the house, the way he stood at the bottom of the stairs, with her mom’s apron wrapped around his Santa-like belly and hollered up to them for dinner. We talk about holiday parties and favorite gifts. She doesn’t mention my sister, me, or our dad. There have been so many times that I have struggled to reconcile myself with the disappearance of my past, but not tonight. Under the warm lights of the diner and her blinking hat, I feel calm as I watch her talk. I can see the topics flashing, like her hat, past her eyes as she tries to grab hold of them and fails. Tonight I accept what is, rather than grasping for what was. Like the snow falling outside the window, this peace is a gift.

In the theater the line extends out the door. The person behind the counter is wearing a brightly colored holiday necklace as she sells tickets and scoops popcorn. Only one person is running the show. Someone asks why she is working alone and she explains that there isn’t money in the budget for more than one person to be there. As we stand in line no one complains. Shoulder to shoulder, the smell of popcorn cooking filling the space, we all quietly chat.

In our seats I turn sideways to watch people come down the isle, like brides in big knit Christmas sweaters. Some balanced two cartons of popcorn and a blue bottle of water, grinning at their seatmate as popcorn popped out to the ground around them.

I watch couples lean their heads toward each other and talk quietly: I observe families as they holler and wave to other members searching for them. Not one person is on their phone.

The movie is late in starting because the person selling tickets and popping popcorn also starts the movie and shuts off the lights. The moment the magical cartoon-beginning of Elf came onto the screen there is silence in the theater.

Everything is better on the big screen. Colors more vibrant, reactions more animated and real, sound surrounding and enveloping everyone. In that small, bricked space, we all laugh as if we had all planned for and arrived together to experience the film.

When the lights come up, we blink but the spell isn’t broken. People stand in the aisle and let others pass quietly, wishing them a happy holiday.

Paul and I step out into the shock of the cold and climb into our truck. We simultaneously turned toward each other and say how wonderful that experience was. The film asked us all, dressed in our crazy, spirited sweaters, to suspend belief for a snowy afternoon. To let go of the weight of the world and pick up a bucket of popcorn. To revisit what it feels like to be a child and believe in Santa, even when nobody else does. Somewhere deep inside us, we remember and understand that. Impossible to convey on a phone or the small screen of a computer. It is why we must support small theaters, big screens and show up for Monday Matinees.

I expected to find Christmas in the glow our tree’s lights, listening to Bing, hosting our neighborhood holiday party. Where I was fortunate enough to find Christmas was, as true with all joy, tucked into the routine of our life.

My wish for the new year is a prayer, rather than a resolution; I wish everyone peace. Not just peace in the world, but peace from within. A reminder that peace hides in the folds of our clean laundry, in the fullness of our babies’ round bellies, in the smile of those who don’t remember us, in the eyes of those who do. It rests in the snow in our shovels and the icicles decorating our roof lines. It is tucked into the enveloping hug of a friend and in our hands reaching out to a neighbor.

Peace.