The twelve days of Christmas in Vermont normally, at some point, include snow. However, one of the more reliable traits of a true Vermonter is that you never, ever assume that the weather, even one week out from Christmas, will determine the forecast for the big day. Even Christmas eve forecasting is dicey. In year’s past we have, mistakenly, thought we had a white Christmas in the bag only to have the thermometer read fifty degrees with rain falling two days before, leaving us dreaming of a white Christmas but actually having a very brown, rainy one.
This year we had the most beautiful run up to the holiday. The evergreens lining our snow-covered road draped with white snow. The temperatures barely cracked twenty degrees during the day, plummeting below zero several nights. Walking out to the barn for the nightly animal check, the dry powder beneath my boots squeaked like an old door hinge. Early the week before Christmas the moon was full. I stood, head back, blowing icy breath up to the stars, my puzzled sheep standing at the fence watching me.
Paul and I stayed up near our tree on Christmas, feet pointed at the fire, wanting to cross the finish line of Christmas day. Diving into bed, we buried ourselves up to our noses in warm flannel sheets, first remembering then dreaming of the season.
It often takes time for me to gain perspective on important events. Like after too much Christmas yule- log, I need a moment to digest. The days between Christmas and New Year mark the entrance of true winter; the season for hibernation. Spending luxurious, lazy afternoons on the couch, I pause frequently, resting book on my chest, thinking about another year past: what were the true defining moments of my Christmas this year.
Josh and Al arrive at the house, Rufio bounding in behind them looking for me, for treats. As they come through the front door they smell of cold, of fresh air. They look at each other and laugh, faces pink from the outdoors. They bundle into their ski pants, creating the distinct “whoosh” of Nylon. After pulling on their boots they clunk awkwardly out the door and head down into the empty sheep pasture to ski, Rufio and Bronte loping ahead through the snow. Sitting at the counter near the wood stove, wool-socked feet resting near the heat I feel them long after they leave. I feel their happiness, youth, joy, their new love.
Christmas morning Paul and I sit near the lit tree. Music in the background, cinnamon buns baking in the oven. We have, after doing chores, begun opening our gifts to each other. We pause, taking a moment to speak of ghosts of Christmas past; four boys gathering in one bedroom watching a Christmas movie and waiting for it to be time to come wake us for stocking opening. Wrestling, like puppies on the living room floor. Raucous laughter as paper rips revealing special gifts.
As is the way of things, it is now just Paul and I and, while quieter, we too laugh at the toothpaste key Paul finds at the toe of his stocking.
As the small pile of gifts dwindle, I hand Paul a green paper bag stuffed with red tissue paper. He smiles at me and lifts a square box from its nest. I watch his face as he opens. A gold chain slides out and he follows it to the pocket-watch it is attached to. He looks up at me, eyes wet. He reads the inscription, “The time is now.” and understands. We both do.
Each year I plan a musical event two weeks before Christmas for my cello students. It is not mandatory but I ask them to join me in gifting their music to the community. This year I arrange the event to be held at the grange hall and everyone invites family and friends. The weather is a messy mix of snow and rain. Paul and I arrive early, stomp off our boots and flick on the lights to the big hall. I take a minute and breathe in the smell of the very old wood of the space. For a moment I believe I can hear contra dancers stomping feet and spinning partners.
Unfolding wooden chairs, I worry people won’t show up. We open a card table and the two gallons of our cider look lonely on it, but n a few minutes I sigh with relief. People enter, cello cases and plates of holiday cookies in hand. Soon the large room is full with people wearing colorful holiday sweaters. Cam hands out silly reindeer antlers with bells. The food table fills to capacity, everyone bringing their Christmas best.
Ethan, on his first break from college, arrives and we hug tightly. He begins taking his instrument out of its case and chatting with Luke, now a senior in high school. Peter stands quietly off to the side, this being his first holiday playing. Soon he is invited to sit next to Elizabeth and they laugh as music falls off the stand. Sue comes over for a hug and happily joins in. Ten year old Ben, in full-on reindeer antlers, sits down next to me and puts his music in order. Jillian, nine, walks up, cello in hand, and quietly tells me that she can only play a few of the pieces. I notice tears in her eyes. We put foreheads together and, quietly, I tell her that she can play as many, or few pieces as she would like. She nods and we set up her chair right next to mine. Her mom watches from her seat, smiling encouragingly.
Paul picks up the baton and we begin. The singers I have asked to join us lift their books up and begin to belt out the first song. I notice our neighbors Jason, Lynn and daughter Morgan: they wave at me shyly. Ben’s sister Anna is there with both parents. She and her dad walk up to the food table and stand, munching cookies and drinking cider, watching us all make music. The big hall is filled with the sound of joy.
Jillian plays a few pieces and then goes and sits with her mom. In a few minutes, as I continue to play, she sits back down next to me and looks over. I smile and point my bow to where we are in the music- she hesitates but begins playing. This happens a few times before she decides to stay seated. I feel and hear her resolution. She grins as we all put bells on our wrists to play “Jingle Bells.”
In a year filled with grief, difficulty and despair, perhaps Jillian has shown me the truest definition of Christmas; the bravery and willingness to keep getting up, to keep playing joyfully, to do it all with a holiday cookie in hand and reindeer antlers on your head.