I like to save a bit of holiday shopping for the week before Christmas. Normally the idea of being crushed by impatient people in the aisles of a small shop is off-putting, but this week it appeals to me. I manage to find an open spot to put my truck, happy to see the red hood over the meter indicating free parking. Not having a lot to do allows me to wander, somewhat aimlessly, down State street in Montpelier. I’ve been to the bank, run into the bookstore, grabbed lunch at Yellow Mustard, businesses that have just recently re-opened after the devastating flood in July. I swing my cloth bag, thrilled to see some of my favorite stores and coffee shops open and decorated for the holidays.
The bell clangs as I push open the heavy door to the kitchen store. The last time I spoke with the owner was in late summer, just after the flood: we stood in line at a convenience store and I asked him how things were going. He held up a bottle of whiskey in response, his eyes tearing. We hugged, in the middle of the line, for a long time, both of us needing the lifeline. Today he sits behind the counter, his newly renovated store full of holiday shoppers. He is laughing with someone as I walk in. W hen he sees me he hurries out from behind the counter and we hug again, this time happily, but eyes still tearing.
Some of the stores aren’t quite ready to open yet and I cup my eyes and peer through the glass to see their progress. Workers in paint-splattered sweatshirts climb metal ladders or push screws into sheet-rock with yellow drills.
Tradition is a large part of our holiday celebration. Last Saturday morning, we finished orchestra rehearsal and hit the road to Woodstock for their annual Wassailing weekend. On the way we detour to Bethel to our favorite sandwich shop in the middle of town. The owner lifts the spatula by way of greeting and we hurry to see if our favorite table is free. The waitress brings red plastic trays with our sandwiches wrapped in checked wax paper. We watch a waterfall cascade and talk about how cold it must be. This scene always calls for seasonal conversation; in the summer we talk about how we would like to jump out of the window into that waterfall, the fall finds us wearing sweaters, pulling the window closed but leaning forward to watch colored leaves make the journey over that falls.
Woodstock is crowded with Vermonters and tourists, some with paper cups of coffee warming their hands, others enjoying a homemade ice cream cone. We all stand at the side of the road, jostling for the best spot to see the annual parade. Our friend Tom appears, parting the crowd, and we laugh about seeing each other here.
Finally the parade begins and we hear the clomp of horse hooves and smell their manure. Every participant is on horseback and in Victorian garb. Beautiful red velvet capes drape the rump of jet black horses. Some horses are pulling decorated wagons filled with waving children shouting, “Merry Christmas!” One woman’s horse isn’t happy about being on a street surrounded by shouting people and keeps high stepping sideways as she struggles to keeping him moving. Santa arrives sitting high in the back of a beautiful black sleigh perched in a farm wagon. He and Mrs. Claus wave with fur trimmed coats and white gloves. The little girl beside us jumps up and down as he tosses a candy cane to her. In what feels like barely a few minutes, the parade is past but the sparkle remains. People smile at each other and offer holiday greetings to strangers as they disperse.
Later, our back seat full of paper bags we have promised each other not to peek into, we head to meet Josh and Al for pizza. The drive north along the river is beautiful: we have new snow and the towering conifers look as if they have been sprayed with thick cream. The heat in the truck lulls us into comfortable silence as we take in the colored lights we pass.
Josh and Al have secured a long table, painted lime green with four mismatched chairs. Ancient wide-board floors creak as we cross them and order at the counter. We notice paintings of chickens, ceramic chickens, and chicken posters everywhere. We have tall glasses of beer and laugh together a while before our pizza arrives.
As we step outside, I zip my sweatshirt up as high as it will go. Above us the sky is black, clear and full of stars. Across the street is an insurance agency which has closed for the day. Someone, perhaps the owner, is in blue silhouette, busily stringing lights around the sign and down the railings. What strikes me is that it isn’t his home: it is his business and yet it seems important to him to light it.
We drive along toward home, our stomachs full of cheese, red sauce and beer. I think about why the decorating resonates so much with me tonight. It has been a year. Being honest, it has been four years. We have all struggled, we have lost money, people, houses, time and security and yet, as we drive along, I see house after house draped in festive. Plastic snowmen waving with red mittens, snowflakes falling from a slide show down the side of someone’s house. Today we stood shoulder to shoulder with strangers to watch Victorian-clad riders shout holiday greetings to us, and mean it.
Perhaps it isn’t the decorating that moves me, it is resiliency.
The person I saw in silhouette this evening was not just wrapping his insurance agency in light, he was wrapping it in hope.