I Can't Help It

I Can’t Help It

No matter the length of my to-do list, and let me assure you it’s a long one this year, I can never ignore the tiny frisson of delight that runs down my spine as the dark window closes on Halloween night, that little shiver that signals the imminent approach of those magical final two months of the year.  Even as I’m greeting minuscule ghosts and goblins for trick or treat, my imagination is flooding with the russets and golds of Thanksgiving - the reds and greens of Christmas.  I cannot help myself, and have long ago stopped trying.  Like dear, happy Fred in Dickens’ Christmas Carol I “…have always thought of Christmas-time, when it has come round…as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. And therefore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!”

Somehow, despite the years that separate me from my childhood, I have managed to retain the magic that was liberally bestowed upon me in those days.  And is it just me, or was there even more magic back then?  Only this morning I read an article in our local paper encouraging parents to make their “reservations” early in order to ensure their child will be able to visit Santa at the local shopping mall.  These reservations cost $10 and it seems the entire process exist chiefly to achieve the all-important photo-op with said child and the red-suited chap.  I’ve seen some of these kids lined up awaiting their turn, dressed in stiff red velvet dresses, or tiny black bow ties, being sternly admonished not to fidget and wrinkle their garb, all the while looking as far removed from thrilled as it’s possible to be.  So different were my forays into Santa’s kingdom.  I wandered those sparkling lanes behind other wide-eyed kids, each one of us dumb-struck in the face of such magic.   None of us had the worry of dressing up.  Having our pictures taken was the last thing on our minds.

When I was little, the biggest department store in town would light what they called, “The Great Tree” every Thanksgiving night. This signaled the opening of the Christmas season and families would travel into the big city from the suburbs to stand shoulder to shoulder with their neighbors in the middle of the frozen street to listen to local choirs sing carols as a cold November wind whipped round the tall buildings.  The climax of the evening would occur when the highest note of Oh, Holy Night was hit and suddenly, that great tree would blaze into sparkling light.  Everyone would gasp, awestruck.  It was wonderful.  That tree is no more, of course.  In fact, that store is no more either.  These days there’s an anemic-looking, cone-shaped, facsimile that perches atop the midtown mall and it is switched on the week before Thanksgiving to the tune of local rap artists looking for a bit of tour promotion.  Not quite the same, I can tell you.

The loss of those beloved traditions are regrettable to be sure; any loss of something wonderful is especially acute this time of year.  But here, in my cottage, the holiday season is as it always was.  The world with all its strife and ugliness stops flat at my doorstep.  Like Scrooge’s nephew, Fred, I appreciate the wonder and goodwill that this time of year possesses; I want to grab it all up by the armloads.  And the fabulous thing about being an adult is that I can create the holiday I want.  So if you happen by The House of Edward today you’ll find music playing.  There are fresh pecans, chocolate and dried fruits stacked up in the corner of the pantry.  Knitting needles are flying and there’s a faint scent of cinnamon in the air.  Recipes and Christmas cards share desk space with wrapping paper and ribbon.  Edward’s afternoon walks are more like runs, as he seems to share my enthusiasm for the cold.  The tea kettle’s singing; the fire’s whispering.  There’s an almost audible crackle of expectation in the chilly air. 

Everybody’s welcome.

No I can’t help it.

No matter what,  I love this time of year. 

****

Thank you all so much for the overwhelming amount of pre-orders for

Edward Speaks at Midnight, A Christmas Story.

I’m happy to report books are now being wrapped and labeled 

and are on their way to you.  

I am over the moon with the way the book turned out 

and so happy to know it will be a part of so many holiday seasons for so many families.

xoxo,

p

Order your copy HERE