Manhattan Christmas
Enjoy the food, the drink, a few presents and most importantly–one another.
“Tomorrow you can see Diana’s new piece.” Diana lives next door to my hostess and she’s a Liturgical Choreographer, whatever that means. Delightful—a free dance performance in Manhatten.
On Sunday morning I head off on foot through Central Park to the Church where the performance will start at ten. Ten a.m. seems an odd time for a dance performance.
The wind is especially wicked, whipping my unsuspecting flesh through my gloves and past my lungs. Although I’m in my twenties, I’m gasping and teary-eyed. Mind you, I’m no winter wimp. In college, I walked that evil bridge across the Mississippi many many January Minnesota nights. My Chicago mile-to-school-up-hill-both-ways stories are in mothballs for future grandchildren. Cold weather in Manhattan is different, though—it’s windier and lonelier.
I’m wearing just about everything I brought to New York. The duck-hunter’s ugly down vest is poochyand brown long before either were fashionable. The black wool coat weighs me down and twists around my legs in the wind. I might as well have left my jeans and long underwear at home for all the good they do me.
Central Park is empty. I endure it and don’t see a person until I’m heading south on Park Avenue. He’s a mid fifties sort of guy in a black-diamond mink coat walking a well-dressed Airdale. Steam rises from both of them; I am invisible. That’s ok, I’m relieved to be walking measurable blocks alongside buildings. I can think about my destination rather than Jack London endings.
Oh I noticed that mink coat, all right. And the gracious buildings and classy cars. Sexy ladies from the eighties, hunh? I wonder if this might not be a fancier affair than I contemplated?
It’s Sunday morning, two weeks before Christmas. Am I heading toward a church service? Is this some special sort of day? I bet it is. Suddenly I notice a swarm of limousines at a large building in the next block.
I’d never go to my own religious services dressed anything like this, even if it wasn’t a special holiday season-sort of day. But here I am and it’s too cold to walk away. Besides, it’s all about the dance.
The limos and taxis discharge snow white winter suits, ermine collars, cashmere, sparkling hats, and pearls. The rabble wears mink. What was I thinking?
I get caught in the swirl of entry into the gracious old church building and head toward the front. I haven’t come this far not to see the choreography. I skip the first couple of rows in case there is some special obligation. I get a good view from a third-row seat.
My ermine-trimmed neighbor and I exchange greetings. Everything matches. It’s warm.
Oh to be one of those people who sit wrapped-up in her coat. But in my world it was rude and unwise to stay coated indoors. Too bad, I almost could have passed. The panels of black Forstmann wool are by far the best part of my outfit and my raggy jeaned legs would be mostly hidden. But now that I’ve stopped throwing my body against the wind my cheeks sting hot, hands turn red and I might pass out. The coat comes off and I stuff the vest under a pew.
I am the lost last-decade hippy chick, au too naturelle. Maybe there is something remotely charming in the ragamuffin’s struggle through the cold to worship. And, for all its ermine, a congregation that has half-nude modern dancers and a string quartet on its alter in 1978 must be fairly enlightened.
Enlightened perhaps, but my neighbor is also intent on seeing that I sing my way through the service. Her pointer thrusts into my hymnal for the many follow-on verses of O Little Town of Bethlehem.
“Gratitude.” Yes, I’m grateful for the heat and that there’s no confusing kneeler or footrest. “Collection plate.” If I could have parted with money, I would have taken a cab. But smiles abound and I’ve settled into my role as the Crampet’s older headstrong girl.
Finally it’s time for the dance—my excuse for exposing these lovely people to me. I recall nothing. Some thirty years later, it’s my sense of ignorance and surprise, the warmth of the space and the tolerance of my neighbors—the true spirit of Christmas all around me—that I remember.
How silently, how silently
The wondrous gift is giv’n
So God imparts to human hearts
The blessings of His heav’n.
What is Chanukah all about? Chanukah, my children, Chanukah is the festival of socks. Each year the great Bubbe comes to the foot of each child’s bed and takes a sniff.
Thanks for a big brown bird, soft and crunchy stuffing, sweet yams, a tart cranberry relish and ample bottles of wine. Thanks for a fresh green salad and don’t mind if I skip the smashed potatoes, rolls and that baked broccoli-cheese traditional. Who would notice?
