December 22, 2015
Last night I teared up when I read A Christmas Memory by Truman
Capote to my kids. God, I love this
story. Why does my family roll their
eyes and shake their heads when I cry?
They think I’m weird. I think
they’re weird for not crying. The images
are so poignant, the writing so beautiful.
I try to explain that mine are not the tragic kind of tears. The story
does not necessarily end badly. Buddy,
the boy, gets older and leaves home and his cousin stays where she is. As old people do she gets older. But when he was young she gave him
love and fun and Christmas. Capote gives us more than a glimpse into a nostalgic
window. He invites us into the very room to sit unobtrusively at a table in the corner
while he serves up a delicious slice of the past.
I didn’t want to cry. I tried not to. I was afraid if I did this
story would be added to the list of Christmas books my kids deem “sad” and
don’t like me to read. I steeled myself for the speech where Buddy’s cousin
talks about how things are perfect right here and now and her being
so perfectly happy that ‘I could leave this world with today in my eyes.” I made it
through that. But I had forgotten about the image at the very end of the two
kites flying up to heaven. That got me. Oh well. I dabbed my eyes with the collar of my turtleneck.
But the books that make me cry are my favorites, you see. Holly and Ivy by Rumer Godden is another
one. I love this story. Again, the
writing is wonderful and augmented by Barbara Cooney’s warm illustrations. Toys
talk and scheme, wishes are taken seriously and physically felt. A little
orphan girl finds a home and a childless couple finds a family. Heartwarming, that’s what it is, not sad. Unfortunately, this is also on the banned
list.
Hey, I love The Grinch as much as anybody. Rudolph? The Night Before Christmas? Sign me up. The Little Fir Tree? -Waaaiit a minute. Talk about depressing. A
little evergreen aspires to be a beautiful Christmas tree only to be left dried
up and forsaken in the attic after the holidays. It is then cut up and
burned. As he goes up in flames he has
the presence of mind to regret all his former hopes. Now THAT story is a bummer. Heartwarming?
Not by a long shot.
And for the love of God, don’t even get me started on The Little
Match Girl. I’m not going there
either-and not because it or The Little Fir Tree makes me cry. It doesn’t. Those particular stories simply
trigger seasonal depression; a state of dry-eyed, weary holiday hopelessness that
I suspect Northern Europe-dwelling Hans Christian Andersen was mired in when
he penned them. (Dude needed a full-spectrum sun lamp.) The feelings these
stories provoke are much different than those that produce a couple happy tears. My family could
have it worse- I could add these to the rotation.
My kids just need to learn to differentiate between different kinds of tears. "Poignant" does not necessarily mean "sad". Which is why I’m making them listen to me read these great stories
again next year. And the year after that. Yes, even if I have to occasionally pause
and wipe my eyes while I do it.
And maybe when they’re all grown up and have children of their own they’ll look back on the memory
of their dear mother taking the time to read good stories to them. Maybe they'll even get a little misty-eyed themselves. And when that happens I'll look lovingly over the top off my glasses at my beloved family and say
HA! Gotcha! Full circle!
