Minnewaska Musings

By Paul Gremmels, Columnist

“One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.”

So opens Dylan Thomas’ book, “A Child’s Christmas in Wales.” It is a tiny book, of about twenty pages, depending upon the size of the font and the engravings that depict the various scenes. It is Dylan’s recollection of his childhood Christmases, written from the perspective of a child. A child’s memoir so to speak. The book holds a special place in my heart, in that the similarities to my own childhood Christmases are soulfully accurate. And that on every Christmas day night, my family would travel to my godparents to celebrate with their family and ours, in their house up on the hill with windows overlooking the twinkling lights, far below, of the  lake-town where I grew up.

We would gather in my godparent’s spacious living room simply to celebrate and to socialize. No gifts were exchanged. There was a talent show of sorts, where anyone who wanted could play an instrument, sing a song, read a poem or passage of literature. Then, we would all sit in a large circle on a variety of chairs, pillows, a couch and the edge of the fireplace hearth. The lights would be dimmed and we would read “A Child’s Christmas in Wales.” Reading one paragraph, then passing the book to the person next to you.  My father or my godfather, Gordy, would always read the opening paragraph. We all knew the story quite well of course, but still laughed and groaned at the descriptions and foibles of Mr. and Mrs. Prothero, Jim, Jack, the aunts, uncles and of course Ernie Jenkins. As we reached the closing paragraph, the book would be handed back to either my father or Gordy. Each of them had well schooled, gravelly, tenor voices. The kind of voices that seem to hum a pleasant tone even after they speak their final word. Although both of these patriarchs have been gone for many Christmases, I still think of them often. And I can sometimes hear their voices in the foggiest edges of my childhood memory. Especially, in the closing paragraph of Dylan Thomas’ tiny masterpiece.

“I could see the lights in the windows of all the other houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steadily falling night. I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then, I slept.”

–Paul Gremmels is a freelance writer, essayist and a columnist. He lives with his wife, Ann, in rural Pope County.  His column is published in the Pope County Tribune on the last week of each month.  He welcomes and responds to all correspondence. He can be contacted at:
gremmels@runestone.net