When I lived in New York and took acting classes, I was assigned to work on a scene with a woman who was in her early fifties. She had always seemed bemused and quietly removed from interactions with most of our class. I thought it was because she was easily thirty years older than anyone else and seemed to find us all a little tedious.
We arranged to go to her place to practice, because once she found out where I lived, she said in a Tallula Bankhead kind of voice, “Darling, I don’t go anywhere where I have to walk up six flights of stairs.” And she wrote out her building number for me.
As I walked the Upper East Side, holding her address in my hand, I wondered what kind of apartment she had. The day wasn’t hot, yet, because the June sun hadn’t really worked its way into the pavement like it does by August.
Between Park and Lexington, I found her address. She lived in a historic brownstone. The entire building/house was hers. She welcomed me in the front room, and we got down to work.
After a while I asked if I might have a glass of water. She made a polite apology for not offering me something sooner and motioned me to follow her. The building extended from the street to a courtyard in the back. It was filled with intricate wood moldings, and built-in bookcases, and was exactly how I had always imagined these houses must be every time I walked by one.
As we walked to the kitchen, we came upon a fully decorated – dead Christmas tree. It was breathtaking even now; it was tall, the ornaments exquisite.
It must have been even more beautiful six months ago when the needles were green. There were still a few opened Christmas presents beneath it. I glimpsed a cashmere sweater in one box.
“Your Christmas tree?” I asked.
“Yes, it was beautiful. I couldn’t bear to take it down this year,” she said and walked on. The conversation was over, and it wasn’t until our next rehearsal she confided, “My husband is leaving me. He told me between Christmas and New Year, a younger woman, his secretary.”
I tried to be a sympathetic ear, but she impatiently waved for us to go on. We did our scene, and afterwards I walked back to my apartment.
A few weeks after that meeting, the woman dropped out of the class. I never heard from or saw her again.
I wonder when her Christmas tree came down.
Every December as I run frantically around trying to finish all my self-imposed tasks, I think of her.
Christmas is simply a time of hope, which is present every time a child is born. There is an endless possibility of what that child will give to the world.
As January rolled into February, March and through spring into summer, maybe the woman stayed in Christmas because it represented hope. Her hope that things might be like they once were.
My wish was that she finally found peace. And maybe even joy, later.
My hope this coming year is that people find grace and truth, no matter what the situation. That we treat others with kindness, patience and gentleness, even if we disagree.
Even though we came into the world in different circumstances, we are all born with a “light/spirit” within us, which means we are more similar than different.
Love this memory, brought to life each Christmas. Thanks for sharing.
Also, there’s a wonderful small Xmas display on Radcliffe people should know about, the 12 Days of Christmas, so clever. I saw it in daytime. Husband and wife moved here from New York, wife has a sewing machine which she put to good use sewing berets for the 3 French hens. Some require a few minutes to figure out. Sorry I don’t have the exact address. Half a block on the left past the Bowdoin turn to Temescal, as come down from Gelson’s – well worth a visit.
beautiful story
Loved your story. It seems you have had a very colorful life in your youth.
Alas, it seems to be continuing……Good luck in every thing you do.
I appreciate your column and the work / research you do. MERRY CHRISTMAS!!