I’m sure what I am about to write will ring true for many who read these words. For me, December is always the most memorable month of the year. Each time it rolls around, I sort through the decades of Christmases past, the nearly 60 eves of new years. It is a collection of both joy and pain. Each time I conjure up some beautiful happy memory, it is always laced with sadness for those who are no longer here with me to enjoy the present. But that is the true essence of life. Without the bitter, there is no reference to truly understand the sweet.

Most people I’m sure, would mention “It’s a Wonderful Life” or “Miracle on 34th Street” or “A Christmas Carol” when remembering Christmases past.

 

 

Even I have those recollections of the black and white TV juxtaposed to the colorful tree lights reflected on carefully placed strands of tinsel,  while Jimmy Stewart runs through the cold streets of Bedford Falls, or Alastair Sim, quivering in his night gown and cap stands before the ghost of Christmas past. But my Christmas movie of choice is “Fanny and Alexander.” There is no one better than Ingmar Bergman, to show us life in all it’s bittersweet glory! My Christmas is definitely more rooted in the Northern European interpretation of Bergman, than it is to Dickens or the American interpretation of Frank Capra.

 

 

I do remember the nights before Christmas when I waited with anticipation for the sound of bells or the jolly laughter of a fat white haired, bearded man in a red suit.

I remember how well my parents were able to keep our presents hidden, devoting so much energy and love into creating the experience of children laughing with joy as they tore through paper and ribbon, with absolutely no notice of the care and creativity with which they were wrapped. Then that long, seemingly endless day of playing with new toys, getting drunk on the unrestricted consumption of sugar while ignoring the discomfort of blue jeans as stiff as cardboard.

 

Even today it is possible for me to reach into those beautiful precious thoughts, bringing them out into the present world where I can steal the vision of a child’s eyes. I can smell the heavy scent of pine. I can feel my hot wet socks against a clanging radiator as I wait for feeling to return to my frozen toes.  If ever I should go into a second childhood, I’m sure my mind will take me to a world where it’s Christmas everyday.  

The most memorable Christmas of my adult life was Christmas 1988. My partner Rob and I had been through a difficult year of losing friends to AIDS. Our friend, Annemarie Madison, arranged for us to make a Christmas tour of Hungary, Austria and Germany, where we stayed with people involved with AIDS-Hilfe. As we traveled on our winter tour, we hardly ever mentioned AIDS or death. We talked about Christmas instead.

In order to reveal the true source of my passion for Christmas, we need to go back again to my childhood for a moment. When I was a very young boy my grandmother taught me how to sing all the German Christmas songs in the original language. My favorite song became “Stille Nacht,” (Silent Night). During my childhood, the only connection I had to relatives still living in Germany was when they sent Christmas gifts each December. So from a very young age I had an understanding that there was a very undeniable connection between Christmas and Germany.

On our Christmas tour, Rob and I arrived first in Munich, where we then caught a flight to Budapest. From Budapest, we had purchased return train tickets with stops in Vienna and Salzburg before returning to Munich. When our train arrived in Salzburg on Christmas Eve, we were met at the station by Roman Schmeissner, a member of Salzburg AIDS Hilfe. He was standing on the platform holding a red rose in each hand. He handed one rose to Rob and the other to me. I was deeply touched by that act of kindness, while being totally impressed by the eloquent way in which he had chosen to acknowledge our common experience of being caregivers.

Germany and Austria had invented the Christmas of my childhood. I felt as though I was on a pilgrimage. The Christkindlmarkt in Salzburg was a dream come true. The smell of gingerbread, the fragrant steam rising from a mug of hot mulled glühwein, the sound of traditional Christmas music all seemed to wrap me in a cozy blanket of familiarity. Everywhere I turned, I found my grandmother smiling at me, offering cookies, chocolates and other treats. I felt like a six year old turned loose in a candy store.       

       
Our host Roman revealed that he was an organist in a local church. He had keys to all the churches in Salzburg. On Christmas Eve we were driven to a small community called Hallein, where we would attend midnight mass in the Parish Church of Hallein. When my grandmother had taught me to sing Silent Night in German, when I was a child, she had never offered any history lessons. On Christmas Eve 1988, I found myself sitting in the Church where the Silent Night composer, Franz Xaver Gruber had worked for 28 years. Stille Nacht had been performed for the first time on December 24, 1818, exactly 170 years before.

 

It’s impossible to describe the feeling I had in that first moment when the congregation began to sing Stille Nacht. There was an incredible sense of belonging, especially since I was among people who most likely had never known the words to the song in English. My grandmother’s spirit was there with me, as I proudly sang each word with perfect German pronunciation. It was as if I had come home.

I have no expectation that Curmudgeons or Scrooges will ever understand my childish need to hang on to Christmas as long as possible. They will never know the bittersweet joy of a heart that embraces the sadness of taking down the tree, the disappointment of discovering there are no more packages to unwrap or the loneliness of closing the door behind the last guest. I believe in Santa Clause with his coconut beard and his red sugar cheeks. I believe in the spirit of Christmas that lives in a bottle of Peppermint Schnapps that has traveled six thousand miles in order to remind us from where we have come. I love the texture and spicy aroma of an Aachener Printen with its long stable tradition, the joy of sinking my teeth into the cookie in search of its crunchy caramelized center.  Until the day I die, I will always “tear up” when I hear Silent Night. My Grandmother will always be beside me in those moments, and I will always remember the sound of her soft kind voice singing “Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht, Alles schläft; einsam wacht.”