Thursday, December 20, 2012

A Visit from Saint Nicholas

The story behind the poem ....

When I was a little girl my mother bought Golden Books for me to read.  They were square little books of twenty or thirty pages stapled with cardboard covers.  And the one that I remember best was "A Visit from Saint Nicholas" with its illustrations of jolly Santa Claus putting gifts under the Christmas tree.

Later I read the poem to my younger brothers and sisters and later to my own children and grandchildren.  Today I recited it to my students. Because by now I know it by heart. And through the years, I've learned that there's more to the poem than appears.

When the poem was written, probably in the late 18th century, Christmas was not the holiday we know.  It was closer to our present celebration of New Year's Eve.  Groups of tipsy "carolers" expected drinks in payment for their songs and in the larger cities would accost strangers and become menacing if they weren't offered their "Christmas cheer".  This custom continued into the 19th century.  I read an account of an early school in Schuyler County, Illinois where the boys asked their teacher for whiskey to celebrate Christmas.  When he refused, they threw him out into the snow. Obviously they were big, husky farm lads.  When the teacher complained to the town authorities, he was told it was the local custom and it would be better to comply.

The knickerbockers of New York, descendants of the original Dutch settlers, preferred to stay home and celebrate a quiet family holiday.  Saint Nicholas, the patron saint of children, became an elf who came at night and put gifts and sweets in the children's stockings. And if we read the poem carefully, we can still see the "jolly old elf" who rides in "a miniature sleigh" with "eight tiny reindeer".  In spite of the illustrations in my Golden Book, there is no mention of a Christmas tree in the poem. 

A hundred years before the Coca-Cola advertizements, St. Nick was not dressed in red and white but in fur "from his head to his foot" and "his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot".  Didn't you always wonder how the Santa we see could stay so clean while going up and down all those chimneys?  A researcher has also pointed out that the Saint Nicholas in the poem has a working man's short pipe, "the stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth", whereas Haddon Sundblom, the artist who drew Santa for the Coca Cola company, showed him with a long curved pipe, like those smoked by wealthy New York burghers.  Coca-Cola did not invent Santa, he was here a hundred years before the soda, but they re-looked him.  The dirty little lower-class elf became a large, wealthy man who ran a toy factory where the elves worked for him.

Another little known fact about the poem is that it was not written by Clement C. Moore.  It was originally published in a book by him, but he gave its author as "anonymous".  When it became popular and everyone was reprinting it, his children insisted that he sign it.  For twenty years he refused, saying he had not written it.  He was annoyed that what he considered a trifle was drawing attention away from his more serious work. In fact, almost all of his poetry was gloomy and religious, bearing no ressemblance to the gay rhythm and heathen beliefs of "A Visit from Saint Nicholas." Before his death he finally agreed to acknowledge the poem as his own.

The children of Henry Livingston claimed that their father had written the poem for them and read it to them every Christmas, an entire generation before it was published.  The original copy which they possessed was burned in a fire, but there are plenty of clues in the poem itself to support their claim.  The first is the anapestic tetrameter of the poem, which Livingston often used for other poems and which Moore never used.

There is the fact that Livingston's wife slept with a kerchief on her head instead of the more usual night bonnet.  There are the names of some of the reindeer which correspond to the names of some of Livingston's horses.  His wife was from a Knickerbocker family and often said "Donner and Blitzen" as a mild cuss word. A maid who had worked for the Livingston's later became the nanny in Moore's household, so it is easy to see how he obtained the poem.

Of course, Livingston was not the last person to catch a glimpse of Saint Nicholas.  When my children were small, we had a friend who was tall, had "a little round belly" and whose hair was "as white as the snow".  We dressed him up as Santa Claus and told him to act like he was putting toys under the tree.  He had strict orders not to talk because he had a pronounced accent from southwest France.  I think Daniel and Joelle were three and four years old. We woke them up and let them peek around the door at him.  He walked off, down the lane, and the children went back to bed, still half asleep.  The next morning Daniel told us all about it and that he had seen Santa Claus fly off in his sleigh.

Today my grandson Elie is seven years old and still believes in Santa Claus.  At school there are boys who say he doesn't exist, but Elie knows better because last year he slept on the terrace on Christmas Eve and remembers seeing Santa Claus fly past the windows.  And this year, once again, I will recite "A Visit from Saint Nicholas" for my grandchildren, for my children and for myself, for all the wonderful memories it brings back to me.


A Visit from Saint Nicholas

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.
And ma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid!  on Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of toys, and St Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"

Monday, December 17, 2012

26 Acts of Kindness

How do you respond to senseless violence?

When I first heard about the killings in Newton, Connecticutt, I was, of course, appalled.  I didn't want to know all the gruesome details, but it seemed almost impossible to escape hearing more than anyone would ever want to imagine. I worried that by giving it so much importance, we were preparing the way for another gunman in search of his day of ... infamy?

How do you respond?  With sorrow and compassion for families that have lost their loved ones just when they were the most lovable?  With grief for the lost potential of so many bright, happy lives?  With anger?  With bewilderment?  My husband asked me why Americans, who proclaim their religious feelings so loudly, feel it necessary to be prepared to kill dozens if not hundreds of human beings in just a few minutes with an arsenal of automatic weapons.  He thought Christ said to turn the other cheek.  

Then I saw Nicholas Kristof's column.  http://www.nytimes.com/2012/12/16/opinion/sunday/kristof-do-we-have-the-courage-to-stop-this.html?smid=fb-share&_r=0

As he points out: "The Occupational Safety and Health Administration has five pages of regulations about ladders, while federal authorities shrug at serious curbs on firearms. Ladders kill around 300 Americans a year, and guns 30,000.
We even regulate toy guns, by requiring orange tips — but lawmakers don’t have the gumption to stand up to National Rifle Association extremists and regulate real guns as carefully as we do toys. What do we make of the contrast between heroic teachers who stand up to a gunman and craven, feckless politicians who won’t stand up to the N.R.A.?
On Facebook Nicholas directed readers to Anne Curry's page.  She suggests that in memory of the victims people commit 26 acts of kindness. This spoke to me immediately because it's something I can do and it's something positive and loving in response to a meaningless act of hate.  I can do it now, today, and I don't have to wait for an act of Congress.  And perhaps, somewhere there is a child, a young person who is suffering and will be helped by one of those acts of kindness, helped to grow into a healthy, sane adult.  
For behind this tragedy is another, the tragedy of a lost child that didn't get the help he needed, a child who learned to respond to hate and suffering with more hate and more suffering in an unending spiral of insane violence.  And I remembered Elvis' wonderful song, "In the Ghetto."  
"People, don't you understand?  A child needs a helping hand.  Or he's gonna be an angry young man."
So I hope you who are reading this will respond to the tragedy of Newton with your own 26 acts of kindness.