I was driving home from work, minding my own business when a Christmas carol came on the radio and brought me to tears. I know I’m not the first person in the history of time to shed a tear over a Christmas song. In fact, it’s not even the first time that I, personally, have gotten a little misty. That honor belongs to a memory from back when I was in elementary school, if you can believe it. I recall a moment during a candlelight service on Christmas Eve that inspired me with awe before I understood that that was the word to describe it. At the time, I was a member of the choir and my position up in the choir loft afforded me a bird’s eye view of the interior of the church, which was packed to the gills that night. I remember looking down over the rows and rows of congregants clutching candles with paper drip guards, the collective flames forming a twinkling sea of light. At a signal from the minister, the congregation rose to its feet in a noisy shuffle of limbs and squeaking of weathered floorboards. There was a split second of silence before the opening chords of “Joy to the World” erupted from the massive pipes of the church organ at my back. When the parishioners added their voices to the mix, a wave of sound rushed up from below, and the ensuing feeling that buoyed me up from the inside was overwhelming. I sang along through a throat tight with stifled tears, startled by the intensity of my reaction to this shared declaration of joy.

My other childhood memories of Christmas are less transcendent, but no less cherished. Each year my mom pulled out all the stops to create an ambience of Christmas joy; she’d decorate, play records of carols nonstop and fill our house with the scent of her baking. Yet there was a bit of a philosophical tug of war between my schoolteacher mother – who didn’t want to spoil my sister and I, and my dad – who delighted in gift giving as only one who hadn’t had the best of childhoods can. His boyish enthusiasm for stealth-wrapping presents led to a family tradition of elaborate concealments, the pinnacle of which was an effort by my sister’s beau in which he entombed her gift in a paper mâché duck. 

Not all emotions evoked at the holidays are joyous. This year, the seemingly innocuous song that had me reaching for tissues on my commute was “I’ll Be Home for Christmas (If Only in my Dreams).” I’m not one of those people who moved far away from home and is now prevented from being with family owing to travel considerations. In fact, I live a scant half an hour from where I grew up. The prohibitive detail for me is that my family isn’t there anymore. Both of my parents departed for the great beyond years ago, and have been joined since by other relatives. The down side of knowing splendid people is missing them when they’re gone. That task could take all day if you let it, so I mostly try not to. One exception to the rule is Christmastime, when I grant myself permission to unlock a treasure chest of memories and lovingly consider them at length. I call the people who share those memories and we tell each other the stories once more, polishing different facets as we present them again for consideration, marveling at the tiny details we still manage to unearth. In these shared recollections, we defy our inability to go home for Christmas, instead bringing the experience to us.

Although I’m now blessed to be able to spend the holidays with wonderful friends who are like family, some years it is harder for me to invoke the Christmas spirit than others. I have to move beyond old favorites like putting out the decorations from my childhood or watching How the Grinch Stole Christmas, and break new ground. If, like me, you’re looking for Christmastime inspiration, fortunately the library has a number of different sources. I recommend browsing new cookbooks like The Official Downton Abbey Christmas Cookbook or Vegan Holiday Cookbook: Festive Plant-based Meals and Desserts for the Thanksgiving and Christmas Table. I’m not necessarily going to make pheasant soup or go vegan for the holidays, but considering something outside my wheelhouse can help shift my focus from “bah humbug” to “fah who foraze, dah who doraze” if you know what I mean. In some small way I think this also honors my dearly departed, the people who poured themselves into making Christmas a magical time. Browsing through holiday projects on Craftsy evoked lovely memories of some of my great aunt’s past pursuits: quilted tree skirts, stockings, and holiday snack mix. There are numerous books on holiday crafts in our network, as well as titles about Christmas traditions such as A Jane Austen Christmas and Christmas Traditions in Boston – both of which depict a markedly more austere take on the holiday than our current practices. On the subject of Boston, my search took an odd turn to the Britannica Library database, where I brushed up on the history behind the Christmas tree displayed each year in Boston. I learned more about the Great Halifax Explosion of 1917, in which the departing Norwegian steamship Imo collided with the incoming French munitions ship Mont-Blanc. Unfortunately the Mont-Blanc, which was carrying 2,925 metric tons of explosives, blew up. The resulting tsunami flattened over a mile of the city. Almost 2,000 died and another 9,000 were injured. The boston.gov website marked the 103 anniversary in 2020 with an historical accounting of the event, noting that upon hearing news of the disaster Massachusetts quickly sent medical supplies and personnel to Halifax. The following December, Nova Scotia sent a Christmas tree to Boston as a thankyou; the gesture was repeated again in 1971, and in years since. Now that’s getting into the Christmas spirit!

Kirstie David is the Literacy/Outreach Librarian at the Morrill Memorial Library in Norwood, MA. Look for her article in the December 23, 2021 issue of the Transcript and Bulletin.