bluegoatwoods
Active Member
A memory comes back at this time every year. Sometimes in between as well.
One year when my kids were still quite small I had to work on a Christmas Eve. The place was quiet as a tomb. I was working alone. The telephone was absolutely dead. There was very, very little traffic on the road outside. Those few people who actually did pass through were subdued. Any other day it might have been a welcome relief. But under those circumstances, preferring to be home with my family, it was boring and lonely. My melancholy might well have been amplified by exhaustion. I was working a brutal schedule at the time. I might or might not have, at that time, viewed my mood as quite sad. But looking back I think that's an apt term.
I was listening to A Prairie Home Companion on the radio. Their programs, during the Christmas season especially, tend to be pretty lively and festive. After some music and comedy, things quieted down and Garrison Keillor started telling the story of "The Little Match Girl" by Hans Christian Andersen.
It's the story of a six year old orphan girl. She had no family and no home. She scratched out enough income for a slow-starvation diet by selling matches on the streets of Copenhagen.
The particular Christmas Eve of the story was a harsh one. A bitter wind and cold. Having nothing else to do and nowhere to go, she was on the streets hoping to sell some matches. But the streets were deserted. Passing the homes of those more fortunate, she could see families sitting down to a fine dinner. She saw rooms lit by a big fire. She saw Christmas trees and windows decorated with holly and such. She saw candles. She saw children who would have looked like her if it weren't for the fact that they were clean and healthy. Warm, comfortable and happy. She was not unaccustomed to seeing food and luxuries that she could not obtain. And she didn't spend a lot of time or energy thinking about such things. She couldn't afford that. Most of her effort went toward strategizing her sheer survival.
She also knew that the more prosperous residential parts of town were no place to try to shelter for the night. So she made her way to the warehouse district down by the piers. She took shelter from the wind in an alley, in a nook between two buildings.
Weakened by malnutrition, she had a hard time fending off the cold. In desperation, she pulled out one of her matches with the intent of lighting it to warm her hands. When she struck the match on the brick wall next to her the match and the flame appeared to her eyes as a stove with brass ornaments and a strong fire. The warmth flooded in and she was relieved. She was even starting to move her feet closer to this stove when the match burnt out and she was left with the night and the brick wall.
She knew better than to use up her stock in trade, but after awhile she could bear the cold no longer. So she pulled out another match. When she struck the match against the wall, that section of the wall disappeared and she saw inside a warm and softly lighted dining room with a meal spread out on it. She was on the verge of reaching in when this match burnt out. The wall returned and blocked her off from this meal.
She looked upward and saw the stars. She saw one slowly fall out of the sky and down to Earth.
She thought, "Someone must have died". Because her Grandmother had told her that a star fell from the sky when a person passed on. Her Grandmother was the only person in her memory who had actually loved her. Had kept her clothed and fed. Had kept her warm and clean. And given her a secure place to live and to sleep.
She lit another match. This time, instead of the flame, she saw her Grandmother. Looking taller and more beautiful even than she had remembered.
In a near panic that this vision, too, would fade she bawled, "Grandma! Don't go! Please, take me with you!" And she grabbed the remaining matches in her hand and struck them on the brick wall.
And her Grandmother gathered her into her arms.
It was then that I turned and looked at the radio and asked myself, "Where is this story going?' I was already reaching to turn the stupid thing off.
But it was too late. She had died and was being welcomed into the Kingdom of Heaven. No doubt Andersen viewed this as a happy ending. But it didn't do a thing for me. It caught me like a slap on the face or a knife in the back. I felt like crying. I didn't. But it would have been easy enough.
I had just accompanied a six year old girl on her final journey. To her death. By freezing. Alone on Christmas Eve. I was helpless to do a thing about it.
I asked Garrison Keillor, "How could you do that to me?" I didn't expect an answer and I didn't get one.
I no longer trust Garrison Keillor quite as much as I once did. Maybe he's capable of other zingers.
But maybe I shouldn't put it quite so glibly. He did a good thing, after all. He afflicted the comfortable with the wish to comfort the afflicted.
Perhaps that's why he did it.
PS: On Christmas day I looked up the original story. Then came back and edited this. I was going by a twenty-plus year old memory of the story. From a second hand source, to boot. I think I didn't do too badly. But it needed to be better.
One year when my kids were still quite small I had to work on a Christmas Eve. The place was quiet as a tomb. I was working alone. The telephone was absolutely dead. There was very, very little traffic on the road outside. Those few people who actually did pass through were subdued. Any other day it might have been a welcome relief. But under those circumstances, preferring to be home with my family, it was boring and lonely. My melancholy might well have been amplified by exhaustion. I was working a brutal schedule at the time. I might or might not have, at that time, viewed my mood as quite sad. But looking back I think that's an apt term.
I was listening to A Prairie Home Companion on the radio. Their programs, during the Christmas season especially, tend to be pretty lively and festive. After some music and comedy, things quieted down and Garrison Keillor started telling the story of "The Little Match Girl" by Hans Christian Andersen.
It's the story of a six year old orphan girl. She had no family and no home. She scratched out enough income for a slow-starvation diet by selling matches on the streets of Copenhagen.
The particular Christmas Eve of the story was a harsh one. A bitter wind and cold. Having nothing else to do and nowhere to go, she was on the streets hoping to sell some matches. But the streets were deserted. Passing the homes of those more fortunate, she could see families sitting down to a fine dinner. She saw rooms lit by a big fire. She saw Christmas trees and windows decorated with holly and such. She saw candles. She saw children who would have looked like her if it weren't for the fact that they were clean and healthy. Warm, comfortable and happy. She was not unaccustomed to seeing food and luxuries that she could not obtain. And she didn't spend a lot of time or energy thinking about such things. She couldn't afford that. Most of her effort went toward strategizing her sheer survival.
She also knew that the more prosperous residential parts of town were no place to try to shelter for the night. So she made her way to the warehouse district down by the piers. She took shelter from the wind in an alley, in a nook between two buildings.
Weakened by malnutrition, she had a hard time fending off the cold. In desperation, she pulled out one of her matches with the intent of lighting it to warm her hands. When she struck the match on the brick wall next to her the match and the flame appeared to her eyes as a stove with brass ornaments and a strong fire. The warmth flooded in and she was relieved. She was even starting to move her feet closer to this stove when the match burnt out and she was left with the night and the brick wall.
She knew better than to use up her stock in trade, but after awhile she could bear the cold no longer. So she pulled out another match. When she struck the match against the wall, that section of the wall disappeared and she saw inside a warm and softly lighted dining room with a meal spread out on it. She was on the verge of reaching in when this match burnt out. The wall returned and blocked her off from this meal.
She looked upward and saw the stars. She saw one slowly fall out of the sky and down to Earth.
She thought, "Someone must have died". Because her Grandmother had told her that a star fell from the sky when a person passed on. Her Grandmother was the only person in her memory who had actually loved her. Had kept her clothed and fed. Had kept her warm and clean. And given her a secure place to live and to sleep.
She lit another match. This time, instead of the flame, she saw her Grandmother. Looking taller and more beautiful even than she had remembered.
In a near panic that this vision, too, would fade she bawled, "Grandma! Don't go! Please, take me with you!" And she grabbed the remaining matches in her hand and struck them on the brick wall.
And her Grandmother gathered her into her arms.
It was then that I turned and looked at the radio and asked myself, "Where is this story going?' I was already reaching to turn the stupid thing off.
But it was too late. She had died and was being welcomed into the Kingdom of Heaven. No doubt Andersen viewed this as a happy ending. But it didn't do a thing for me. It caught me like a slap on the face or a knife in the back. I felt like crying. I didn't. But it would have been easy enough.
I had just accompanied a six year old girl on her final journey. To her death. By freezing. Alone on Christmas Eve. I was helpless to do a thing about it.
I asked Garrison Keillor, "How could you do that to me?" I didn't expect an answer and I didn't get one.
I no longer trust Garrison Keillor quite as much as I once did. Maybe he's capable of other zingers.
But maybe I shouldn't put it quite so glibly. He did a good thing, after all. He afflicted the comfortable with the wish to comfort the afflicted.
Perhaps that's why he did it.
PS: On Christmas day I looked up the original story. Then came back and edited this. I was going by a twenty-plus year old memory of the story. From a second hand source, to boot. I think I didn't do too badly. But it needed to be better.
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