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We'd gone and done it. Our new neighbors here in western Maine have been very kind to us, and right from the get-go, too. On moving day, we found a spray of balloons tied to our railing and a welcome basket filled with local treasures and other valuable detritus. Our truck emptied out almost instantly as the many offered hands made the work light. People are pleasant in Maine. I don't know how else to say it.
We had entered a world of reciprocal courtesy. We lived for fifteen years at our last address in Massachusetts, and in that time more or less no one in town had shown us the slightest bit of courtesy, and any outbound overtures we made were instantly rebuffed. Every handshake was just a bouquet of middle fingers. We thought we might make good neighbors somewhere, but how would we know? Might as well ask if a polar bear might make a good equatorial pet. Possibly.
It's been easy to be a good neighbor here, if that's what we've been. That's not up to me to say, really. But one of our neighbors asked us to be in the Christmas pageant in town. She sings (well) in the local chorus, and as is often the case, people find some other thing to do, or some other place to be, when it's required to get up on stage and do what I always refer to as: Facing the wrong way. There were no takers for facing the wrong way dressed as Mary and Joseph. Would we do it?
As is traditional, the baby Jesus
would be played by a forty-watt light bulb
At first we begged off. I've faced the wrong way, thousands of times, in front of hundreds of thousands of people. I'm immune to embarrassment at this point, and my wife is married to me, so nothing more embarrassing than that can ever happen to her. That wasn't it. I work almost around the clock, one way or another, and my wife does too, and it seemed like we might disappoint someone, somehow, if we unwittingly committed to show up in two places at the same time. That, and a little part of us thought it might be presumptuous of us to horn in on local traditions after only nine months in town. I think you’re supposed to watch the parade once before you’re in it.
She asked again a week later, and we knew we had made a mistake by demurring. Neighbors shouldn't have to ask twice for anything. So my wife would be Mary, I was Joseph, and as is traditional, the baby Jesus would be played by a forty-watt light bulb. We were only on the hook for a publicity photo shoot, a very perfunctory rehearsal, (for us -- the rest of them actually had to sing and dance, and must have practiced a lot) and two shows, performed in the high school auditorium.
There's something of a fly in amber vibe here in Rumford Falls. Nothing is new. There's a fair bit of interesting history to the place, but in most ways there's nothing but history, which can be depressing. It was jarring to be introduced to the other participants in the pageant as: The Young Couple -- because we ain't.
My wife and I waited dressed in costumes
and holding the holy football
I was somewhat astonished to find the chorus has been doing this for forty-two years. Forty-two years ago I was doing much the same thing as a child in a parochial school, so an eerie déjà vu crept into my mind. My wife and I waited in the cafeteria at the back of the hall, dressed in costumes and holding the holy football, missed all the parts of the show we weren't in, then marched down the aisle and up onto the stage, illuminated by a lone spotlight in the darkened auditorium, while the chorus sang A Christmas Alleluia. We were sort of off-duty but still on stage after that. My wife spiked the Christchild into the manger, we plopped down on either side, then stared at the audience for fifteen or twenty minutes.
A series of familiar tableaus were struck around us as the chorus cycled through an ecumenical assortment of equally familiar Christmas songs.
The magi came at us like locomotives, wearing Tevas and Adidas slip-ons for sandals under their terrycloth jubbahs, a big honking chrome watch peeking amusingly out from one of their sleeves.
The Little Drummer Boy was a little drummer girl, and as cute as a daisy. She held the drumsticks like pens, came down the aisle the only way a seven-year-old knows -- as fast as you can -- then knelt in front of us with her back to the audience, asking us in a stage whisper over and over, "Is it time to go off stage yet, is it time to go off stage yet?” This was accompanied by the chorus trying to get The Little Drummer Boy song up a tree where they could kill it, but it proved elusive. With near forty people taking a run at pa-rum-pum-pum-pums simultaneously, the song has a habit of turning into a loop of Drummer Boy distress signals.
And we would be run out of town
for mocking the Christmas pageant.
The Drummer Girl heard them pause, answered her own question, and left us with two stanzas to go. When she heard the singing resume, she came back onstage a few feet, thought the better of it, then left for good. My wife looked at me, imploring me with her eyes not to whisper anything mordant, or she would lose control of herself and we would be run out of town on a rail for mocking the Christmas pageant. I was having way too much fun to even smile.
With nothing much to do, I began to really look at the thing. I was struck by the cultural confidence of it. Nothing was done derisively or defensively, no trying to be anything but genuine. No apologies were offered. Nothing was edgy. No one tried to be sophisticated at the holiday’s expense. The soloist was nervous at the microphone – I recognize it when I see it – but she sang beautifully.
I began to think of my dead past, the Mass chanted in Latin, the cassocks and surplices and the swinging thuribles, the awesome face of Christmas in a Catholic church before it lost its way and became ashamed of itself. I thought about my Father, gone now, but a true child of the Boston Irish version of the one, Holy, Catholic and Apostolic Church.
But we are the “Young Couple,” so actuarial thoughts crept in. I don’t know if this entire edifice of tradition will crumble into nothing for lack of interest while I look on. I do know that during the Dark Ages, monks scribbled away at their parchments in their cold little stone hives, waiting for the next wave of barbarism to wash over their emerald isle.
They never said: It’s useless, why bother? They had the simple faith to keep going while the world devolved around them. They hoped some bit of their efforts might still be there when civilization showed its face again. I was glad I did not just pay lip service to the squares that make the traditional world go ‘round, and assume that world would always be there if I ever wanted it. I was glad I made a serious fool of myself.
Our state representative, the one I told you about that I admired a bit but didn’t vote for, remembered our names, and sent us a Christmas Card. A clipping of our picture from the local paper fluttered out of it, and the card read:
I attended Saturday evening’s RAAPA show with my family. Thank you for such a beautiful performance. Happy Holidays.
You know, I guess there’s hope for that guy. Or for me. Not sure which.
Merry Christmas.
