Marie is an experienced writer of nostalgia, most often about the town she loves, Auburn.
As we approached Auburn one night not long ago, coming from Bowling Green where we had been Christmas shopping, I felt as always tenderness and love
for my little town that has seen so many Christmases. I fancy the old buildings muse on other days and ways and miss the faces of merchants, families
and children that are no longer here.
Arriving home tired, I slumped into my easy chair. The chair is old and some may say ragged, but, it’s mine and I like it. Suddenly I realized that my
town fits me like the old easy chair. I know each wrinkle, the sturdiness of each arm and where I must avoid a spring that’s worn. Its contours fit; we
have molded each to the other and that’s ok with me.
Many times I have left my town for months and even years. In younger days I was once told by a poetic friend that my returning home often was like
sailing into a safe harbor, to find there new courage to sail the seas again. Looking back, I know that was true. Especially when Christmas time came
my footsteps would follow my heart to the town of my birth. The years are long and many since I was barely tall enough to reach the top of the counter
at Webb’s Grocery. Never a Christmas passes that I don’t remember those kind people and other merchants around the town.
I believe that Christmas time in the late 40’s and early 50’s was less commercial and more family and church orientated. Families spent more time
together and social life revolved around the church. Christmas was wonderful fun for every child I knew, including myself. But, above all, we were not
likely to be let forget the real meaning of Christmas.
My grandfather’s barn, when I was a small child, represented for me the stable of Jesus’ birth. There was a manger on the wall of the stall for food
and fodder for the one cow we kept for milking. She was a lovely Jersey; but, no matter how often her stall was cleaned, she soon had a mess there
again. So, I understood early on what the conditions must have been in the Bethlehem stable. I was not able to articulate my thoughts at the time, but
I knew there would have been manure and I was told that sheep are not even as clean as our Jersey. It felt good to me to know that Jesus was not born
in a mansion, but in a place I could relate to. His mother was young, some said a teenager, and Joseph was a carpenter. Those who came to worship Him
were lowly shepherds and wise men. I knew a lot of people like that in my town. I wondered what color His eyes and hair were. But, then I decided those
things were not all that important; He was one of us. As I grew older I came to understand the majesty He had left behind to become one of us and the
price He paid for our reconciliation with God our Father.
At this 2010 Christmas season let us be reminded that the birth of the Christ-Child in the most humble of places is what this season is all about. Just
as that first humble home radiated love, faith, hope and charity, let us strive to carry these virtues in our hearts and put them into practice in the
New Year ahead.
A joyous Christmas to all