CHAPTER 1
My God! Why was Grandfather's secret so tardy to my ears? Why was it not spoken from his own lips? I was in a state of sadness, agitation, isolation, and shock as overwhelming feelings of betrayal preoccupied my thoughts. I had been wrestling with the revelation of his secret for a little over a month, as I was about to celebrate my sixty-fourth birthday and witness the births of my first two grandchildren within three weeks of each other. Rationally, I knew I needed time to allow more clarity to evolve, placing the secret in proper perspective. I had already been given objective insight and comfort from two special, trusted, and endearing friends whose support I had relied upon for countless occasions over the years. Even though I was told it was for my "protection," I allowed my insecure feelings of pride and a false understanding of a betrayal of trust to haunt my better judgment.
Fortunately, my thoughts drifted in a more pleasant direction while walking down Fifth Avenue in Manhattan, observing the decorated stores, Rockefeller Center skaters, the familiar bell of a Salvation Army worker, and the first snow flurries of the season.
It was exactly seven days before Christmas of 1965, a time of wonderful memories in my life, and I needed to snap out of this fog, if even for a few special moments, to remind myself of the blessings of the season.
The bells of Saint Patrick's Cathedral rang out gloriously, signaling the start of a new hour. I felt a temporary tranquility as my thoughts shifted to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's "Christmas Bells." The poem had offered a beacon of light and hope amidst the gloom of senseless death and suffering in the winter of 1864 during the cruel Civil War:
I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said:
"For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail
With peace on earth, good-will to men!"
I must have walked off the curb to cross the street when a taxicab's horn startled me, bringing me back from my reverie to the harshness of hurt feelings. Those laboring thoughts taunted me further while I tried to get home. I barely remembered going through Central Park, passing the Dakota building and my house on Seventy-Third Street. In my careless dismay, I accidentally knocked over the vendor selling chestnuts at the corner of Seventy-Fourth Street and Central Park West.
I was embarrassed and concerned about the poor fellow.
He looked up at me with a smile and said, "Oh, Dr. Waterbury. I didn't recognize you at first. Are you okay?"
I looked at this man curiously as I helped him to his feet and then smiled. "Yes, but what about you?"
"Oh, I'm fine. Doc, I have to thank you again for the medicine you gave me for my wife last year. You made her feel as good as new. Here, have some chestnuts to take home to your family. God bless you. Merry Christmas!"
This man was so gracious to me after I knocked him over. Frankly, I didn't remember him until he reminded me of the medicine.
As a matter of fact, I didn't remember anything along the way from Fifth Avenue to that corner of Seventy-Fourth Street and Central Park West. As time proceeded, my senses refocused, and I went back to Seventy- Third Street. While walking up the stairs, I looked next door, where Joel Spingarn and his family lived while I was growing up. They were such good people and great friends of my family.
As a child and through the years as a young man and adult, I understood the Spingarn family's sense of community responsibility. They gave their financial, personal, and emotional support graciously to promote human welfare. In their home, they were simple and genial, offering the wealthy and poor visitors equal hospitality and regard. They cherished the ideals of democracy and remained quite puzzled at how America could go forward if any contributing segment of its population were left behind; they embodied the true spirit of Christmas and Hanukkah.
I opened the door, and while walking in, I could hear little Sallie Ann crying. I took off my coat and was about to enter my library when I heard the bathwater running and my daughter Elizabeth speaking down the hallway. When I peeked around the door, she was giving little Charlotte a bath. Her eyes were open wide, and the peaceful expression on her face was sobering. I went to touch her dainty little hand; it reminded me how Grandfather used to hold mine so gently, as though he was stroking a treasured heirloom gem.
I left and returned to the library. As I slipped into my overstuffed chair, my thoughts were redirected to the secret hidden in my grandfather's memoirs. I had vivid memories of Grandfather writing in that old, yellow- paged journal when I was twelve years old and telling me that it contained "important information" that would be valuable to me when I became a grandfather. He said, quoting the poet John Burroughs, that "time does not become sacred to us until we have lived it." Now, in my sixty-fifth year, and still feeling somewhat betrayed, his words carried a prophetic meaning. The secret itself created an obvious omission to my identity, but after it was recently revealed, I thought I would have accepted it — even at the age of twelve.
The story in his writings was verified by the only living person who knew my grandparents and father intimately — my governess, trusted friend, ardent supporter, and guiding light, Soulange Micheaux, who at the age of eighty-four, was still spry and clear-minded. She explained why the secret was kept from me. She assured me that it had nothing to do with betrayal or lack of confidence in my ability to accept the truth. It was a practical decision for me to learn who I truly was by my own definition, and not by the judgment or misperceived opinion of others. I felt deep empathy for Grandfather's plight, but it took time for me to realize he was even more of a man to be idolized, respected, and emulated.
After reviewing what Soulange had said, I returned to my immediate thoughts, surrounded by the portraits of my grandfather, grandmother, and father on the walls, and the framed pictures of my close friends and extended family members on my desk. I reread his memoirs, trying to comprehend and appreciate the greater meaning of his life — his sacrifice, his tireless effort, and his pursuit of fulfilling his own mother's vision and dreams. I took Soulange's words to heart as I pondered the births of my two grandchildren. In time, they needed to know this great testimonial. Little Charlotte was born on my birthday, November 28, and little Sallie Ann was born on December 13.
I also reflected on the conversation I had with Hope Lightener two weeks ago. She has been my confidante, friend, and spiritual soul mate — a pillar of strength over the past twelve years. Her husband had recently died, and I had flown to Paris to provide support for her. While there, I spoke about Grandfather's secret as well. She had a much more settling understanding as to why its truths were not disclosed earlier. She suggested having the whole family and close friends over for Christmas and giving them Grandfather's family story as a gift for all. I held her recommendation in the back of my mind since I was still trying to sort through my emotional reaction. Both Soulange and Hope presented the circumstances and broader picture in understanding why I had to wait for this information. Surely, the story needed to be shared with my family and loved ones. I gazed once more on Grandfather's portrait, and it was as if he was smiling back, refocusing my thoughts. What did Christmas mean to us?
Christmas had always been a particularly important part of the winter season for us, not just a celebration of the Nativity of Jesus, but also the connective human feelings expressed in fellowship, family, and friendship through festive gatherings, places of worship, or friendly exchanges. I remembered learning about the customs, traditions, and celebrations of Christmases past at our family's Christmas festivities in 1912. I thought I should share those meaningful memories since they only reinforced why Hope's suggestion of reading my grandfather's memoirs would be appropriate for a Christmas gathering.
There is no definite account of the date of Jesus's birth, but Clement of Alexandria wrote about the religious feast of the Epiphany commemorating the arrival of the three wise men in Bethlehem in the company of Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus. On the eve of the Epiphany, the twelfth night after Jesus's birth, the springs and rivers were blessed and water was drawn to be stored — "holy" water — and used throughout the year for baptisms or other ceremonial purifications. This feast of the three kings, considered a feast of baptism, was acknowledged on January 6. It was also called the Day of Lights, or Natalis Invicti Solis (the "birthday of the unconquered sun"). The Greek origin of the word epiphany is epiphaneia, meaning manifestation or appearance.
In the early part of the fourth century AD, the December 25 date became the "official" birthday of Jesus, paralleling the pagan festival Saturnalia in Rome around the end of the first century. This festival honored the god Saturn and the spring planting to come. There was no religious inference in these celebrations. The English derivation of Christmas was around AD 1000. The reference in Old English was Christes Maesse, meaning the Mass of Christ. It was later shortened to Christemass and then Christmas.
Throughout the first twelve centuries AD, Christmas was celebrated in the church with rigid, ceremonial rites and very little festivity. But in the town of Greccho, Italy, an insightful Saint Francis of Assisi was given the opportunity to conduct midnight Mass with the pope, and he encouraged the townspeople to celebrate Christmas as a reenactment of the birth of Jesus, similar to the familiar Nativity scene, with singing carols of the glory of the birth. This joyous celebration of the "Creche" (French for the manger) would evolve in France as well, and permanently change the experience of Christmas.
The general themes of all the carols — derived from Germany, France, Austria, England, the Nordic countries, and America — are love, peace, and joy. The religious "purists" of the 1600s (the Puritans in England and America) denounced the carols, considering the music a distraction from God for the worshipper. Throughout this time, the Dutch, French, and German Episcopalians continued writing and singing carols at festive celebrations of Christmas.
In the mid-nineteenth century, England had great changes in the attitudes of both music and overall customs. German-born Prince Albert, new husband to Queen Victoria, brought his home tradition of a Christmas tree to Windsor Castle. Many favorite Christmas carols were written from 1818 through the 1850s.
American author Washington Irving, noted for his legendary Sleepy Hollow, wrote several essays supporting the ideas of Christmas after his visit to England during the late 1810s. Charles Dickens wrote his favorite classic A Christmas Carol in 1843, later becoming a theatrical play and winning great public acclaim. The Episcopalian minister, Clement Moore, wrote A visit From Saint Nicholas in 1822, featuring the Dutch "Sinta Klaes" (Saint Nicholas). The first greeting cards came from England, and Louis Prang perfected the art of a more detailed greeting card in Boston in 1873. With illustrations of Santa Claus from Thomas Nast, Frank Woolworth's commercial interest in decorations for the tree, electricity giving "light" to the ornaments, and more and more public interest in the spectacle of Christmas, the whole tradition evolved in the twentieth century to the current dazzling display of excitement and magic.
After remembering some of these highlights about Christmas past, I thought about two special considerations that my father and grandfather shared with me that same 1912 Christmas night.
The custom honoring the twelve days of Christmas, starting on December 25 and finishing the night of January 5 (the Eve of the Epiphany) had distinct significance. The twelve days symbolically represent the twelve months of the full year. The time spent and the active participation in the church and homes of families and friends offered an introspective review, reminding us what we could use throughout the year to sustain ourselves during the trials and tribulations as well as our serene and good times. The twelve days provided an active process to create a "storage supply," like the farmers did as they prepared for the lean months of winter so they wouldn't starve.
Those days also provided a time of reflection to consider the needs and circumstances of poorer, less fortunate people who are part of this life. Grandfather was emphatic when he said, "It is through their eyes and ears that we can see ourselves more clearly and listen to our hearts more openly. It is not the alms that we conveniently give to satisfy our conscience while addressing their needs. It is their plea for routine regard and their hope for comfort that remains unaddressed when we don't take that extra step to offer time and interest with direct involvement. We don't want to walk away from our given opportunities."
There have been individuals, even leaders of nations, who have embraced the plight of those less fortunate. Saint Vaclav, better known as Stephen Wenceslaus, Duke of Bohemia, was ruler from AD 925-929. In that short period of time, he provided his people with peace and compassion. The account recorded by one of his biographers stated:
Prince Vaclav not only mastered letters, but he was perfected by faith. He rendered good unto all the poor, clothed the naked, fed the hungry, and received wayfarers. He defended widows, had mercy on people, the wanting and the wealthy, and served those who worked for God ... he did as much as he could, all manner of good things in his life.
He was assassinated by his evil younger brother who conspired with their mother and others. After his death, Vaclav was made a martyr and saint, and his influence was felt throughout his country because of the exemplary life he lived. A Czech holiday is celebrated on the second day of the twelve days of Christmas: the feast of Saint Stephen. His influence was so great that a carol was written in 1853, describing his good deeds.
The second point to share from that 1912 Christmas was a reading from Washington Irving's Old Christmas, which was written in 1820. The following lines from that introspective essay have been etched in my thoughts of Christmas since Grandfather recited them, and I take time each year to meditate on its comprehensive lessons:
Christmas awakens the strongest and most heartfelt associations. There is a tone of solemn and sacred feeling that blends with our conviviality, and lifts the spirit to a state of hallowed and elevated enjoyment. The services of the church about this season are extremely tender and inspiring. They dwell on the beautiful story of the origin of our faith, and the pastoral scenes that accompanied its announcement. They gradually increase in fervor and pathos during the season of Advent, until they break forth in full jubilee on the morning that brought peace and good-will to men. I do not know a grander effect of music on the moral feelings than to hear the full choir and the pealing organ performing a Christmas anthem in a cathedral, and filling every part of the vast pile with triumphant harmony. It is a beautiful arrangement, also derived from days of yore, that this festival, which commemorates the announcement of the religion of peace and love, has been made the season for gathering together of family connections, and drawing closer again those bands of kindred hearts which the cares and pleasures and sorrows of the world are continually operating to cast loose; of calling back the children of a family who have launched forth in life, and wandered widely asunder, once more to assemble about the paternal hearth, that rallying- place of the affections, there to grow young and loving again among the endearing mementoes of childhood ... But now, the world has become more worldly. There is more of dissipation and less of enjoyment. Pleasure has expanded into a broader, but a shallower stream, and has forsaken many of those deep and quiet channels where it flowed sweetly through the calm bosom of domestic life. Society has acquired a more enlightened and elegant tone but it has lost many of its homebred feelings and its honest fireside delights ... Shorn as it is of its ancient and festive honors, Christmas is still a period of delightful excitement ... It is indeed the season of regenerated feeling — the season for kindling, not merely the fire of hospitality in the hall, but the genial flame of charity in the heart.
