 |
|
|
 |
Vanity
Fair's Mover's & Shakers window at Barneys. 6:15 PM. Photo:
JH.
|
A cold Christmas weekend in New York with a light snow
falling at this writing (Sunday night). Very quiet on Friday night, Christmas
Eve. A cabbie told me that a lot of people had left town on Thursday.
I went with Alice Mason to a large holiday party that Nan
and Gay Talese host annually with their two beautiful daughters. The Taleses
draw a big arts and literary crowd. Afterwards I went uptown to
a dinner with family and friends.
Much was made
this year of the supposed diminishing use of the word “Christmas,” replacing it with “Holiday.” I
saw somewhere on the Web that old Henry Ford once
made the same complaint publicly. In 1921. The difference for me
is that I’m
grown-up, way grown-up, and do not have the pleasure of the company
and the joy of small children around me at Christmastime. |
 |
First
signs of snow on 83rd and East End Avenue. 9:45 PM.
|
When
I was a kid, the local paper had an illustration of
a Santa in a box on the lower right hand corner of the front
page. Starting right after Thanksgiving, it would say: “25
Shopping Days ‘til Christmas,” etc., with the
number reducing daily. I’d look at that box each day
with excitement and anticipation.
It meant many things starting with the getting, the putting up and the decorating
of the tree. We never got ours until Christmas Eve. We were the last house in
the neighborhood to put up the tree, a fact which caused this child a dose of
anxiety and consternation every year, filled with fear (unwarranted as it was
by fact) that like many other things in my father’s house, we wouldn’t
have one.
The tree provided so many departures from the grey and cold grimness of the everyday
New England winters that seemed in those days to have begun around the end
of November. The tree is a symbol of the hope for many children. We easily forget
that hope is most active and sincere in children. It is often their only protection
from the insanity of the world.
The tree affirmed all that hope. There was the smell of the pine, the lights
and the reflecting sparkle of the Christmas tree balls, the paper icicles and
the inevitable star on the top of the tree. Once the decoration was completed
and the lights were turned on, we’d turn off all the other lights in the
living room just to bathe in that magic technicolor glow.
Our tree was never perfect, like the ones in the magazine ads or in the department
stores, or the trees of the movie stars out in Hollywood that we’d see
in the fan magazines. In retrospect, I realize that my father’s decision
to wait until the last possible moment to buy our tree (because it was cheaper
that way) also meant that the best specimens went early. Our tree sometimes required
some clever “filling in” and some positioning in the corner to conceal
its flaws or lack of branches. Once everything was finished, whatever “filling
in” that could not be achieved was assisted by squinting just a little as
you viewed this treasure.
Holiday time was also an occasion for many of the men in the family — father,
a couple of uncles and brothers-in-law — to be moody and brooding. Their
attitude served as a nice unnecessary contrast to the natural joyousness of the
children and the effort of the women to make the most of things. As a child I
always felt they resented our good times. Many years later, I still think that
was it.
I promised myself then that when I grew up there would be no brooding, no moods
in any house of mine. I vowed I would always have a good time, no matter what,
and so would all those around me. I have been fortunate; that vow has been true.
Although hard times, economically and emotionally have sometimes got in the way,
and although I have sometimes been alone on these holidays, they’ve always
been good times at least for the moment.
 |
Looking
south on Park Avenue towards the MetLife Building
|
|
Meanwhile,
in Manhattan yesterday, it was the first shopping
day after Christmas, a new tradition in contrast to shopping traditions
of days of yore. I went down to Saks to pick up a package. It was
mobbed. A saleswoman told me that when she arrived at 9 in the
morning for work, there were already mobs of people leaving the
store with shopping bags – they’d shown up at 8 o’clock
to take advantage of the big sales.
Sunday after Christmas was never a business day in America when I was growing
up. Today, Sunday is just another business day. And a necessary one if you’re
in retailing. It was very important at Saks: every employee was required to come
in for a full day. You could see, they needed all the help they could get. Fifth
Avenue was mobbed too, and same with Bloomingdale’s and all the other big
stores, all of which were open.
At the end of the day yesterday, JH and the Digital went out for a looksee around
midtown Manhattan ... |
|
|
|
|
