[November, 2016]
There’s a story that I’ve loved ever since I first heard it. It comes courtesy of Alexander Woolcott, whom you may have heard of. Mr. Woolcott was the Dean of American Letters in the 1930s and 1940s. He knew everyone who was anyone and was the most respected single voice in the world of American arts and literature. His opinion of who was who, and what was good or not good – in both literature and the theatre — carried great weight.
Woolcott lived in the Algonquin Hotel in Manhattan. Because of Woolcott’s reputation and activities, the Algonquin management was good enough to set aside one of its rooms as a meeting place for anyone and everyone who was in town and desired stimulating and pleasurable conversation. The centerpiece of the room was a large round table — the fabled Algonquin Round Table. And around it sat many of the most significant thinkers of the day in the fields of literature, the arts, science, business, sociology, the theatre, psychology, film, economics, books, culture in general and even politics — all in free exchange of their beliefs, ideas, and knowledge.
The Algonquin round table ran from 1919 to 1929, in open discussion, and without any particular agenda other than to cast light on things and brainstorm. As I said, anyone who was in town and cared to have serious conversation about past, current, and future events – or just otherwise participate — was welcome to do so. Our phrase ‘round table discussion’ originated there. That cultural Mecca was the epicenter for one of the most significant outpouring of intellectual, artistic, economic, and creative thought and stimulation the modern world has known — and it was Mr. Woolcott’s invention and gift. You can learn more about it through Wikipedia.
Woolcott was a writer as well as an opinion maker, and he penned the following Christmas story that has long been dear to my heart. I’ll try to tell it as well as he did. I like the story because it seems to recognize the good in people that often goes unrecognized. It is, in its own way, a story about me, and you, and our neighbors.
I hope this doesn’t come off as too preachy and treacly. But it’s a story that has always brought a lump to my throat, when I think of it.
The story begins on a cold, bleak Christmas Eve. It’s Winter; the day has worn away, and it’s getting dark. An icy, cutting wind is blowing through the town’s empty streets. These are completely deserted. The townspeople are at home, in front of their fires with their families, with festive Christmas dinners soon to be had. All is quiet and still except for the whistle of the wind, and the incessant blowing of the sleety wind. There is an unexpected movement in the stillness, however. It’s an old beggar, poorly clothed and huddled in a doorway, trying to escape the freezing shafts of the wind. The poor man looks like he’s seen much better days. He moves along the street from doorway to doorway, slowly, trying to huddle out of the wind, and driven by the freezing cold. He seems to have no destination other than any little shelter he can find. After a while he reaches the town’s church, whose doorway is deeper and offers some greater degree of protection from the chill; he retreats into it as far as he can. And, pressing his back against the door, he is surprised to find it yielding. It has been left unlocked. He pushes it open and, cautiously, goes into the church.
The building is empty. All is quiet. The lights of many candles illuminate the space with a warm and intimate glow. And in the front, at the altar, a Christmas feast has been laid out. There are also festively wrapped packages and presents in a pile on the floor; the congregation has made lavish gifts to the Christ Child to celebrate his birth. Among the offerings and fineries there are bolts of expensive, colorful cloth. And in the center of it all is a table laden with delicacies that will be consumed in a short while, when the church members come in for that night’s special Christmas service.
The old beggar looks at this display hungrily. He hasn’t eaten in days. Cautiously, he approaches the table, drawn to its odors and promise of plenty, looking about to see if anyone is going to raise an alarm. But no: he is alone. He takes a little food . . . and then some more food. He eats, ravenously and gratefully, until he is satisfied. It’s not cold in the church, but with his tummy full now, and his blood going to it, he feels the cold. He wraps some of the cloths around himself to warm himself. The fabrics are of bright, vibrant hues.
Being wrapped in such festive colors, and being surrounded by the churchly shine and glitter, the beggar remembers that many years ago, when he was a young man, he worked in a circus. He was a juggler, and did his work in brightly colored clothing. The colors, lights, and sparkle have reminded him of that circus life left behind long, long ago, and that he hadn’t thought about in many years.
He has not done any juggling since he left the circus; and it occurs to him to wonder if he can still do it. So he goes to a large fruit bowl in the middle of the table and takes some apples from it, and begins to juggle a few of them. He can still do it! Slowly, revived by the food he’s just eaten, and being warmed up by his wrappings, and also loosening up the muscles of his arms and hands with the exercise of juggling, he gradually juggles faster. His coordination starts to come back to him. And he takes more apples from the bowl, and juggles them! Pretty soon, he’s juggling more things than he’s ever juggled before. He’s never juggled this well! He’s inspired! It is a magical, private moment.
But it is only a moment, and after a while the impulse and inspiration pass. It’s time for him to go; people will soon be arriving. The beggar puts the apples back into the bowl. He removes his warming fabrics, re-folds them, and goes out, back into the cold dark night. The church is silent.
Unbeknownst to the beggar, two priests have been watching him from an alcove behind a curtain. After he has left, one of the priests turns to the other and says, “Did you see that? Did you see what that filthy old beggar did? He touched our Christ’s gifts. He ate his food. He played with it! What a sacrilege! What a desecration!”
His companion, who is the older and wiser of the two, slowly turns to him and says, “oh . . . is that how you saw it? I saw it differently. You know, our congregants are prosperous people. Yes, they have bought many fine gifts for our Christ and our church. But they lead comfortable lives and these things are easy for them to buy and give. This old man, he gave a gift too. But . . . he gave of his ability. He gave of his skill. He gave of himself. Truly, he gave the finest gift of all”.
That, my friends, is a generous insight. And at times I think that this is us, the artists and guitar makers and musicians . . . and parents and homemakers . . . and healers and teachers . . . and anyone else like us who do the best we can in spite of hardships . . . of which there are plenty all around us.
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And, speaking of the finest gift of all, this brings me to someone who has made no discernible gifts to anyone, ever: the new prez, Mr. Trump; he never seems to have had a generous impulse or warm thought. As I write this, the 2016 elections are three days behind me and I feel ill.