(Christmas still life, with fire and Ivy League kindling. Photo Socotra).
I envied the Russians next door. They have made a new wood-burning stove in their dining room, and the cherry glow of the fire makes it the warm centerpiece of the whole house.
I should have had the chimney guy out to check mine, which was neatly swept and pristine, but who knows what sort of creosote build –up was in the pipes. On the verge of Christmas, though, there could be nothing more welcoming than a cheery fire, and I decided to see if it worked.
I had some decorative oak logs that I found at the Methodist Church yard sale- one of them had a carrying strap- and it was old, well seasoned wood that had graced the side of an Arlington hearth for a generation and which I thought would burn nicely.
I had no kindling, though, and I pondered what might suffice. The thin local Culpeper Clarion-Bugle sufficed to demonstrate that the flue could be opened, and the chimney had a nice draw with no smoke released into the Great Room. I needed more.
The downstairs closet was crammed with junk from the old apartment, and prominent in the wreckage was the binder with my Harvard course work. New beginnings, I thought, and began to feed the Xeroxed sheets and notes taken from the Socratic case study method in the JFK School of Government into the fire.
It worked like a charm, and had a pleasant symmetry: I turned the lights down and pulled on my bunny slippers and thought about the year past and the year to come, and all the strange changes. In the darkness, the ruddy glow drew me in, enveloping me in peace.
I remembered the reason for the season, played out in a rental car and driver that delivered is one chill winter day to Bethlehem, and Manger Square. We were on the West Bank, which had been placed off limits to Naval personnel, but we figured, rightly or wrongly, that it was unlikely we would be returning, and to pass up the chance to see the birthplace of the Prince of Peace was worth the risk. It was a pilgrimage of sorts.
A low-level version of the Intifada was in progress at the moment, and a stone of the ancient walls of Jerusalem had been tossed through the passenger side window of the rental car while we walked on Temple Mount. Thinking people might have avoided the whole matter.
But we arrived later in the afternoon and gawked at the plaza and the entrance to the Church of the Nativity. It is one of the oldest Christian churches in the world, if not the oldest, and was erected by the Emperor Constantine and his mother Helena over the grotto where Jesus of Nazareth was born to Mary.
(Church of the Nativity. Photo by Lewis Larsson, American Colony and used by permission).
I took a picture in the growing dusk of the Mosque of Omar, and we proceeded through the ancient Door of Humility. It has been bricked to a smaller size from its original Roman arch, reportedly so the Saracens could not ride into the nave on horseback.
(The Door of Humility of the Church of the Nativity. Photo Ian and Wendy Sewell).
The Square was oddly abandoned, and there were only a few visitors to the grotto, located directly beneath the alter in the church above. Greek Orthodox priests swung their censors and the rich smell of incense evoked frankincense and myrrh, I gawked at the priest in his elaborate robe in the darkness, thinking of the Magi, and a moment of peace in a busy and violent place.
We made it back to the Ship without further incident, buying some trinkets from Palestinian shop keepers who were desperate for the business. It was clear that night, rolling across the West Bank of the Jordan River, and the stars were clear and bright above us.
I fed some more of my Harvard education into the fire, basking in the warmth it produced, and was happy the security light was turned off, and the only illumination was that of primal fire. “Peace on Earth,” I thought. Maybe we can do a better job of that Goodwill thing in the coming year.
Merry Christmas.
Copyright 2012 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com