Chapter 6
Christmas in Green Bay
The third week in December I flew home to Philadelphia for a long weekend. I told everyone I would be spending Christmas in Green Bay, so on Sunday afternoon the house filled with family, and we exchanged presents. It appeared I had a couple more cousins, but maybe I am just forgetful. The house was warm and filled with food and friends and Christmas decorations. It only took a few beers before my brothers and I and lots of kids were out in the backyard throwing snowballs and roughhousing. Then it was inside to eat mounds of food. In short, it was a Murphy Christmas.
Before I flew home on Monday my father pulled me into his office for a talk about the business. The guys in the Green Bay office would like to see a bit more of me, one of our customers had moved to Louisiana and left a large accounts receivable balance behind, but otherwise business continued to be exceptional. Oh, and here is your check. I hadn’t been into the office in weeks, so I was a bit embarrassed to take a check, especially when I saw it was for over seventy thousand dollars, but I promised to see what I could do back in Green Bay. Business was good, the family was happy, life in Philadelphia was fine. I left pretty hung over, but feeling happy.
Meanwhile, back in Green Bay the final parties before Christmas were extra large, extra expensive, and these days, extra enjoyable. People were smiling again. Conversations turned to talk about the “great new resort” they had discovered in Arkansas (“and the people were so nice.”) Or the Missouri townhouse they were evaluating. Or the ranch outside Baton Rouge that guaranteed security (“just in case’). Everyone had a plan, and while the plans were different, the main feature was that – they had a plan! Today is much more fun if you have a sense of tomorrow. And wow was that clear at the final parties. Laughter was louder, the dancing more outrageous, the couples quicker to dart off into empty rooms. Green Bay was in a party mood.
Things were going so well that Elise gave herself two nights off. These were going to be two of the biggest parties in town, but the hostesses were friends and Elise was able to get out by hinting that she and I needed some “alone time.” Boy did we ever. Did we engage in momentous conversations, or look longingly at each other over candle light while murmuring sweet nothings? Nope. We watched a couple old movies and were in bed – and asleep – early. It felt marvelous.
Then came Christmas Eve. The French have an interesting practice for Christmas Eve Day – they take the day off work and fast. Most stores are closed and people stay home and do final decorations. The local joke is so many people have been to so many parties in the weeks before Christmas they need one day off from food and drink to recover. I am not sure one day is enough, but it does help.
Then around seven the various masses start, with services every hour on the hour until the last one at Midnight. As you can imagine, the National Cathedral is packed for each mass, but the aristocracy attends the final mass at midnight. This is the one that is broadcast nationally. Interestingly, people tend to dress modestly for this service, with women wearing cotton rather than silks and leaving most of the jewelry at home. Elise and I had had a good day putting a few more ornaments on our tree, and Elise had gone back through the yards to her family’s home to get some of her old ornaments. Then her mother had come over with a couple old photo albums, and we spent a long time looking and laughing. Elise, it turns out, was always beautiful, even during times of braces and teen haircuts.
We decided to attend the midnight mass, so we had the evening to get ready. Here I should joke about how long she took to get ready, but it was clear Elise had a plan. She knew which dress she would wear, what she would wear with it, etc. She was in her white cotton dress with long sleeves and high neckline while I was still searching for a tie. She looked like an angel. I looked like a guy who had just rolled out of bed. Fortunately, no one was going to be looking at me anyway.
Her family was waiting for us when we got to mass. As you would expect, the cathedral was very crowded, and they had lined up extra chairs in any available space, fire marshal be damned. But even for Christmas Eve, the place was especially crowded. It took Elise’s dad to explain to me, “We have some special guests tonight.” He motioned with his head to several people in the pews. I didn’t recognize any of them, but Elise whispered in my ear, “Protestants.” At this point the choir began and people stood while the priest walked up the nave. To his right was a tall man in a black suit who matched him step for step and then sat on a chair that had been placed next to the priest’s. I may be slow, but I know when I am seeing theater. I wondered if this was “Uncle Claude’s” work. You’ve got a national broadcast, why not use the opportunity?
And use it they did. The priest introduced his “good friend Pastor de Jung,” the two of them standing side by side singing the hymns (mostly traditional Christmas carols), and each taking a turn with the microphone, the priest delivering his homily and the pastor a short sermon. Both quoted scripture and made a point of showing they were reading from the same Bible. They weren’t going for subtlety. The big climax came when communion was offered and they both stood with the wafers and wine, the Catholics lining up to take it from the priest and the Protestants taking it from the pastor. Point made – one Bible, one sacrament. I had a feeling the service would be rebroadcast innumerable times during the next weeks.
The problem for the technicians would be cleaning up the ending, because the final act was not as expected. As the last people were walking forward for communion, suddenly there were a series of explosions that sounded like gun shots. In the enclosed space of the Cathedral, they echoed so loud they might have been hand grenades going off. The noises had the predicted effect – people panicked and ran. Suddenly they were jammed up at the doors, falling over folding chairs, pushing each other. It was ugly fast.
And then came the words – “Go with God.” Repeated slowly and with moderate volume, two voices sharing the microphone, “Go with God” The priest and the pastor stood at the same place where they had administered communion, leaning together to talk into the mic. I have no idea how many times they repeated those words, but soon the organist began to play “silent night,” and whatever was left of the choir joined in, and the panic was over. In the pews the most senior government people were slowly uncovered by the security people, one of whom walked to the front of the congregation and picked up a collection of strings.
“Fire crackers. Just fire crackers. A child’s toy for a child’s mind.” I think he got a commendation for that line. I know I would have given him one.
Meanwhile back at our pew, we hadn’t gone anywhere, not because we were brave, but because there was no room to get out. So we huddled up, men mostly on the top. Gradually we untangled, straightened our clothes, and finally stood. It was Elise’s mother who began the singing, joining the choir in Silent Night, but it took no more than a few notes before many more had joined her. And that is how the service ended. There were some injuries as some were pushed against doors or tripped onto the floor, but as they were ministered to, the rest stood and sang, led now by the priest and pastor, standing side by side. It was pretty amazing.
It took several days for security people to analyze tapes and identify the young man who set off the firecrackers. Once they released the tapes, you could see him clearly standing in line with the Protestants, lighting a string of pretty big firecrackers while holding them low, and then tossing them near the Catholic line. He was quickly hauled in but not arrested. With his parents in the room he was given a choice – face charges and likely jail time given the injuries he had caused, or he could publicly apologize to the priest and pastor. He was a pretty stupid teen, but he was smart enough to take the second option. A couple days later he made the evening news apologizing and then receiving forgiveness as both Father Etienne and Pastor de Jung laid a hand on his head and intoned “In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, you are forgiven.” I hear Pastor de Jung had
some additional words to say in private, but the kid got the message. Whatever cause he thought he was supporting or statement he was making, his portion of this conflict was over.
Christmas Day was marvelous. We walked over to Elise’s parents’ house about mid-afternoon, hungry from a day of fasting and happy from the way the midnight mass had worked out. In its own odd way, it had been a bonding experience. Yes, there had been initial panic and a few folks were embarrassed, but most held their places (often locked in place like us), and almost all were around for the final moments of song. There had been a rough patch but we had come through. That seemed to be the final message of it all. And if that was a metaphor for the current conflict with Louisiana, wouldn’t that be nice? We could only hope.
Elise’s sisters were of an age that a couple boys came around later in the afternoon. They were introduced around and seemed to handle the pressure well. Each had brought a present and was rewarded with a chaste kiss. Elise spent much of the afternoon in the kitchen helping her mother, but when she was free she found a place next to me and we held hands. That seemed to draw approving smiles from the older ladies in the room. What else is there to say? When we finally had dinner we all ate as if we had been fasting for weeks, we put a serious dent in the family wine cellar, and everyone left feeling great. It was a fine Christmas.
The Canadian Civil War: Volume 3 - West to the Wall Page 6
