Christmas at the Hearth

If you happen to find your way to Miranda’s Hearth at Christmas, you will see lots of lights.  Starting at the arch, the little bright stars of light will be on everything.  Not so solidly that it turns the Hearth into an electrocuted rainbow, but just enough to draw accents to what you already wanted to look at: trimming along the sloped roof and the porch, looping around the bushes and through the trees as if they were guiding you right to where you want most of all to be.

The Hearth itself is full of a different kind of light, the warm yellow kind that takes away the chill of New England winter before you even step inside.  The kind that melts out of the house like butter, oozing into the shadows and stretching across the lawn in an attempt to brighten everything around it.  A large fire burns in a metal drum outside and a gaggle of children are roasting marshmallows, carefully watched by adults who are also dolling out chocolate and graham crackers for s’mores.

For a moment they all look a little strange, like characters out of a children’s book, and then you realize why: they are all wearing pajamas.  Some are covered head-to-toe in the same fabric, others clash horribly, and at least one of the adults is wearing a reindeer covered onesie.

As you get out of the car, you’re a little embarrassed by the red sweater and black dress pants you’re wearing, but no one says anything.  They just smile as you walk up towards the Hearth.  One little girl offers you half of her smore, the rest of which seemed to missed her mouth entirely only to cover the bottom half of her face.

From through wide open doors comes the sound of Christmas carols, but not the peaceful sound of your parent’s living room.  Instead at least twenty people are singing along to a few guitars and at least one drum.  Some are in tune, some are even harmonizing, and some are just providing interesting counterpoints.

For a moment when you step through those doors, you’re overwhelmed by the activity.  The musicians are in the far back corner surrounded by a throng of rosy-faced carolers and there are bulging stockings lining the back wall, but you can barely see them through milling pajama clad people in the middle of the room.

“Merry Christmas Eve!” cries the woman who taught your painting class a few seasons ago.  She’s wearing a set of black pajamas with colored spots, which you realized she has probably spent time painting in.  In her hand is a gaudily wrapped gift which she shoves toward you.  “Here’s your present!”

“Oh, ah, thank you,” you say.

“Well, open it up,” she coaxes.

You tear off the wrapping paper, suppressing for a moment that childish glee that never quite goes away, and a huge pair of men’s red plaid pajamas fall out.  You blink for a moment until the woman starts laughing, and you laugh along.

“There’s an exchange pile over near the stockings,” she says with a broad grin.  “Go find a pair you like.  You’re welcome to put them on now, or just take them home with you.”

“Thanks!” you say, her grinning Christmas spirit starting to infect you.  It’s hard not to feel that, standing in the warm room full of laughter, music, and art.

As you exchange the red plaid pajamas for a pair you might actually wear, you read a sign next to the stockings.

“Last year we filled 27 stockings with non-perishable food for the local shelter!” it proclaimed.  “This year, lets fill even more!”

Under that, fine print said where the food was going, what kind of food to bring, and how long the stockings would be there.  They stockings stretched down the entire back wall and over three quarters of them were bulging with cans, boxes, and other goods.

A man walks up next to you and looks at the stockings.  He strikes up a conversation about them and eventually he leads you to the food table and towards the music just as the carolers start to belt, “It’s Beginning to Look at Lot Like Christmas.”  At first, you feel mildly embarrassed, but as you look around at the enthusiastic people around you, you let it go and start belting along, thinking to yourself, “There are worse ways to spend Christmas Eve.”

This photo has nothing to do with the post apart from it being Christmas themed. This is my father dressed up as Santa. And yes, that is a real beard.
By the time Miranda’s Hearth is happening, the hair on the top of his head will probably be white to match and Santa will be complete!