CULTURE
The Night The Earth Stood Still
By Robert H. Wills
That night, time paused as the earth slowed, and then stopped spinning.
For a few magical moments the lighted candles on the Dubins’ Christmas tree cast a Yuletide glow over our faces … as Ursula, recalling her childhood in Germany, softly sang “Stille nacht, heilige nacht” at the baby grand piano.
When I was a child hearing the story of the birth of Christ in parables and carols, I concluded that surely the world must have stopped rotating to allow so many events to occur: the arrival of Mary and Joseph in Bethlehem, rejection at the inn, the search for a manger, the throes of birthing, the arrival of shepherds with their sheep, the cross-desert travel of three gift-bearing kings from the Orient.
Only a David O. Selznick could fit them all into a single night.
If there had been clocks, they would have to stop so all the characters in the Christmas pageant would have time to play their roles.
I was reminded of this pageantry of Christmas about five years ago when we were invited to share a Christmas evening with Ursula and Howard Dubin, friends of many years, at their home in Evanston.
The night was cold and the snow was piled high along the streets and at the crosswalks. Few people were astir as the tires growled through the icy ruts of Sheridan Road past the Northwestern University campus. My alma mater was dark and quiet; most students had gone home for the holidays.
Christmas lights festooned the Dubin home nestled in the deep snow. The car wheels continued their complaints until they stopped rotating in the driveway.
As we entered, the house seemed to wrap its walls closer to welcome us with warmth, color and light. Christmas at the Dubins began at the front door and continued past the piano to the spaciousness of the dining area, living and sunrooms. Outside lights created a multicolored glow in the snow piled on the evergreens that bordered the window wall. Tracks of critters, even a deer, mottled the snow where animals came to munch on grain scattered by wasteful birds from a hanging feeder.
Inside, all eyes were attracted to the beautifully decorated Christmas tree. At a casual glance, it appeared to be a tree one might expect at dozens of North Shore homes, colorfully decorated with family favorites and good taste – with one distinguishing feature: among its branches were affixed candles.
“Cute idea,” I thought. “Makes it look like an old-fashioned Christmas tree.”
Obviously, Ursula, a fun-loving sprite from Germany, took Christmas seriously. In a few minutes, we would learn how seriously.
Busying herself in the kitchen, she spread an array of rich desserts, some from the “old country,” on the dining room table. Ursula had come to the United States after World War II with the encouragement of her sister who married an American military officer. Ironically, she had met Howard in Germany when he was stationed there. He told her she could have a job at his company, Manufacturers’ News in Chicago, if she ever came to America.
She came, she saw, she conquered. Howard sponsored her with the promised job. A playful young lady, she and Howard fell in love and married. In many ways, they seemed an unmatched pair. Howard was quiet and serious, business-like. Ursula was a tightly wrapped bundle of fun ready to explode into laughter, or devilment, at the slightest stimulus.
She got a buzz from taking risks. In driving, in her relationships with others, in whatever she attempted, she was fearless.
Watching the two of them, I could see that Ursula’s spontaneity filled a hollow in Howard’s personality. They enjoyed traveling the back roads of the Middle West together, Ursula pushing their Mercedes over the speed limit; Howard, bemused, giving in to her reckless behavior waiting for her next escapade.
He never had to wait long.
In their living room this holiday night, they casually turned to the Christmas tree and began checking each candle to make sure it was upright and that no pine needles or decorations were near it.
That’s when I realized, “Good Lord, they’re going to light those candles.”
I looked on in amazement, and some degree of fear. As a small boy, I was once given an artificial table-sized Christmas tree, a hand-me-down from my sisters, which had green paper branches. On the end of each branch were a fake holly berry and a clip-like metal device.
I asked my mother about it. “Those are candle holders,”
she explained.
“When I was a little girl,” she said, “they decorated Christmas
trees with candles. That was before we had electricity. But it was very dangerous.
If the tree tipped, or the branches dried out, the tree often caught fire.
Sometimes it burned the house down.”
I never forgot that safety lesson. And now, at the beginning of the twenty-first century, I was sitting in the living room of a house where they were going to light candles on a Christmas tree.
“Do you alert the fire department when you do this?” I asked Howard, trying to be light-hearted.
“I wouldn’t do that,” was his laconic response.
Now Ursula was beginning to light the candles. They weren’t little birthday cake candles. They were a half-inch thick and as big around as my index finger. They would burn much longer than birthday candles. Ursula remained cool as she continued – she obviously didn’t fluster easily. That was Ursula.
“How often do you do this?” I asked.
“Oh, several times each Christmas -- whenever we have guests,” Howard answered.
The candles were lit, and everything was going well. I sat back. “I might as well be cool,” I said to myself.
And suddenly I was overwhelmed by the beauty of it all. What can compare in modern day America with needled branches casting shadows from flickering candlelight and ornaments multiplying the reflections of scattered flames? We sat silently, mesmerized as the burning tapers cast a spell on the room and its occupants.
Ursula slipped over to the piano bench and began playing carols. Old familiar carols we all knew. And soon we were all singing with her as Howard unobtrusively watched the tree and the candles.
Then Ursula began “Silent Night, Holy Night”, the ideal carol for the mood and the setting.
“Silent night, Holy night,
All is calm, all is bright,
Round yon Virgin, Mother and Child
Holy infant so tender and mild,
Sleep in heavenly peace,
Sleep in heavenly peace.”
I felt my world slowing. It was the spell of my childhood which had lain latent for so many years.
I glanced at Ursula as she shifted to the German language. Her
countenance was that of a wayward, golden haired angel.
“Stiile Nacht, heilige Nacht
Alles schlaft, einsam wacht
Nur das traute, hochheilige Paar,
Holder Knabe im lockigen Haar.
Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh’!
Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh’!
Time paused in its flight as she finished singing. No ticking, no chimes. And the world again found time to celebrate Christ’s birth.
As Howard and Ursula snuffed the candles, I breathed a sigh of relief and the voices of friends enjoying each other’s company resumed their chatter.
Ursula had bestowed on us the gift of a perfect Christmas.
