When I lived in New York and took acting classes, I was assigned to work on a scene with a woman who was in her early fifties. She had always seemed bemused and quietly removed from interactions with our most of our class. I thought it was because she was easily thirty years older than anyone else in class and seemed to find us all a little tedious.
We arranged to go to her place to practice, because once she found out where I lived, she said in a Tallula Bankhead kind of voice, “Darling, I don’t go anywhere where I have to walk up six flights of stairs.” And she wrote out her building number.
As I walked the Upper East Side, holding her address in my hand, I wondered what kind of apartment she had. The day wasn’t hot, yet, because the June sun hadn’t really worked its way into the pavement like it does by August.
Between Park and Lexington, I found her address. She lived in a brownstone. She welcomed me in the front room, and we got down to work.
After a while I asked if I might have a glass of water. She made a polite apology for not offering me something sooner and motioned me to follow her. The building extended from the street to a courtyard in the back. It was filled with intricate wood moldings, and built-in bookcases, and was exactly how I had always imagined these houses to be every time I walked by one.
As we started to the kitchen, we came upon a fully decorated dead Christmas tree. It was breathtaking even now; it was tall, the ornaments exquisite.
It must have been even more beautiful six months ago when the needles were green. There were still a few opened Christmas presents beneath it. I glimpsed a cashmere sweater in one box.
“Your Christmas tree?” I asked.
“Yes, it was beautiful. I couldn’t bear to take it down this year,” she said and walked on. The conversation was over, and it wasn’t until our next rehearsal she confided, “My husband is leaving me. He told me between Christmas and New Year, a younger woman, his secretary.”
I tried to be a sympathetic ear, but she impatiently waved for us to go on. We did our scene, and afterwards I walked back to my apartment.
A few weeks after we did our scene, the woman dropped out of the class. I never saw her again.
I wonder when her Christmas tree came down.
Every year in December as I run frantically around trying to finish all my self-imposed tasks, I think of her.
Christmas is simply a time of hope. Hope is present every time a child is born because there is an endless possibility of what that child will bring to the world. As January rolled into February, March and through spring into summer, the woman stayed with Christmas because it represented hope for her that things would be like they once were.
My hope this year is that we find the joy in our existence and the peace of that joy.
(Editor’s note: I wrote this 19 years ago—but I still believe in Christmas hope as the country works its way through the Covid pandemic.)
SHOPPING
Strapped in their car seats, kids peered out the window and waved to Santa as the cars drove slowly past.
Until 2018, the community Ho!Ho!Ho! festivities were sponsored by the Pacific Palisades Chamber of Commerce, but then the Grinch decided this celebration was no longer needed because of activities at Caruso’s mall. The free event was slated to go the way of wayward reindeer – somewhere north of the pole and never to return.
Another good idea was to install a special Santa’s mailbox at Simon Meadow, where children were encouraged to drop a letter inside (or email it to PaliHoHoHo@gmail). All letters will make their way to the North Pole and to Santa’s workshop before Christmas. Santa Claus shared a letter with CTN that we shared with you on a different post.
Editor’s note: When Palisadian Alan Eisenstock is not researching and writing one of his nonfiction books (18 thus far!), he pursues what he calls “a crazy labor of love side project” that he started in mid-March: sending a weekly Covid-themed playlist of songs to his family and friends. These playlists (which can be downloaded on Spotify 
“Do You Know the Way to San Jose” Dionne Warwick. Iconic singer and Beyonce’s aunt performs this Bacharach-David classic from 1968. She has recently become the Don Rickles of Twitter, gently insulting her niece, The Weeknd, and Taylor Swift, among others.
“Tupelo Honey” Van Morrison. From 1971. Northern Ireland’s famous troubadour and one of the world’s most unpleasant human beings sings this gorgeous song about actual honey that comes from a town in Mississippi.
And there you have it, 20 sounds of the city.. Scheduling note: Next Friday is Christmas and the following Friday is New Year’s Day. Do I send out a playlist? Absolutely. The virus never takes a vacation and neither do I.
Sister Parvati, a long-time nun with the Self-Realization Fellowship, passed away on December 11.