Cambridge Christmas Memories

The snowflakes were big and soft, gently caressing our faces as we walked from school after the annual Christmas concert, two drummers heading to an after-concert band party at Bobbi Boeker’s house on the road to Center Cambridge. It must have been a time neither of us had cars or licenses to drive them, otherwise we wouldn’t have been walking. Oddly, I remember nothing about the party or what we talked about on the long walk, but can recall the precise route we took through the village, the slippery surface of hard packed snow beneath our feet, the swirl of snowflakes and the Christmas decorations all over town, especially those along Main Street.

By Cambridge winter standards, the night was warm. I was most comfortable in my hooded jacket and ebullient mood produced by many factors, one of them knowing we had a long vacation ahead and lots of good times on the horizon, about as happy as I ever was as a teenager. There are many times I miss living so far from home, the Christmas season definitely one of them.

It’s challenging to find Christmas scenery any better than we had, straight off a Norman Rockwell print but even better in three dimensions and with all the senses stimulated too, the smell of pine, hardwood smoke, apple cider and hot chocolate mixed with laughter and Christmas carols. Powerfully emotive stuff for sure.

A year or two later down the Christmas continuum I do remember another school Christmas party that may have been band related too, at the home of Ruth Hudson, our English teacher and mother to Jack and Anne, both also in the band and about my age. I challenge anyone to find a better Cambridge winter image, a colonial era white farmhouse right by the Battenkill on Rt. 313.

“Jesus Christ Superstar” played on a portable record player, the album jacket resting on a nearby chair. I put down a homemade chocolate chip cookie to pick up the album cover, my other hand holding a Coke bottle, the old fashioned nickel deposit kind we used to hunt down as kids when hard up for a little spending cash. No beer at this party. Mrs. Hudson was chaperone, and buddy, we all knew better than to mess with her. We were also greatly blessed to have her as an English teacher.

I would describe Mrs. Hudson in many positive ways, but Power Woman seems most appropriate to me. Mrs. Hudson was tasked with a most difficult job, teaching freshman English to a class full of kids who ranged from scholars to total boneheads, the latter a most apt description of my crowd. Lesser teachers would have thought us beyond educating, but not Mrs. Hudson. We’d learn and behave, or else!

A far as the “or else” went, one discipline method I most remember, even more than the line “rude, crude, uncouth and unattractive” I wrote about earlier, was her reaction to a most vulgar display I won’t describe, even though it was Animal House funny and will cause me to chuckle until the day I die.

Mrs. Hudson typically lectured from a seated position atop a tall stool right in front of class. She was also most wise to keep her zoo animals up close and carefully observed at all times, one of them at arm’s distance from her in the front row. I was one seat behind in an adjacent row of desks.

It was the swiftest and most effective disciplinary action I can recall in all of my days as a student and educator. In reaction to something I won’t describe, Mrs. Hudson, in one rapid motion, drew back and smote the vile dragon, her sword a thick hardcover book she held that may have been a dictionary. While I don’t remember the book specifically, I will never forget the bang thump, a Joe Frazier left hook that connected right on the jaw and knocked the student out of his desk and onto the floor, where he sat staring up at Mrs. Hudson in shocked amazement. Nine, ten and yer out. “Respect a lady or pay the consequences,” was never more effectively taught in my direct experience.

Lots of folks would find this sort of book learning inappropriate, and in modern times Mrs. Hudson might have been in a lot of trouble. I do not believe anyone sitting in that classroom found fault with her reaction, and this most definitely goes for me and the kid she KO’d, a close friend, of course. I don’t distinctly remember what happened right after this, but I’m pretty sure my friend just crawled back into his desk while Mrs. Hudson went on to tell us all about Ivanhoe.

But being the great teacher she was, Mrs. Hudson knew the carrot much more powerful than the stick. In this regard I will forever treasure her promise upon our introduction to Elizabethan English in general and Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet in particular.

Mrs. Hudson cautioned we’d have difficulty understanding Shakespeare at first because of how much English had changed since his time, but understanding the evolution of our language was almost as important as the play itself. Put in the hard work, Mrs. Hudson said, and the payoff would be she’d organize and chaperone a trip to Albany where Romeo and Juliet played in a great film adaptation very true to the original work, with one huge exception. The movie was “R” rated because of several nude scenes.

Now every boy in the class knew we’d get to see a naked breast, and I’d bet every girl knew they’d see Romeo’s bare rear end. What a way to motivate a bunch of teenagers. Wow, even the kid she clobbered aced the Shakespeare exam and we all went to Albany for a Saturday afternoon matinee.

But it wasn’t the brief nudity that most impressed us and had a lasting impact on my life. Mrs. Hudson knew Shakespeare didn’t write to be read; he wrote so his words could be heard and acted out. To truly and deeply appreciate the greatest playwright ever, one has to see and hear his work. We did and were deeply moved by the experience, a great conclusion to a masterful week of instruction, education at its finest. Because we’d been skillfully prepared we could easily translate the language, laugh loudly at Mercutio’s jokes and otherwise become fully enveloped by great literature.

I still have a tiny and much tarnished trophy no taller than a teacup and smaller in circumference. It’s not important to me for announcing second place in an oratorical contest, coincidentally connected to the memory of the Hudson family too because I’m pretty sure Jack won the contest, but I kept the trophy all these years in fond memory of a second Power Woman definitely on par with Mrs. Hudson.

Much like Mrs. Hudson, Barbara Sherman was not only a great teacher but also a mighty force to be reckoned with and respected. I started to use the word “feared” but it’s often encompassed by respect, and only most recently did I understand it wasn’t just kids who feared to cross Mrs. Sherman. Even school administration felt her power and most carefully addressed concerns she never had any problem expressing. I now know for certain how she impacted people like Andrew Voninski, former CCS principal, who told me not long ago how everyone at school in any position knew not to pull this tiger’s tail and to carefully consider “requests” often voiced, as in our classroom, in tones and temperament similar to a queen proclaiming “Off with his head!” And just like every brave and potentially fierce person I’ve ever known for real, inside of Mrs. Sherman beat a kind and loving heart that burrowed into me and will forever remain.

Mrs. Sherman walked down the crowded hallways like a lithe alley cat who just tore the dickens out of a now much wiser dog. We all parted to allow her to pass, and politely acknowledged her presence if this seemed the right thing to do. Only the most foolhardy tried to arouse her ire.

Mrs. Sherman guided me to my oratorical contest trophy, one Saturday coaching session in her big old Salem farmhouse she shared with her husband, a home that also reminded me much of the Hudson one as it was about the same age and architecture, full of big rooms, tall ceilings and woodwork no longer commonly produced because of the labor and hardwood required.

I often think of Mrs. Sherman around Christmas because she introduced us to some of the greatest stories of the season, O’Henry’s Gift of the Magi and also Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol.

Mrs. Sherman was a talented performer and an especially powerful reader. One technique she often used was to begin reading a story to the entire class in a great dramatic fashion. She’d then step back when we were all totally hooked by her introduction, and announce, “Now it’s time to finish the story yourself.” Afterwards, she’d lead a lively discussion and pepper us with questions. Many times the reading was assigned for homework, which I actually did because I was not only interested, I knew for sure I’d be verbally blistered if I projected ignorance and disregard for her instruction.

We didn’t know it, but both of these teachers were also showing us all about love, its many complexities and exquisite beauty that’s often mixed was sadness too and many subtle nuances we were far from ready to fully comprehend, but needed to begin learning about, and did because the love lessons were taught from the heart as much as they were from the mind.

This leads me back to my favorite holiday season memory of all time, the Christmas morning I gave my wife an engagement ring I’d wrapped up the night before and placed under a six buck Christmas tree I bought just before Christmas when it was discounted and six bucks was all I could afford. We both have vivid memories of this thin misshapen stick posing as a tree, about three shades poorer than Charlie Brown’s.

Upon ring presentation, my soon to be wife Mary looked me directly in the eyes and said, “Are your sure?” quickly explaining that while she was ready to accept my proposal, I needed to fully understand this was to be forever and that she would never let me go, almost, I guess, the dead opposite of a prenuptial agreement.

When finally convinced of my sincerity and most serious intentions, Mary leapt off the couch with great joy to dance around the apartment living room saying, “There is a God. There is a God!” While I’m darn sure getting a boob like me for life is far from poof of God’s existence, neither of us, then or now, has any doubts about God’s presence or our enduring love.

Yes, Virginia, like the old newspaper writer said about Santa Claus in another classic piece Mrs. Sherman introduced to us for very good reasons, there is indeed a God who gave us his Son, the best present any of us will ever get, even as richly blessed as so many of us are. May you and yours celebrate the season with similar joy and glad tidings.