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The Fallen Angel
By Judy Pavlak, Winsted
Christmas 1938 was only a few days away. The ground was covered with a thick layer of fluffy white snow that swirled and danced as the vigorous winds stirred up little drifts. As you walked along, puffs of white vapor appeared with every breath.
It was cold—so cold—but the weather meant nothing to a young child. It was Christmas, the most exciting time of year. My dad wanted to hurry home to the warm fire in the kitchen stove, but I wanted to walk over to the lighted Christmas tree in the park to take in all its beauty. I would always get the feeling that the baby Jesus would be lying in a cradle under the tree, and that there would be presents wrapped in white paper with golden ribbons. I could look up into the branches of the spruce and it was a heaven of wonderful colored lights. Sometimes you could even see the moon and a star, as is often depicted on Christmas cards. Of course neither Jesus nor the gifts were ever there, but I would still walk home with my spirit lifted. Something special would happen to me under that tree.
In those days few Winsted stores had any lighted displays to celebrate the holiday—you had to go into Hartford or Waterbury to see those. We always made our annual trip to G. Fox, basically to see their decorations, but none were magic like the tree in our park.
In 1938 the Great Depression was coming to a close, but many in Winsted were still suffering from no jobs, lack of money, and even short rations on food. Many families had no cars, but we walked around town. It really was a wonderful time when people actually came closer to each other and would smile, shake their neighbor's hand and warmly wish them a "Merry Christmas." And it wasn't just an off-handed wish that was proper for the season, as people seemed to know each other and care more for their neighbors then.
If a family had a tree, it came from the woods. My dad and I went to my grandfather's farm, where we walked and walked to find the perfect tree—although we usually ended our search by finding an "almost-perfect" hemlock with the most lovely smell. The tree was often lopsided, but no one cared; that part went into the corner. There was red tissue paper covering the little packages under that tree, but no golden bows. That was fine. It was Christmas. There would be the warmth of the family gathering with my aunts, uncles and cousins. I can still almost smell the savory scent of the turkey roasting and the pumpkin pies.
Many years have gone by since I stood under that magical tree in the park. That spruce tree is now old. This year the town fathers decided to utilize a new tree for the Christmas display. Is it the fact that I have grown older like the tree, or is the star crooked and are the lights not perfectly placed? Is the magic gone?
Yesterday, while driving down Main Street, I saw a fallen angel lying in a dirty snow bank. It had come loose from its pole. Looking at the angel and the dirty snow with the realistic eyes of an adult, it seemed symbolic of what had happened to the town in recent years.
Later that night I peered out the window to see huge, puffy snowflakes gently falling and covering the land with perfect white. I thought of my grandchildren's smiling faces and sparkling eyes as they opened their presents under their perfect artificial tree. The magic and hope isn't really gone. It exist for the adults forever in the children.
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