A Deep River Year
December 17, 2014

The Christmas season is full of old traditions and folklore. Their origins may be lost or forgotten, but we continue to savor them as a rich connection with those who once shared their Christmases with us. At Christmas, my family would go to the home of my Aunt Anna and Uncle Daniel, who was Swedish by background. Aunt Anna would always make rice pudding, a Swedish tradition, and she would stir an almond in it. She assured us that the person fortunate enough to get the almond in their bowl of pudding would be the next one in the family to get married. This was not necessarily a pleasing prospect for a young boy, and fortunately, I never got the almond. I'm not sure, but my wonderful Aunt Anna may have also been the one to tell us how the animals in the forest would kneel down at midnight on Christmas Eve, and assure us that the bees who had gone into hibernation would awaken, no matter the weather, and hum the 100th Psalm. It seemed far-fetched even then, but I dreamed of sneaking out into the woods to see if any part of this tale could be true. Our world should be filled with such dreams.

And where I love to dream best is by the fire. We have a fireplace in our living room. The house was built in 1834, and at that time the living room was the kitchen, and the hearth was the place where meals were prepared. The chimney crane bearing an iron pot still extends over the fire, unused for many years, and a beehive oven next to the hearth could be filled with hot coals to heat up the bricks inside for baking. Over the years, my three little boys all hid in there, and I smile still when I walk past. But although there is no more cooking in the fireplace, I still light fires on autumn and winter nights and feel comforted by its warmth and hypnotized by its firelight. Perhaps it is a primal thing that has united human beings from the dawn of time--the attraction of a fire. It is the place of human gatherings, of feasts and family, the place we go to find respite from the terrors of the night. It is the thing, strangely, that both symbolizes our passions and brings us peace.

For years it has been my tradition to start each year's Christmas fire with the cut up trunk of last year's Christmas tree. By the hearth on Christmas morning, I feel connected to all that has gone before in my life--the rice pudding and the almond, the hands held around the table, the carols sung in the snow by the front door, the stockings hung from the mantel. I see faces smiling at me from the flickering flames, would rather not move from the place where I may read and dream and fall asleep.

Hearth Fire

Old Hestia, the ancient god of hearth,
 missed all the festal gatherings
 of the great divinities,
 shunned lofty Olympus
 just to stay at home
 for duty's sake, tending to the fire.
 She was perhaps the wisest,
 humblest of the gods,
 this keeper of the hearth
 where weary sojourners could come
 to warm themselves
 with food and flame.
 And still to fire and hearth we come
 to be where we may see
 some spirit dancing in the flames
 calling us from fear to faith,
 or yet more simply,
 to teach us constancy,
 to give us some small peace
 where we may join the cat curled up,
 the dog stretched out,
 here where love's best gift
 is just to stir the embers.

 --Timothy Haut, December 17, 2014