The winter of 1989 was my first away from Saint Paul, Stone Harbor, in seven years. I was studying at Fordham University, in Manhattan.
As the air began to become crisp in The Big Apple around October, I thought that there would be nothing more exciting than celebrating Christmas in the city.
Around Thanksgiving, I found myself repeatedly humming Bing Crosby’s “Silver Bells:”
“Silver bells, silver bells
“It’s Christmas time in the city
“Ring-a-ling, (ring-a-ling) hear them ring (ting-a-ling)
“Soon it will be Christmas day.”
The big tree in Rockefeller Center, the smell of the cut spruce for sale along the sidewalks, the spectacular decorations in the store windows, and the hustle and bustle of the crowds made my heart beat merrily.
Oh, and the thought of Christmas Midnight Mass at Saint Patrick Cathedral made my anticipated Christmas tableau complete.
However, after Mass on the last Sunday of Advent, I began to feel homesick; thoughts of Stone Harbor began to flood my mind. I realized that I would not be with Father Kernan, Gracine, Frank, Boz, Triddy, Nancy, Peter, Rosemary and the doctor, Joan, Stan, Jim, Marty, Sarah and Pat, my altar boys, and so many others who I had come to love.
I was told in the seminary that for a priest, the parish becomes your family. This Christmas proved the adage true.
I also missed the mighty ocean, the roar of the waves and the smell of the salt air. The Hudson and East rivers just didn’t cut it. I kept imagining our beautiful Christmas tree on Third Avenue, to me it was better than the tree in Rockefeller Center, and I preferred 96th Street to Fifth Avenue.
But, Bing Crosby, who initially induced my good spirits, now rescued me from a looming disaster. I heard another one of his Christmas songs playing on a subway platform, “I’ll be Home for Christmas:”
“I’ll be home for Christmas
“You can plan on me
“Please have snow and mistletoe
“And presents on the tree
“Christmas Eve will find me
“Where the lovelight gleams
“I’ll be home for Christmas
“If only in my dreams.”
After all these years and my many travels, from New York, to Michigan, to Florida; I’m still at St. Paul for Christmas “if only in my dreams.”
Merry Christmas,
Fr. Orsi
Orsi writes from Naples, Fla.
