Editor’s Note: This story originally was published on Dec. 26, 2014.
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Lebanon
Route 12A, usually a traffic hotspot, is empty; the traffic lights paint long festive streaks of red and green on the blacktop, wet and alive with a soft pitter patter as rain breaks up what would otherwise be a silent night.
The forecast is for more rain and high winds later in the day, a worrying prediction for the region’s weary utility crews, who have had just 10 days of rest since dealing with tens of thousands of power outages caused by a disruptive winter storm.
The large retailers along the route’s commercial district have actively feasted on holiday shoppers for weeks, but now, even they are napping. No creatures stir. A sign is taped to the door at McDonald’s: “We are closed in order to let our Team celebrate Christmas with their families,” it reads. “Happy Holidays!”
Even the largest of corporations, it seems, is content to let its cash registers rest for a day.
Throughout the winter night, one of the longest of the year, individuals and families have been isolated in their homes, but as Christmas morning breaks over Lebanon, they will connect with each other and knit, through small acts of kindness, a community to greet the new year.
7 a.m.
John Harlow
A mile up the road, on the porch of a Main Street apartment building, a man and woman sit in the darkness on armchairs, smoking cigarettes. John Harlow, who works at Upper Valley Produce and his wife, Crystal, an employee of the Hannaford grocery store down the street, have spent hours preparing for the holiday; this is their brief, shared moment of respite before the storm.
In this case, the storm consists of 14-year-old Morgan and 8-year-old Brady, who are almost done going through their stockings and are more than ready for the main event under the Christmas tree; Brady, wearing pajama bottoms and a camouflage shirt, literally hops up and down with excitement as he explains how he and his sister prepared for Christmas.
Jolly the Elf, a delegate of Santa Claus who sometimes hides at Brady’s day care, called on the telephone, he says, to ask what Brady wanted for Christmas. He told Jolly that he wanted a video gaming chair, and a four-wheeler. Christmas Eve turned into an agonizingly long wait.
“Me and sissy went to bed late!” he says. “No, we went to bed early,” his sister corrects him. “It was early!”
He considers arguing with her, but only for a split second.
“Me and sissy went to bed early!” he announces. It is a small point to concede when there are presents to be opened.
In the living room, cozy and bright against the darkness outside, the children are soon tearing into a stack of presents, one by one, under Crystal’s smiling supervision. For Morgan, a book and for Brady, a Lego set.
“Thank you!” Brady calls.
“You’re welcome,” his mother answers.
A cloud of suspicion settles over Morgan. “I thought Santa brought these presents,” she says.
Crystal smiles serenely. “He brought most of these,” she explains. “But Mom got the Legos.”
Outside, John Harlow smiles. The video gaming chairs are a go, he says.
7:15 a.m.
Colby St. Andrew
Shoulders slumped, Colby St. Andrew trudges along Main Street, the rain weighing down his long, red hair. The 22-year-old, whose silver face piercing glints under the streetlight, explains that he just got off a long shift at the Sunoco, where he watched as a smattering of frantic last-minute shoppers scoured the convenience store for something — anything — that would serve as a Christmas present.
“Most of them wanted fancy chocolates,” he says. “I had to say, ‘sorry.’ ”
St. Andrew and his fiancee moved into the neighborhood just a couple of months ago. As soon as he gets home, he plans to sleep away the rest of Christmas morning.
“It’s been a hard year,” he says.
His finger, wrapped in thick white gauze, recently suffered a third-degree burn in a grease fire in the apartment.
He and his fiancee won’t exchange presents. It’s been difficult to settle down in their new apartment, and get organized for such things during the holiday season, he says.
But there is one thing he’s looking forward to on Christmas.
He and his fiancee don’t have presents for each other, but they have become friendly with the Harlows and bought presents for the Harlow children; a pillow pet in the shape of Donatello, Brady’s favorite Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, and a set of metallic temporary tattoos that shine like jewelry for Morgan.
This is the second time St. Andrew has moved to Lebanon from his home state of New York. Now he thinks moving away from Lebanon was a mistake.
“I missed the Upper Valley so much,” he says. “The people are just so friendly here.”
7:30 a.m.
Brian Benson
Less than two miles from the Harlow home, Brian Benson, of Canaan, is the only worker inside a convenience store and gas station on Miracle Mile.
He’s had four customers since 5 a.m., all of them looking for a hot cup of coffee.
That’s good news for the Upper Valley Haven and David’s House, two local charities that are getting every cent spent on coffee that day.
Benson, 60, says his own holiday celebrations have changed over the years. When he was one of seven
children growing up, his parents hosted everyone for Christmas Eve, including his Finnish grandfather, who everyone called Isa. As an adult, Benson began hosting Christmas Eve himself, but the family kept growing.
He still remembers when he had to tell his mother he couldn’t host it any longer — there were 64 members of the immediate family. Add in aunts and uncles and cousins, and the guest list was well over 100.
“My septic won’t take it!” he told her.
Now, the families have their own, smaller gatherings, and Benson has become Isa to the children of his two grown daughters, with whom he exchanged gifts with a couple of days ago.
Now that he’s a little older, he says, he’s happy to work and let his co-workers have the day off.
Besides, he says, working on Christmas is different than working other days.
“People are in a better mood,” he says. “I don’t know why they can’t be like that all year.”
Benson’s sixth customer of the day, a former co-worker named Roger Smith, buys him a doughnut.
“Merry Christmas,” he says.
7:45 a.m.
Justin Smith
One of Benson’s early morning customers is Justin Smith, 25, an engineer at Fujifilm Dimatix who has been up since 5 a.m. with his wife, Gina, a waitress at Gusanoz Mexican Restaurant. The two were married in October.
For Smith, beginning early was necessary, because the family members have a busy schedule ahead of them. He’ll go to his in-laws’ house, then his mother’s, then his grandparents’, all before 11 a.m. Their 3-year-old daughter, Halley, didn’t mind the early start. She has already gone through her presents like a whirlwind.
“She ripped open everything we had,” he says, smiling.
Halley was primed for the holiday, he says, because Santa had been watching over her very carefully. Santa was particularly interested in seeing Halley try new food.
“We’ve gotten a lot of mileage out of Santa over the past couple months,” he says.
Smith said his own highlight of the day will come during a hearty Christmas breakfast at his in-laws house.
“Strawberry pancakes with cinnamon and whipped cream,” he says.
“Oh, yeah!”
8 a.m.
Andrew White
Emergencies still happen on Christmas, which means emergency responders like Andrew White can’t take time off on the holidays.
The Lebanon Fire Department captain says the department has a normal crew of six, including himself, at the station, which is on the corner of the town square, just up the road from the convenience store.
There have been four calls since midnight — two of them medical emergencies — and one since White came on duty at 7 a.m., a false alarm that has left Engine 2 covered in beads of rainwater.
White says his own fondest childhood memories of Christmas had to do with opening stockings. He can’t name a single item they held — “trinkets, I guess. Candies” — but the magic lay in the experience of opening them, huddled with three sisters in a darkened bedroom, every item examined in its turn under the glow of a flashlight.
Before his shift ends, he plans to take a few members of the crew to Dartmouth-Hitchcock, where they will learn how to safely remove contaminated protective equipment, a precaution against the deadly Ebola virus which has killed thousands in West Africa this year. His own family Christmas has been postponed until the evening, when he’ll celebrate with his wife and daughter. Working on Christmas fell to him as the luck of the draw, he says.“The families, they get used to it. It’s part of the package,” he says.
8:30 a.m.
Walter Radicioni
Walter Radicioni, 82, of Sharon, pulls into the parking lot of the Sacred Heart Catholic Church. He is searching for a Christmas morning Mass, but he’s out of luck. He’s just come from St. Anthony Catholic Church in White River Junction, where he also missed the Mass.
He takes the failures in stride. As a man who suffered two heart attacks last year, Radicioni takes everything in stride.
“I feel great,” he says. “I’m standing here talking to you.”
Asked why it’s so important to go to Mass on Christmas day, he declines credit.
“I’m a bad Catholic,” he says, in a confidential tone. He comes to Christmas Mass, Radicioni says, for his wife, who converted to Catholicism when they first married. She died in 2010 after 56 years of marriage.
Radicioni has six grown daughters who attend six different churches.
“When we’re at the house, we don’t talk religion,” he says, before hopping in his car and heading off in search of a third church.
8:45 a.m.
Melissa Robinson
The main church of the Sacred Heart may be dark and empty, but the smell from the basement is apparent. Twenty-five roasted turkeys, each cooked in a different oven, in the homes of a coalition of volunteers who decided to give something of themselves for the holidays.
Along one wall, volunteers work busily over six tables, each tabletop covered in containers chock full of homemade cookies— in all, there are thousands and thousands of Christmas cookies.
One woman expresses new excitement every time a new container is opened.
“Sesame cookies! Goodness!” she says. Then, moments later. “Cupcakes! Look at those cupcakes!”
Others are busily working out the logistics of deliveries to those in need, including many senior Meals on Wheels clients.
“One guy called and said he wanted a turkey carcass,” a woman says. She and a few others flip through lists of customers on stapled pages. “Do any of them say turkey carcass by the name?”
Along another wall, Melissa Robinson and her college-age daughter, Cassidy, prepare cardboard boxes for deliveries.
Robinson did this last year for the first time, and enjoyed it so much she came back.
“It’s the true spirit of Christmas, bringing the entire community together,” she said. “It’s not so much that people need the meal, maybe — just to be with other people.”
About 250 are expected to come to the Christmas feast at Sacred Heart, and Dick DuMez, who is overseeing the operation, says that, for every Christmas meal eaten in the church, another will be delivered to someone out in the community.
The operation is at the heart of a cascade of kindness that extends throughout Lebanon. The paper bags that will carry the cookies into the community were donated by McDonald’s; some of the meals will be delivered to Andy White and his crew at the fire station.
A present for a neighbor’s child, a doughnut for a former co-worker, a visit to a grandmother’s house, a quick response to a fire alarm, a search for a morning Mass — as the sun rose, community members showed that they were, once again, ready to connect with each other and reaffirm the meaning of Christmas in Lebanon.
Matt Hongoltz-Hetling can be reached at mhonghet@vnews.com or 603-727-3211.