I Found My Perfect Christmas with a Little Help from Judy Garland
Perfection is all in the expectation
It’s that time of year. Cue Judy Garland.
Have yourself a merry little Christmas . . .
Someday soon we all will be together, if the fates allow.
Until then, we’ll have to muddle through somehow.
So have yourself a merry little Christmas now.
In December 2020, when the world and all my friends were gripped with covid anxiety, contemplating the holidays alone, I was reminded of a time when having “a merry little Christmas” seemed, indeed, miles away.
In 1976, two weeks after Andy and I were married in a picture-perfect wedding in New York, our first Christmas in London found us housesitting for a partner in Andy’s firm who was away for the holidays. The spacious Georgian house in fashionable Regent’s Circle might have been a lavish honeymoon retreat had I not been a stranger in the neighborhood, far from more familiar Knightsbridge shops and transportation. I managed to find a little tree, a few decorations, and some candles. Andy disparaged my “Charlie Brown tree;” the candles dripped red wax on the owner’s pristine white mantel.
That was last year. Now, home was a small, rented house in Gregory Place, a tiny road behind St. Mary Abbot’s Church at the foot of Kensington Church Street. Every Thursday evening the church’s historic bells rang for half an hour, filling the dark December air and our home with ancient, soul-drenching harmonies. This year, Christmas would be perfect.
I’d learned by then that Andy and I shared a passion for perfection, and his German heritage carried the highest expectations for Christmas, chief among them a flawless tree. Its lights (never multicolored) must be spaced with architectural exactitude and decorations placed with care so as not to have two reds in close proximity. We shopped in Brompton Road for a perfect live Douglas Fir, and at Harrod’s for heirloom-quality balls and the most beautiful angel I’d ever seen to crown the tree.
O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum, wie treu sind deine Blätter!
At the Portobello Market, I found the perfect gift for Andy: A large antique box, crafted from elm, its hinged lid inlaid with fine-grained, natural wood in a harlequin pattern of varying shades of brown and soft lime green. The dealer offered to line it with fabric, and he proudly delivered it to my door late in the afternoon two days before Christmas.
And what’s the perfect Christmas without stockings filled with surprises? I bought one for Andy and, for me, a temporary substitute for the red felt stocking with my name embroidered on the back that my mother made when I was 8 years old, now in storage in New York.
Like the perfect English couple, Andy and I were hosting an open house on Boxing Day. Our small, rented home with its shabbier-than-chic three-piece suite was a far cry from the elegance of Regent’s Circle, but I’d spent much of my first year in London learning — yes, perfecting — the art of entertaining in the grand manner. In the week before Christmas, I busied myself in the kitchen at #2 Gregory Place, baking cookies and mincemeat pies for the party, determined to be at once the 1970s version of both the Countess of Grantham and Mrs. Patmore.
Meanwhile, the turntable in the living room spun the soundtrack of those late December days: “Silver Bells,” “White Christmas,” “I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” along with the English carols I’d come to love — “The Holly and the Ivy,” “Ding Dong Merrily on High,” “Once in Royal David’s City.”
Beneath the façade of a perfect Christmas, of course, lurked the truth. Unspoken, perhaps not even acknowledged in the heart. Andy was homesick for his family and New York. I was struggling through an unsatisfying marriage. The song I played over and over was Judy Garland’s “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” Its promise of better times ahead while muddling through an unhappy present gave some solace.
On Christmas Eve — decorations in place; the perfect gift wrapped and placed correctly under the perfect tree; one stocking secretly stuffed with small, carefully selected treasures; and perfect confections awaiting guests at the perfect party — Andy and I walked through the perfect London passage to St. Mary Abbott’s for the midnight service. The church bells tolled an ageless call to the faithful.
The stone interior of the church was cold. The Anglican service left me longing for the carols and cheer of Christmas in my Texas childhood. But it was a church, and it was Christmas Eve. Andy, who had not been in a church since he was ten years old, other than for our wedding, and was remembered by the elderly Lutheran pastor who married us as a cut-up, reverted to his childhood church self. Fidgeting, whispering, destroying the hope of peace on earth.
At home, we quarreled, went to bed angry, and quarreled again. In the wee hours of Christmas morning, Andy suggested we go downstairs and open our presents. In the glow of perfectly spaced lights on the Douglas fir, blessed by the most beautiful angel ever to grace a Christmas tree, he opened his gift — the handsome elm box with its distinctive harlequin top — and smiled.
Yes, it was perfect.
Then, my turn. First box: A mass of soft, overly washed fabric with a faded blue print. A blouse or top of some sort? Second box: Clearly a skirt. A wrap skirt with faded madras stripes, cut on the bias. What could I say? These “garments” might have come from the church’s jumble sale. Surely, he didn’t expect me to wear them together — or ever. His perfect stocking lay untouched on the floor.
Remembering that long-ago year in London during a pandemic season, I thought of Judy Garland. Have yourself a merry little Christmas. . . Oh, my! What an anthem for Christmas 2020! Someday soon, we all would be together, if the vaccine allowed. But we were still muddling through.
With wisdom that comes with time, I’ve learned expectations of a perfect Christmas, any expectations really, are doomed to disappointment if they aren’t shared.
In 2020, I shared my Christmas expectations only with myself, and they were low: Modest gifts for friends and cute new toys for the cats; a few sparkly fake fruits and gold-tipped pinecones decorating my table; and a long-neglected recipe for pheasant in a brandy cream sauce for a solo dinner.
No muddling for me, that year. It was my very own perfect Christmas.
