On Christmas in the village

I was in the fifth or sixth grade when I heard an old man play “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” on the French horn. Snow was piling up on the old stone walkways through the village. My hands were tucked into my jacket pockets as I stopped to listen for a moment while my family darted between buildings. 

Dr. Alta Schrock founded the Penn Alps Restaurant and Craft Shop. She was the first Mennonite woman in America to receive a PhD. The establishment was a part of her initiative to create jobs in my local area. Her austere portrait hangs in the main dining room. Its story could be told in a separate column, but it is best described as a normal restaurant with the log cabin, “Spruce Forest Artisan Village,” adjacent to the main building. 

The artisan village is staffed by several local craftspeople, each specializing in a specific and unique trade. Each cabin has a name, a role and a purpose. Most of the small village’s traffic comes during the Christmas season. It’s well decorated, with wreaths, trees and lights organized around the buildings. The largest one, known as “The Yoder House,” is an 18th-century cabin maintained in its original state. Off to the side is a small building operated by a colored pencil artist. She is a distant cousin of mine. Another artisan carved ornate, wooden bird feathers. Others came and went, as the small village expanded its footprint from its usual residents during its biggest season. I’ve forgotten much of it, but I remember the man with the French horn. His songs rang out in the bluster of the Appalachian winter. He was tightly wrapped in an overcoat and a scarf. His short, white beard and hat obscured his face. He was warm enough. Few people stopped to watch him play.  

Instead, most visitors (like my family) shuffled between shops, purchasing artisan soaps and admiring the wooden feathers in one of the larger cabins. Others peeked around the village before getting into their cars and driving off to some small town that hugged either side of the Mason-Dixon line. He kept playing. 

My relationship with Christmas is complicated. I was an anxious kid, especially during the holiday season. I never quite figured out why. It was probably the added stress and anticipation of the big day on top of my already anxious personality. I probably shouldn’t speculate. Regardless, my increased busyness managed to temper my nerves by means of exhaustion. Unfortunately, I still hesitate to embrace the holiday season, even though I enjoy this time of year.

When I doubt my love for the festive side of Christmas, I think of the old man with his French horn. He didn’t tell everyone he loves Christmas. He didn’t have to. His actions were what mattered. I don’t know what happened to him. One year, he disappeared. I haven’t seen him since. The village was nearly destroyed in a rare tornado a few years later. It took thousands of dollars to repair, though the fallen trees that Alta Schrock planted are irreplaceable. 

I’ve gone to Christmas in the village about eight to 10 times. This will be the first time in years I haven’t gone. It’s a memorable part of the Christmas season, and I am not sure how many seasons I will witness. If I’m lucky, I’ll see 80 Christmas seasons. That sounds like a lot, but nearly a quarter are already gone. The French horn player’s presence is only two or three of those Christmases. Yet it sticks with me to this day. 

It was not the man or his choice of instrument that made the atmosphere. The flow of air through brass made the dimly lit winter night a little brighter. He wanted to bring warmth into the lives of those who heard him. He kept playing, no matter who (if anyone) listened. To me, there is little that is more admirable than that.

Finals season has brought our world crashing down as we cope with the many projects, essays and tests that await us in the next two weeks. A home playoff game is on the horizon. Yet I will not forget that man at Christmas in the village. He was pleasant. He shared his gifts. He made the cold night a little warmer. We can all do the same as we end this semester on a high note. 

It’s been a privilege to write to you. I hope my insights have meant something or made your day a little brighter. It’s time to enjoy the break, but I’ll be back in the spring — perhaps with something new to share with all of you. Until then, take it easy and enjoy the holiday season.