Immigration 9: Lost and Found

    I love the holiday season. Though the winter chill and I aren't friends, for a few weeks during its grasp there's a warmth that spreads through me from within. I love seeing wreaths decorating the doors in my neighborhood,  Christmas trees strapped to car roofs on their way to their respective homes and catching the classic "Miracle on 34th Street" or the more recent "Season of Miracles" on television.

     This sensibility isn't unusual and I won't claim to be the only person out there who cherishes the season from the corniest carol to the sappiest TV special. What I will claim for myself is a memory, a memory that goes back many years, one which above all the trappings of the season provides me with the most inner warmth. And as most of my stories do this one begins in Russia.
   
    New Years is and was quite an affair in Russia even when I lived there back in the 70's.  I grew up anticipating the arrival of January 1st with the same ardour as my American kids anticipate the arrival of December 25th.   Growing up, I never even heard of Christmas for although pre-revolutionary Russia was a Christian state the arrival of Communism and the principles of Karl  'religion is the opiate of the people' Marx put a quick and decisive end to any celebrations that had religious origins.

    However as with most cultures that are trampled neath the boots of supposed progress certain, more tolerable, aspects of said culture permeate into the progressive one. And as the pagan Winter Solstice was absorbed by Christmas so it was that in Soviet Russia Christmas was absorbed by New Years.

    Every Soviet home continued to be decorated with evergreen trees. And with the exile of St. Nicholas, the kindly,  white bearded Grandfather Frost came into prominence along with his grand daughter, the Snow Maiden.   Children would go to bed on December 31st and awake the following morning with gifts that were magically delivered by the chilly duo at midnight.

    Neither exile nor trampling boots of progress mattered to me. I loved New Years and in 1976 was shivering with as much anticipation as ever. I welcomed 1977 with my usual enthusiasm never suspecting that life as I knew it was soon to end. But it did and in May of that year my parents and I emigrated from the USSR leaving behind all that was near, dear and familiar to us.

    By September of 1977 I had crossed an ocean and many borders to finally alite in New York City, New York.  But even then my travels weren't over as we moved again and again until finally a couple of months later a modicum of stability was reached in a Section 8 apartment in Jersey City, New Jersey. 

    The cold and snow soon arrived heralding my beloved holiday. But although there was a hint of familiarity all was wrong.  There were images of a kindly old man who brought presents but he was fat instead of slender and he wore bright red instead of classy ice blue.  This jolly old man traveled alone whereas I ached to catch a glimpse of the lovely, flaxen haired Snow Maiden.  And the crescendo came too early, by December 26th many decorations were being taken down and spent evergreens were already being piled on trash heaps.

    Even though it was all wrong my parents tried to make it alright.  Our apartment was decorated for the season and on December 31st we dressed up and went out to celebrate New Years with other Russian immigrants. But for as much fun as I had, it was with a touch of sadness that I walked back into our apartment and made my way to bed.

    My room was dark, illuminated only by the hallway light behind me so all I could see were shapes. There was my dresser and my night table and there was my bed. But what were those funny shapes on it? My heart leapt to my throat - it couldn't be - could it?  Were those packages - packages that weren't there before I left - packages that could only have been brought by a magical old man with a white beard clad in ice blue robes accompanied by his grand-daughter?

    I have no true memory of what happened next. Perhaps I sat in shocked amazement on my bed as my fingers caressed the presents or maybe I squealed in delight and jumped around my room, the gifts clutched in my hands.  What I do remember though were the words I spoke when I realized what those odd shapes were : On Nashol Menya - He Found Me.

    What a beautiful thing it is to be found.  For to be found one must have been lost and I had been; traveling for months in foreign lands unsure of what the next moment could bring, the ground constantly shifting beneath my feet.  To be found one must also have been sought and I had been; although this was the domain of the jolly old elf, Grandfather Frost made his way across many borders and an ocean to make sure that my transition was less painful, that at least for a moment all was right.

    It took me a few years to realize who Grandfather Frost really was (were) and many more years to be able to adequately express my memories of that night and to say thanks.  It is said that one of a parents many jobs is to help their child through the tough patches.  Many are successful but few accomplish it with such a deft and gentle hand.
   
    In that magical instance, for the first time in a very long while, all was right and  I was happy . Though the packages on my bed were presents, my true gift that night was the return of such joyous feelings.  It's a gift that has remained with me all these years. Since then the arrival of the holiday season brings with it not only the cold and snow but also this precious memory and all the warmth and happiness that goes with it.