I got to visit New York City last week, thanks to Hugh Jackman- um…I mean my sweet husband. He knew both NYC at Christmas AND Hugh Jackman were high on my list of would-love-to’s. Jackman’s been starring in The Music Man on Broadway and announced the show would close after the new year. 

How lucky am I that my husband pays attention to my list, right?

I grew up on The Music Man. If I stumble upon the Robert Preston/Shirley Jones movie, dinner goes unmade, dog hair unvacuumed. I sing and scare anyone in listening range. When I was little the soundtrack serenaded us at dinner on nights when my dad had to work late. My mom says it was the only way she could get five kids to eat quietly.

In 1963, my two-year-old brother got lost at a Stern Grove SF concert amid thousands of Music Man fans. We found him atop the shoulders of the marching band leader, straddling the feathered top hat, a big grin on his face. Two months ago, after 18 months of rehearsals and two Covid outbreaks, my 90-year-old father sang the role of the lisping Winthrop in his senior living community’s performance.

That explains The Music Man. But why NYC at Christmas? It may be rooted in my roots as a suburban girl– I’m equally mesmerized by starlight on snow-draped mountains and the man-made sparkle of urban life. 

Or maybe I just needed a little Christmas magic.

christmas magic

I could bemoan
the exorbitant energy consumption
of millions of twinkling lights
stripping a girthy evergreen from its roots
the all-season scaffolding adorning most streets
I could cast a cynical eye roll at retail windows selling joy

but I delight in white lights wound tight to bare branches
enormous wreaths encrusted, ornamented
swags and plaid
bows bedecking buildings

I make an examen
–am I putting my values on hold?
I could calculate my carbon imprint
–penalty points for privileged forgetfulness-
my rush to purchase a raincoat
weigh the risks of holiday Covid, opt for the N95

I wonder
–the bartenders mixing my mules and sours–
maybe forgiving my holiday lapses,
counting tips toward their own tickets home
ensemble dancers, gleeful
to be in company or thinking of their own tired feet
and my weathered seatmate
telling me of her deceased auntie
–her prayer, mine?

the gift:
a wink of window dressing
— when you’re weary, you want happy not sad-
a walk in a park
a friend, the art
talk over wine as night falls
even those tired carols
I’d rather not hear in Target in November

I share a sheepish smile with the guy in front of me
follow him into the show, humming the same song.

©2022, Patricia J. Franz

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