It all began with something Ann Curry, a correspondent with
NBC news, posted on Twitter. “Commit to kindness,” she wrote. A movement known
as #26Acts, spurred by Ms. Curry, invites participants to commit daily acts of
kindness. After the horrific shootings in Newtown, the hashtagged movement is
being spread virally around the world via Facebook and Twitter.
It is a seemingly unkind world we live in, judging by
current headlines. As I am writing this, the news of the day includes reports
of a man killing two men and one woman before being killed himself in a
gunfight with state troopers in Pennsylvania; a surge in bulletproof backpack
sales; cluster bombs being used on civilians in Syria; and the Al Qaeda-related
kidnapping in Northern Nigeria of a French citizen. It’s impossible to turn on
any news at all without feeling a sense of fear or despair. And yet tiny
fragments of positivity evidence themselves every day. About a week ago Kim of
Kim’s Bagels in Mount Kisco posted on Facebook about helping an older woman who
had fallen in the street. The SPCA of Westchester was thrilled to announce 45
adoptions of cats and dogs from the shelter last week. Personally I thought it
very kind that Dan, the manager of Tazza Café in Katonah, gave me a card
granting me a free drink, and that Gail from The Paintbox gifted me with a
framed copy of recent story that ran about me in another newspaper. Almost
every day someone does or says something nice or kind to me; I try to do my
part to do the same.
Years ago there was a popular bumper sticker that said,
“Commit random acts of kindness.” I’m not sure what constitutes a random act,
or if random acts are more special or significant than methodical or systematic
ones. I think it’s probably the act itself that counts, whether planned, or
spontaneous. It’s a little sad people have to be reminded to be kind, and it
should be noted that the one kind act you push yourself to do every day will
not cancel out five unkind ones.
For the last few years on Christmas Day, I’ve taken a few
hours to go over to the gymnasium at the old St. Mary’s school, now Montfort
Academy. That is the site of an annual event known as The Christmas Dinner,
which benefits Westchester’s homeless. A traditional Christmas dinner is
served, followed by the distribution of gifts. The event is made possible by an
enormous squadron of volunteers and the generosity of many caterers and
restaurants who provide the food, as well as the dozens of local residents who
plan and work and clean up after the event. A couple of years ago I was brought
to near tears by a young girl who was over the moon excited to receive a
toothbrush, a pair of socks, and a very inexpensive backpack (certainly not
bullet proof). Every year I am reminded how little it takes to make some people
happy. Sometimes it’s just a serving of candied sweet potatoes donated by
William Nicholas.
This Christmas is a little extra poignant because it is a
landmark event. We moved into our home in December 1987 and this is the 25th
Christmas in our house. Our son was 5 months old when we moved in; he is now a
grown man with a job and a life and a girlfriend and an apartment. I wonder how
many more years he will be able to join us. Past Christmas’s are a blur of
toys, noise, pancakes for breakfast, and prime rib. And Yorkshire Pudding,
which I duly make every year. While there has been a lot of joy around the day,
some years it took extra effort.
There was the year that two good men, Kit Combes and George McTavey,
died Christmas week and I had to write their obits. There was the year my poor
mother in law dwindled away in hospice in her home in California and my husband
completely missed Christmas. Twenty three ago I was still grieving at Christmas
for a child I miscarried at Thanksgiving. And then there was the year I cajoled
my reluctant husband into helping me set up a large, live, cumbersome Christmas
tree that toppled over in its stand, only to have him throw up his hands and
shout he would have nothing to do with it. For a few years afterward, the only
greenery we had was wreaths.
Twenty five years is a long time to celebrate a holiday in
one place. Every few years I threaten we should spend Christmas in the
Caribbean, except I know it wouldn’t be the same without the pets. This year as
an act of random kindness, Mr. Sax agreed to let me pick our tree; I chose a
very shiny, very fake, silver one that looks very tinsel-y. It reminds me of a
tree my mother bought the first year she and I were living alone on our own in
a rented house in Woodbury, N.J. Under the tree that year was a pair of white
go-go boots, knocks offs of the ones made famous by the fashion designer Andre
Courreges who featured them in his fall ’64 collection. Under our silver tree
this year is a near embarrassing array of riches; bags from Tom’s in Katonah
and Ebba and kdstudio and Bedford House and Kellogg’s & Lawrence, and
Charles Department Store. We’re very lucky.
Happy New Year to all my fans and readers. And God bless.
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