MY FATHER’S VOICE

by James Lincoln Warren

It is Christmas Eve. I don’t think there is a day on the calendar more redolent of family for me than this one. I do not describe myself as a Christian, mind, because I can not believe in the historical truth of the miraculous, but this is not to say that I despise the faith in which I was reared. I cheerfully erect our six-foot plastic Christmas tree every year right after Thanksgiving, bedeck it with glass ornaments, plastic beads, and multicolored fairy lights, and leave it up until Epiphany. 1 The Christmas carols cycle continuously on the CD player until Boxing Day. I know where I come from.

And I must admit that I just love the Christmas story, with the Wise Men and shepherds and no room at the inn, and the gentle domestic animals watching over the helpless, newborn Savior, whose power is not in His ability to wreak destruction upon nations, but in his gift of filling the hearts of the even the most wicked with love. It’s a very moving story.

And one of the reasons I love it so much is that when I read it, I hear the voice of my father.

It was a tradition in the Warren household when my brothers and sisters and I were all kids that Dad would read to the family on Christmas Eve, something he never did on any other day of the year. He would begin with reading the nativity story from the Gospels of St. Matthew and St. Luke. And then, Dad would read us the first and final staves of Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. To me, there has never been a staged or filmed production of the story of Ebenezer Scrooge’s redemption that comes close to the color, pathos, and humor of my Dad’s rendition, especially the scene of Scrooge on Christmas morning dancing while he shaves, and that of his practical joke on Bob Cratchit the following morning.

Of course, in both cases, Dad was working with pretty good material. But the interpretations were all his, and he had (and still has, although it’s a bit reedier now he’s in his 80s) a beautiful bass voice as supple as a spear of grass and as robust as a brass band.

Yes, Dad certainly knew how to tell a story. And I’m dead certain that this Christmas tradition was instrumental in my wanting to tell stories, myself, especially short stories, which are far more amenable to the oral tradition than longer forms, except for maybe epic poetry (although frankly I do have a small problem trying to imagine folks gathered around a cozy fireplace while someone recites from Paradise Lost). When Margaret and I were first married, we used to read our favorite short stories to each other in the evenings. Eventually, we fell out of the habit, mainly because I was away from home so often as a sea-going officer, but we will still take the time to read to one another from the newspaper or a book if there is something worth hearing.

But when I write, I always read what I’ve written out loud. If it doesn’t sound right, especially in terms of cadence but also for diction, I know haven’t done my job.

So in the end, my Dad’s reading to us kids was one of the most enduring Christmas presents I have ever received. And at this time of the year, as I am reminded of what I have to be grateful for, allow me to wish for you all, Gentle Readers, such abiding gifts all the year long.

“And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God bless Us, Every One!”

1. I actually wrote this before Leigh posted his reminiscences yesterday, but for the uninitiated, the Feast of the Epiphany, aka “the twelfth day of Christmas”, alludes to the day that the Magi arrived in Bethlehem. [↩]