Christmas 2012, "The Sweater"

1. I
The Gift of Accepting and Becoming
December 25, 2012
John’s 32nd Annual Christmas Poem
“Find It at Manny’s,” read the obscured and faded sign above the door of the second-hand shop at the corner
of Souk Kahn el Zeit and the via decumanus on the Upper West Side. “’Manny’s’ must have stood there a long
time from the looks of the building’s façade,” mused old Jon Pilgrim as he navigated the narrow street
coloured by what may well have been every character of vendor in the world. Faded, obscure and perhaps
even archaic though it was, something out of the ordinary obliged Jon’s attention to “Manny’s” and, on a
whim, he decided to wander in. Perhaps he would find a Christmas gift for his young granddaughter, Aly.
On pushing open the paint-starved shop door, Jon’s senses were immediately piqued by a pungent scent that
he couldn’t quite identify – some sort of oriental spice mixed with a lingering rush of musk, no doubt from the
age of the antiquities he found in the store. There was every adhibitious and well worn item imaginable - all,
to be sure, of singular significance to someone – but not to Jon who, at this point in his life had found himself
a little like Manny’s – obscured and faded, musky and arcane.
Not succeeding with his Aly-gift search, Jon ambled aimlessly toward the haberdashery section, a waste of
time he suspected – yet – “promising” - Promising, in that a voice in his head that he had not heard in a long
time, beckoned him on – on to find something for himself no, something of himself.
“Well, clothes make the man,” Jon smiled semi-sarcastically to himself, for he knew that it is not what goes on
a man that makes him, but what comes out of him. Then it dawned on him like the iridescent ignition of the
Mercury-vapor street lamp that incessantly illuminated the evening outside – yet creeping into - his bedroom,
that this was his annual introspection, the journey inside himself that always manifested itself in a search for
himself or something of himself. However, this year bore the promise of something different because all that
was within him convinced to him that it would at last be found.
However, what was it? What did he seek and did he really want to find it, or was he afraid to find it. In finding
it, would his perennial pilgrimage be past, his reason for existence realized and thus, retired?
Perhaps restated, whom did he seek? Was it himself or someone else – perhaps someone for whom he had
sought his whole life? “Hmm,” he thought, “deep questions for such a season as this in such a place as this.”
And then he thrust the thought from his thinking – he thought.
Instead, a cold, somber shudder shot through the sinews of his shoulders – a chill; and he felt an icy grip grasp
at those shoulders. The chill proceeded perceptibly until it would but engulf the all of him, pushing him, ever
so slowly toward absolute zero, the temperature at which all motion would cease.

2. II
Jon neither sighted nor sensed any heat in the place that would curb the chill; but he did notice in the corner
among all the other odds and ends, a Cardigan sweater displayed on a half-manikin form. No matter what else
he perused in the shop, his attention returned to the sweater and he edged closer and closer to it until he
reached out and touched it. And when he touch it, he experienced inexpressible warmth - not a burning as in
touching a steaming tea kettle, but a warming emanation that raced from his fingers up into his arm. It so
stunned him that he quickly withdrew the hand. Yet, the sweater continued to draw him toward it. There as
something pleasingly pleasant about the sweater that was comfortably familiar to him. Perhaps it was the
fabric; perhaps it was the green-gold colour; perhaps it was the smell. Perhaps, perhaps . . .
“That’s just like my Uncle Cee’s sweater,” he surprisedly thought to himself! This realization salved some of
the unfamiliarity that had startled him and he again traced the sweater’s cusp, this time fingering its fabric,
fiddling with the buttons - the buttons that were exactly like the buttons on Uncle Cee’s old sweater wedded
to the wool fabric that, too, was exactly like the fabric of Uncle Cee’s sweater. Excitedly, he examined the label
and was not a soupçon surprised that it was the same size as Uncle Cee’s sweater.
As he continued to ponder the sweater, he noticed that the second button from the bottom was missing just
like on Uncle Cee’s sweater. He carefully surveyed the sleeves and found a slight hole on the right sleeve just
below the elbow. “As I remember,” he thought, “Uncle Cee’s sweater had a hole right about there, I can
remember finding that hole with my fingers when I climbed on his back to ride on his broad shoulders.”
Now, his uncle had been the only father figure Jon had ever known and he had passed away when Jon was but
a young man. Jon remembered fondly times growing up around his uncle: sitting beside him in the seat of the
old blue Dodge truck; picking up pecans in the big back yard; going with him to his office; and throwing the
baseball around with him. The times that he found the most remarkable though, were the breakfasts of
flowery pancakes and sweet maple syrup when his uncle would always read the Bible and pray. In those
prayer times, Uncle Cee’s spirit carried Jon close to the very presence of God. It was as if Uncle Cee and God
were on first-name terms. “Those were times when my spirit soared!” Jon rehearsed wistfully, “how did I ever
let myself outgrow them?”
Gently, lovingly, he unbuttoned the sweater from the manikin form, removed it, and held it up. It felt like
Uncle Cee’s sweater – no, it was Uncle Cee’s sweater. How very odd, yet how very wonderful it was. In a
strange way, and though it should have, this episode did not strike Jon as surreal at all rather, it wore on quite
naturally.
The next “natural” thing, then would be for Jon to try the sweater on. He remembered as a little boy, putting
on his uncle’s sweater and finding how bulky it was on him; how the hem had hung almost to his ankles; and
how the sleeves had dangled like ape-arms. It always made him feel “big” to put on that sweater, almost like
putting on the manhood of his uncle. So Jon put the sweater on and found it to fit as though it had been
personally tailored for him by one of the Brooks Brothers.
Immediately, he noticed how the chill from his shoulders had vanished and how welcome warmth had
engulfed his torso. As he summoned the courage to look at himself in a gilt-framed pier mirror nearby, he
noticed the thinning grayish-white hair of Uncle Cee, yet he found the hair to be firmly attached to his own
head.

3. III
He continued to be amazed and overwhelmed at how well the sweater fit and suited him. “I’ve got to buy this
sweater,” he thought to himself, “I wonder how much it is?” He took it off and looked for the price tag. He
could not find where one was nor ever had been.
Jon looked around the shop until he saw a Queen Anne’s desk in the back and bespectacled little man wearing
a plaid shirt with a tie and a vest sitting at the desk. Assuming him “Manny,” he took the sweater over to the
desk and said, “Excuse me, Sir, are you Manny?” “What do you think?” was the answer from the man. “I think
you are,” said Jon. “Then I must be,” came the answer. “I’d like to buy the sweater, how much is it?” “It’s not
for sale,” the little man shot back, “you can’t buy it - but I will give it to you. Consider it . . . a Christmas gift.”
Jon came back, “Oh, I couldn’t accept it without paying for it.” “Then I guess you won’t have it,” said the
vested man – please, take it.” “Ok, then, I will,” Jon said.” “And will you need a bag for it?” the man inquired,
probably knowing the answer already. “No, I’ll wear it out. “ – And he did.
Jon must have walked for more than three hours up the via decumanus as it wound itself through the Upper
West Side. This was unfamiliar territory to Jon. There must have been a thousand people on that street,
walking, talking, selling - watching - but Jon didn’t notice them, his mind and his spirit were somewhere else,
perhaps in the past, perhaps in the future, perhaps not even here at all. The street began to climb and now
became a hill. Driven on by who knows what or whom, Jon pressed up that hill that day until he reached an
overhang at the apex where “on a clear day,” Jon thought, “you can see forever.”
Dusk descended and the Mercury-vapor streetlights began to ignite. To the West, Jon immersed himself in the
most beautiful sunset he had ever seen: surfer blue dashed with gold-tipped puffs of white popcorn gave way
to gray-toned streaks against a field of rose . . . now crowning crimson . . . now profoundly purple. . . now
majestic midnight blue dotted with a thousand points of pure white-gold light. A gentle wind began to blow,
then breeze, then bluster until it tousled Jon’s thinning gray hair and reminded his knees how far they had
walked that day – and those years. “The sweater felt good,” he thought.
As he watched the last mahogany lines of day nestle behind the dim-emblanketed city, he was reminded of
the many sunsets and sunrises he had experienced with Uncle Cee, long since past. And he thought, “This is
not the end of an old day, but the beginning of a new one.” Jon reached into the right-hand pocket of the
sweater and to his surprise (but not really) , he retrieved a small Testament Bible. He opened it and by the
dim, iridescent dusk-light, he turned to the page that read, “I am the Way.” ”Yes, You are,” thought Jon, and
kneeling by an exceedingly old fragment of wood, Jon, for the first time in ages, prayed - - and God called him
by his first name.
Epilogue – Jon found that in God’s acceptance of him, he could also accept the self he had become. Acceptance
is a gift from God – and perhaps acceptance of himself was the best gift Jon could have received that year;
likewise, perhaps it was the best gift he could give to Aly and the best legacy he could leave for her.
Here’s hoping that you find the “self” that both you and God can accept this Christmas.
Granddaughters, Aly and Leslie and I wish you a Merry Christmas.