At a midnight mass as the choir was singing about peace and joy, I was witnessing a possible life and death moment.
It was a Christmas Eve in the ’80s, the setting was the Church of the Immaculate Conception on Baronne Street, commonly known as Jesuit Church, across from the Roosevelt hotel.
We were sitting in a pew on the first row; ideal for whiffs of mood-setting incense and the fragrance of pine wreaths, also a good spot for seeing something unusual. Not a creature was stirring, except for, to my surprise, a frog who was hopping along the edge of the altar.
How an amphibian worked his way to the main stage of a church on the busiest night of the year was a mystery. But then I noticed the row of potted poinsettias that lined the altar. He must have hopped in and gotten a ride; now he was unsure of where to go and what to do.
I could not tell if the other churchgoers saw him, but I was amused. However, a moment of reckoning was approaching. Soon it would be time for Communion. Hundreds of shoes would plop near the altar. Could a frog in a wilderness of poinsettias survive a rush of boots and heels?
“O Holy Night,” the choir sang while a frog at floor level weaved his way through what must have appeared to be a stampede, hoping and hopping for survival. And this on the night when the church is full and just about everyone is walking to the altar.
After Communion, there would be hallelujahs and prayers. I was distracted, though. I was looking for the frog. I glanced back and forth across the line of plants — no frog; maybe he had leaped back into a pot and the security of a poinsettia.
By that Christmas Eve, I was a veteran of midnight masses. My first time was when I was in grade school, and I experienced one of life’s first big surprises. Like any kid, I was getting drowsy during the midnight hour and lulled by the soft chants, but then I suddenly perked up as the choir began an improbable song.
I was stunned. Were they actually saying, “Hark the Errol Angels sing”? I listened carefully and never wanted to believe otherwise. Several Christmas years later, I was well into the age of reason when I finally conceded that the choirs had been saying something else. I hoped that at some church somewhere on the planet, there was a kid named Herald whose angels were singing.
For several years during the Christmas season, a ritual for parents was to take the family for a ride up Canal Street. At the intersection of South Murat Street, there was the Centanni House, famous for its elaborate yard decorations, the most memorable of which was a giant animated elephant giving Santa a ride on its back. The lighting displays were dazzling.
There was so much foot traffic that vendor vehicles were parked on the next block, purveying cotton candy and such. Few locals had ever seen a chestnut, nor anticipated a bag of them roasted, and they still would not. This was peanut country. Also, it was the era before food trucks, so tacos and fried rice were not on the menu.
After the Centanni visit, the path would lead to downtown where the biggest attraction was on the balcony of D.H. Holmes Department Store. Santa Claus himself sat on his throne, waving to all the non-naughties below.
One year, Holmes was the site of a personal childhood catharsis. With the Christmas season approaching, someone — I do not remember whom, but it might have been part of a schoolyard conversation — revealed to me that Santa Claus had been shot. I chose not to share that information with anyone, as though that would help make it not true.
But the moment of reckoning came the night of the Christmas ride after the Centanni House on the way to the bright lights of downtown. First came Maison Blanche, Holmes’ rival department store which had made its mark on Christmas with the creation of Mr. Bingle, the world’s only elfin snowman.
The marionette, who became a major local star, even had his own TV show each weekday during the season. The executives at Holmes obviously figured they had to go one better and contracted with the one person who could surpass Bingle in fame, the big guy himself.
But then there was the tragic secret that only I seemed to know. How would people react when they saw just an empty throne?
Fortunately, that never happened. From Canal Street looking up at Claus, he seemed spry and happy. There were no signs of bandages or other indications of injury. The Secret Service was obviously not worried. No security guards were flanking him.
Somehow, the news media missed the story. There would be no mention in the day’s coverage of the nervous anticipation or the relief. The season continued.
As for the frog, later that Christmas Eve night, I wondered about his fate. He had survived, but now he was locked in a dark dimly lit building.
He could possibly amuse himself, though. Nearby, there was a large nativity scene with figures of other animals: sheep, donkeys, dogs and camels. For the moment, at least, he could pose as the little-known frog in the manger.
All was calm; all was bright.
‘ The preceding article may include information circulated by third parties ’
‘ Some details of this article were extracted from the following source www.nola.com ’
