Editors' Notebook

Sometimes, Christmas spirit reveals itself in the most unexpected ways.

A few days ago marked exactly a decade since a stranger shared his own spirit of Christmas with me during a museum visit at Christmastime. I have thought of him often since then.

The Durham Museum is located in the large, beautiful old Union Station in Omaha that radiates Christmas spirit. Each year there is one of the largest Christmas trees you'll ever see, donated by people in the community who are proud to see their favorite trees decorated for all to enjoy in the former train station.

In front of the tree, choirs sing carols or play musical instruments of different types. Families visit Santa, check out the miniature trains, and order old-fashioned milkshakes at Union Station's original Soda Fountain and candy shop.

The candy jars, behind glass counters, are at eye-level for kids who giggle, point and lean against the glass in anticipation. In the background, behind the candy jars and old popcorn machine, are black-and-white photos from decades ago, of soldiers in uniform, young smiling women in dresses, and generations of train passengers who traveled through the station since it opened in 1931 until the last train operated there four decades later.

Walking toward the Soda Fountain, I paused to listen to one of the choirs and gazed up at the tree. Late-day sunlight streamed through the giant windows of the station and added even more sparkle to the tree and its giant ornaments.

An elderly gentleman approached me. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" he said. "It's perfect. You couldn't make a tree any better than that. It's perfect."

We started a conversation, agreeing on how beautiful that year's tree was. He told me several times he was 91 years old, and he began to tell me stories: stories about neighbors who had trees considered or selected to proudly stand in this train station over the years, and of how many Christmases he had visited the station.

He talked of past jobs he had, with Massey-Ferguson, Case and 25 years with Sylvania Light Bulb company -- "the best career move I ever made" -- and all the traveling he had done by train, plane and automobile in the United States, Canada and Europe.

He told me of a flight he had once on a Concorde plane to Europe -- "I was there in three hours!" -- and how it cost $3,200 but was an amazing experience to glide through the air. He talked about his wife, about their wonderful marriage, and how, sadly, she had now passed away. He shared how long they had been married, and noted he had many great memories of them together.

I asked what it was like to be in this train station when it was bustling with passengers, with soldiers, with generations of people rushing for the trains. I asked him more about his travels for his jobs, his visits to Europe, and of course, about the Concorde plane ride so few of us ever had the opportunity to do. He asked about where I grew up, where I worked now, and said he thinks Saskatchewan -- where I grew up -- was one of the few places he had never visited in Canada.

Time passed -- it might have been a half hour, it might have been an hour. It was one of those afternoons when neither of us was in a rush or bothered to look at our watches.

However, the afternoon grew late. Santa packed up and left. The choirs finished their songs. Fewer people remained in the station.

"May you have a wonderful and blessed Christmas and new year," he said, with a smile.

I held out my hand to shake hands with him, wishing him a Merry Christmas and telling him what a pleasure it was to meet him and hear his stories. He smiled, paused, then lifted my hand -- and kissed the back of it.

"Merry Christmas," he said again, with a courteous bow, before letting go of my hand.

As we went our separate ways, I thought about how that afternoon, a 91-year-old had taught me the perfect way to share Christmas spirit: Using his time to share stories of his life -- and what life had been like in this former train station many decades before -- helped create a memory I will cherish the rest of mine.

Elaine Shein can be reached at elaine.shein@dtn.com

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