What Do Our Hearts Treasure？我们的心灵珍惜什么？
Up until a couple of years ago，the Christmases I have known have been in lands of the fir tree and pine.The same is true of my wife，who is a New Englander and whose Christmases have been observed in a cold setting，Bostonian in design.But times change，circumstances alter，health glides slowly downhill，and there is，of course，Christmas in lands of the palm tree and vine-which is what we were up against last month.Our Christmas，1965，was spent in a rented house on the edge of a canal in Florida，locally called a bayou.
I knew there would have to be certain adjustments，emotional and physical，to this shift in ceremony，but I guess I was not quite prepared for them and had not really figured them out.It was obvious to both of us that we were not looking forward to being away from home at Christmas，but I busied myself with road maps and thermos arrangements and kept my mind off the Nativity.We arrived in Florida tired from the long motor journey but essentially cheerful and ready for anything.
The house we walked into had been engaged sight unseen，and this is always fun and full of jolts like a ride at an amusement park.Our pleasure palace was built of cinder blocks and was painted shocking pink.The principle tree on the place was a tall power pole sprouting transformers；it stood a few feet from the canal and threw a pleasant shade across the drive.The house itself，we soon discovered，was wonderfully supplied with modern labor-saving appliances and almost completely bare of any other sort of furnishing.We found an automatic washing machine，a dryer，an automatic dishwasher，a reverse-cycle heating-and-air-conditioning unit that had just burned out its compressor and was lying in disarray behind a board fence outside，a disposal device that would grind up a grapefruit rind if you cut the rind into slices，a big refrigerator，an electric wall oven，an electric stove，an electric warming oven，and so on.All this was pretty good except that there was no ice bucket，no water pitcher，no rugs on the terrazzo floors，no pictures on the pastel walls，no bookshelves，no books，and no garbage pail.There were bathrooms everywhere you turned，but I saw no sign that anybody had ever done anything in the house except take baths and adjust the controls on the machinery.
When we were rested from our trip，we started buying things for the house，mostly from a large department store in town.This store fell into the habit of delivering most of our purchases not to us but to a house next door，whose owners were away.We got on the phone and stayed there for most of the daylight hours.
Several days before Christmas，I began to notice that my wife was suffering from crying spells，all of them of short duration.I would find her weeping quietly in what seemed like elegant，if uncomfortable，surroundings.“It's Vietnam that is making me feel this way，”she said.But I did not believe it was Vietnam.I knew her well enough，in her December phase，to know that something far deeper than Southeast Asia was at work.
I was too busy to cry.There was a man that came each day to work on the collapsed heating system.He was from a firm called“Air Comfort”and was a fine，brave，taciturn man.I would find him in a kneeling position，as though he were a figure in a crèche gazing at the tangle of tubes and wires left by the removal of the burned-out compressor.He，too，seemed melancholy，but did not weep.He kept his own counsel and did what he could，hour after hour，to remedy an almost impossible situation.I felt that if I hung around him long enough，I might catch the drift of the reverse-cycle system and pick up a crumb or two of the knowledge that wound stand me in good stead later on.
On the west side of the building I found a pile of fatwood logs，and when the living room became chilly I would light a fire.The logs left no ash；it was as though you were burning clear kerosene.The weather held good，and we were not really cold.The sunsets were spectacular.But the sun always sank behind the Australian pines and the palms on the opposite shore across the Pass，and I knew that my wife and I were，unconsciously，watching it descend in its more familiar rim behind the birches，the black spruces，the firs，the hackmatacks across the road from our house in Maine.Like everything else in Florida，the birds seemed inappropriate.I happen to admire the mourning dove，but by no stretch of the eardrum can its lament be called Christmassy.I like to see the turkey buzzard wheeling in the sky，but he is not a merry bird，like the chickadee；his vigil is for the dying.There arrived in the mail a program of the Christmas ceremony in the school at home，reporting that our youngest grandson had appeared in a pageant called“Goodbye to Last Year's Toys”，and that our granddaughter had recited something called“What Do Our Hearts Treasure？”
There was very little traffic in the canal.Once in a while a pint whiskey bottle would float slowly by on the outgoing tide.A small powerboat named Digitalis made an occasional sortie，and two boys in a homemade bateau paddled through.Sometimes，toward the end of the day，a little green heron showed up and fished from a mangrove that overhung the water.The scene was idyllic.Christmas was in the air，yet the air seemed too soft to sustain it.In the vast shopping centers that ringed the city，Santa，in jumbo size，dominated the parking lots.In the commanding noonday sun，with the temperature in the seventies，he seemed vastly overdressed in his red suit with the ermine trimming-a saint who perspired under the arms.Through the arcades in front of the shops sauntered an endless procession of senior citizens，with their sad faces，their painful joints，their last-minute errands.
I went on an errand of my own.I visited a nursery and bought a poinsettia plant，hoping to introduce a spot of the correct color into our house.In the North，this errand would have enjoyed a certain stature，but in Florida the thing seemed faintly ridiculous.Driving away from the nursery with my prize，I passed a great forest of poinsettias blooming naturally in somebody's front yard.It seemed to take the point out of my purchase.A lot of things are red in Florida-the powder-puff bush，the red hibiscus，the red bougainvillaea，the cannas-all these blooms make a monkey out of a husband carrying home a small red potted plant.
We talked over the matter of the tree and decided that the traditional Christmas tree would be silly under these circumstances.We would get，we said，a tropical thing of some sort，that would look good all winter in a corner of our stylish living room，next to the glass wall through which we watched the tropical sunsets.The nursery came up with something very fine indeed-a cluster of three little palmlike trees called Dracaena marginata（the man called it imaginata，which I liked better）.The pot was handsome，and the trees looked like a miniature version of the classic oasis scene in the desert.When the plant was delivered，a small chameleon arrived with it and soon made the living room his own.He liked the curtain on the south wall，and would poke his evil little head out and join us for cocktails.I named him Beppo.Everyone admired our plant.The crying spells ceased，but it was plain that there was still something the matter；it wasn't Vietnam，it wasn't the reverse-cycle system，it was some kind of unreality that pervaded our lives.
On the twenty-second，a large package arrived from the North and I noted the familiar handwriting of our daughter-in-law.I carried the package into the living room，dumped it on the sofa，slit its throat with my jackknife，and left it for my wife to dissect.（She is methodical at Christmas and keeps a record of gifts and donors）Soon I heard a sharp cry，“Come here！Look！”I found her standing on the hearth with her nose buried in a branch from a balsam fir，which she had hung over the fireplace.With it hung a harness strap of sleigh bells.The branch had unquestionably been whacked from a tree in the woods behind our son's house in Maine and had made the long trip south.It wore the look and carried the smell of authenticity.“There！”said my wife，as though she had just delivered a baby.
The package also disgorged a tiny red drum and two tiny drumsticks，made from bright red wrapping paper by a grandchild.And the package contained school photographs，which we eagerly studied.Our youngest grandson had done something odd with his mouth，in a manly attempt to defeat the photographer，and looked just like Jimmy Hoffa，“How marvelous！”said my wife.
We placed the toy drum at the base of Dracaena marginata.（What do our hearts treasure？）Not to be outdone，I constructed one small cornucopia out of the same bright red paper and hung it on a spiky frond of the tree.I fashioned a five-pointed silver star，strung it on a length of monofilament from my tackle box，and suspended it from the ceiling above the tree with a piece of magic tape.The star revolved slowly，catching the light at intervals-a holy mobile.The tree now seemed biblical and just right.We were in business at last.I gazed out across the pass to where the soft and feathery Australian pines were outlined against the bright sky.They had hardened up momentarily for this hour of splendor.They were spruce！They were birch！They were fir！Everywhere，everywhere，Christmas tonight！
直到一两年前，我所记得的圣诞节都是在有冷杉和松树的地方。我老伴也是如此，她是新英格兰人，所经历的圣诞节都是在冰天雪地的环境里，波士顿风格的。但时光荏苒，环境变化，健康状况也慢慢走下坡路，因此，上个月我们就在遍地棕榈树和藤蔓的地方过了圣诞节。1965年的圣诞节，我们是在佛罗里达州一幢租来的房子里度过的，靠近一条运河，当地人叫长沼。
我明知道，我们的身心都要有一些调整才能去适应这种节庆的变化，但是我猜想我还没准备好去面对，也没有真正想过做什么调整。显而易见，我们俩都没有想过要在圣诞节时离开家。但我还是埋头于查看地图，准备热水瓶，尽量不去想耶稣诞生。在长途的驱车旅行后，我们到了佛罗里达，有些疲惫，但却兴奋不已，跃跃欲试。
走进的房子是我们事先没有看过就预定好的，这样乐趣在于让人心惊胆战，就像在游乐园坐过山车一样。我们的快乐宫是煤渣砖盖的，涂的是刺眼的粉红色。这个地方主要的树木是根高大的电线杆子，顶部如树枝般伸出许多变压线；它离运河也就几步远，在车道上投下了凉爽的阴影。很快，我们就发现房子里到处都是各种各样节省人力的现代化电器，真令人叫绝，除此之外，其他任何陈设却几乎为零。我们发现了自动洗衣机、甩干机、自动洗碗机，一个逆转循环的冷热两用空调，它的压缩机烧坏了，胡乱的堆在外面的木篱笆后头，有台粉碎机可以碾碎柚子皮，只要你把柚子皮切成条就行，还有大冰箱、挂式烤箱、电火炉和微波炉，等等。这一切都很好，美中不足的是屋子里没有冰桶，没有水壶，水磨石地板上没有地毯，淡淡的墙壁上没有画幅，没有书架，没有书，也没有垃圾桶。转到哪儿都是浴室，除了洗澡和调节机器，我看不出这屋子里还有什么人活动过的痕迹。
从旅途中休息过来后，我们开始买东西布置房子，大都从镇上的一家大百货商场里买。这个商场习惯了把我们买的多半东西不运送给我们，而是我们隔壁一家，那家主人偏又出门了。我们打电话联系，差不多等了一整天。
圣诞节前几天，我开始注意到老伴在忍着阵阵哭泣，每回时间都不长。我总发现她在这个可以说不舒适，但看上去还算优雅的环境里悄悄抹眼泪。“是越南让我这样，”她说。但我不相信是越战的缘故。我太了解她了，人到暮年，有比东南亚深切得多的东西在触动着她。
我忙得顾不上哭了。有个人每天都来修理瘫痪的取暖设备。他来自一个叫“舒适冷暖”的公司，是个善良、勇敢又寡言少语的人。我总能瞧见他跪在地上，好像他是基督诞生塑像里的一个人物似的，盯着一堆管子和电线，那是搬走烧坏的压缩机后剩下的。他呢，看起来也郁郁不乐，但没有哭。他自有主意，干着他的活儿，一小时接一小时地修理几乎是不可挽回的一摊子。我觉得如果在他身边待的时间足够长，我也许能弄明白逆转循环系统的大致工作原理，也能学一两手，日后派上用场。在房子的西面，我找到一堆多脂树的木柴，这样客厅变冷时我就可以生火。这些木柴燃烧后不留灰烬，就像烧纯煤油一样。天气不错，所以其实我们并不冷。夕阳瑰丽壮观，但它总是沉落在航道对岸的澳大利亚松树和棕榈后面。我知道我和老伴，不知不觉间看到了，熟悉的夕阳光环从我们缅因州家前道路扫过落入一片白桦、黑云杉、冷杉和杜松中间。像佛罗里达的其他事物一样，这儿的鸟似乎也那么不合时宜。我忽然间喜欢上了哀鸽，但是不管怎么竖着耳朵听都不能说它的悲鸣有圣诞气氛。我喜欢看红头美洲鹫在天空盘旋，但它不像山雀那样代表快乐；它为行将死亡的人守夜。这时，邮差送来家里学校那边举行的圣诞欢庆会的节目单，原来我们的小孙子在名为“告别去年的玩具”的大场面上露脸了，还有我们的孙女朗诵了“我们的心灵珍惜什么？”的文章。
运河上来往的船只很少。有时一个一品脱威士忌酒瓶会随着退潮的河水缓缓漂浮过来。偶尔一艘名为“洋地黄”的小汽艇会在河道上航行一段，两个男孩划着自家制的小舟悠然而过。有时候，天色将尽，一只绿色的小苍鹭会飞来栖息在河边的一株红树上，从水里叨鱼美美地吃上一顿。真是一派田园风光。圣诞节的味道已然漂溢在空气中，可是这空气似乎柔和得承载不了。在市区周围聚集的大型购物中心，圣诞老人，个个巨大无比，赫然矗立在停车场上。正午灼热的太阳下，温度高达华氏七十多度，他身上带着白色貂毛边的红衣服看起来实在是太厚了――真成了胳膊底下涔涔冒汗也要忍着的圣徒。店面前的走廊上，闲着溜达的老年市民，一眼望不到头，他们神情黯然，关节疼痛，疲于最后时刻的差事。
我出门去办自己的差事，探访了一家托儿所，还买了盆圣诞红，希望给我们的房子增添点儿节日该有的色彩。在北方，这差事是享有一定身价的，而在佛罗里达却似乎有点儿可笑。带着我的宝贝驱车离开托儿所，我路过一家人的前院，里面像小树林似的一大片圣诞红开得生机盎然，我的宝贝相形见绌，差事也显得毫无意义了。在佛罗里达很多东西都是红色的――粉球灌木、红木槿、九重葛、美人蕉――所有这些花朵都使一个拿着红色小盆景回家的丈夫显得愚蠢可笑。
我们商量了一下树的事，合计着这种环境下，传统的圣诞树看起来很不搭调。我们决定用冬季常绿的热带类树木，放在我们时尚的客厅一角，靠近我们欣赏热带落日的落地窗前。托儿所送来一簇三株棕榈模样的小树，非常好，名叫千年蕉（来送树的人管它叫遐思叶，我更喜欢这个名字）。树盆也相当漂亮，整个树看起来恍如那经典的沙漠绿洲景色的迷你版。树送来后，一只小蜥蜴也跟来凑热闹，很快就在客厅安了家。它看上了南面墙的窗帘，在我们喝鸡尾酒时，会伸出它邪恶的小脑袋加入我们。我叫它毕朴。每个人都对我们的小树赞叹不已。阵阵的啜泣也停止了，但是，显然，还有什么事情不对劲儿，不是越战，不是逆转循环系统，而是充斥于我们生活中一种不真实感。
二十二号那天，从北方寄来了个大包裹，上面有我们儿媳的熟悉笔迹。我把包裹拿到客厅里，扔到沙发上，用折叠刀把它的缝线口割开，然后留给老伴去打开它。（她一到圣诞节就变得很有计划，会把收到的礼物和人名一一记录下来）一会儿，我听到一声大喊，“过来！你看！”只见她人站在壁炉旁，鼻子埋在香脂冷杉的一根树枝里。树枝悬挂在壁炉上，上面还有一条雪橇铃铛的挽带。树枝不用说是从缅因州我儿子家后面的树林里辟下来的，千里迢迢寄到南方来。它看起来是那么真实自然，闻起来也是那么的真实自然。“你看呀！”老伴说道，那神态就好像她刚生了个娃娃似的。
包裹里还露出了一个小红鼓和一对小鼓棰，是一个孙子用鲜红的包装纸做的。另外，还有学校里的照片，我们迫不及待地端详起来。我们的小孙子嘴巴做了个奇怪的模样，男子汉般地企图跟摄影师对着干，那样子简直跟吉米？霍法一模一样。“真好啊！”老伴说道。
我们把玩具鼓摆在千年蕉的盆座上。（我们的心灵珍惜什么呢？）不能甘拜下风，我用同样鲜红的纸做了个小羊角，挂在树上的一片尖叶子上。我又装饰出了一个银色五角星，穿在工具箱里找到的一截单纤维丝上，用了点儿魔力胶带粘悬在树上方的天花板上。星星慢慢地旋转着，间断闪耀着光芒――一个神圣的运动体。树现在有圣经里的样子了，感觉才对。我们终于像那么回事了。向外望去，航道对面，柔和蓬松的澳大利亚松一排排与明朗的天际相连。为了这一时刻的光彩，它们这会儿工夫也坚硬起来了。它们是云杉！它们是白桦！它们是冷杉！遍地都是，遍地都是，圣诞在今宵！
译者感言
作者观察细致入微，对亲身经历和耳闻目睹的事物娓娓道来，文字于整体的随性淡雅中，时而语重心长，却欲言又止；时而又冷静风趣，引人会心一笑。含而不露，看似琐碎平和的描述中，作家的敏锐细腻和长者的智慧豁达都浮现于字里行间，让人回味无穷。从起程前隐约的不安，看到租房后的啼笑皆非、随遇而安，到后来老伴的哭泣、周遭陌生的景物所触发的淡淡哀愁，作者逐渐感到深层次的原因，“……充斥于我们生活中的一种不真实感”。直到最后收到儿媳寄来的包裹，感受到自己心情的瞬间变化，作者才真正意识到原来这里缺少的是家的感觉，他思念着缅因干冷清脆的空气、胶冷衫的香味……他思念的是大人们忙里忙外的充实，小孩们跑闹蹦跳的兴奋，一家人围炉而坐共庆圣诞的幸福，原来亲情可以这样温暖人心。亲情，一个血脉传承的真情，一个没有自私、没有虚伪的天赋情感。那厚重的叮咛，深情的凝望，让心灵即便在寒冷的冬天也能感觉到温暖，让情感即使蒙上岁月的风尘依然清澈澄净。它在你左右时你反倒不易察觉，一旦远离就会无比想念，而它的缺失会让心灵异常脆弱。其实人世间万千情感都是相通的，我们常说至爱亲情，可见亲情是我们的根。友情可以是一种亲情，爱情最终会升华成亲情，恩情更淋漓尽致的暗藏着亲情。往往，人与人之间的情感一旦深厚就会演变成一种亲情。作为人世间最无私、最牢固、最深厚的情感，它给了我们逶迤不绝的依傍和温暖。
