The Comfort of Candlelight at Old Sturbridge Village

The lanterns hang from metal hooks all along the path. Bundled in a shawl against the early winter chill, Rachel Middaugh stops every few paces to light the candles within. Their meager glow adds nothing to the daylight around, but the village is large and the candles plentiful, so Middaugh must start her work early.

Each year, Old Sturbridge Village keeps its doors open late for its Christmas by Candlelight celebration. The museum consists of 40 historical buildings laid out over a rolling landscape in central Massachusetts. A web of dirt roads ties the buildings together; at its center is a dusty loop that bounds the common green of this reconstructed early-19th-century village. It’s here where I meet Middaugh, one of the museum’s many costumed interpreters, and ask if she’d mind some company.

She is quick to offer that this celebration is a bit of a fantasy. New England’s early Puritan descendants would never have wasted so many candles lighting the walkways. There’s also the issue of the (gasp!) electric Christmas lights wrapping the trunks of the trees along the green. And most glaring to the historically minded: “Puritans didn’t celebrate Christmas,” Middaugh says.

Still, the museum sets aside its usual commitment to realism for the duration of the festival. “We talk about history where we can,” she insists, but the event is more about capturing the magic of the season.

As we slowly circle the green, early guests are poking in and out of the surrounding buildings. In one, children view toys that had delighted their peers of years gone by. In another, they gaze at a miniature Bethlehem laid out in a sprawling nativity scene. In the pristine white meetinghouse at the head of the green, musicians play acoustic Christmas songs for the families in the pews. Above them hangs a massive chandelier, tiny candles flickering from its outstretched arms.

It’s not yet 5 o’clock, but already the sun has dipped below the trees. The sky behind the steeple shifts from a vibrant pink to a fading purple. Yesterday was the solstice. The night comes early and promises to stay long. I ask Middaugh how early New Englanders ever made it through this time of year.

“You’d think they would have gone to bed early,” she replies, “but they didn’t.” Families would share the light of the open hearth or even a single candle. “One person would be knitting, another reading,” she says. As long as the flames lasted, they faced the night together.

All of human craft is directed at getting a little bit more than nature provides. The farmer wrings abundance from the land. The weaver captures warmth; the blacksmith gives us strength. But what of the candlemakers? With tallow and wick they push back the night and give us what we crave most: just a little bit more time.

I say good night to Middaugh and try to decide where to go next. The festival is lightly structured. Each building holds its own surprises, and guests are encouraged to explore. As dark sets in, the temperature drops. With hunched shoulders, families wander from one vintage structure to the next, attracted by the light and warmth. Behind one door there are wooden children’s games. Behind another, a scripture reading. All the entertainment is simple and peaceful. Where most Christmas festivals overwhelm the senses with lights and music and sugary smells, Christmas by Candlelight is content to wrap its guests in quiet and calm.

Though there are hundreds of visitors here, the museum is large and there is space to breathe. I often find myself alone on the path. The stars peek through the limbs above my head. The millpond crackles and sings as a thin sheet of ice spreads across its surface.

I follow a crowd into the one-room schoolhouse. Shoulder to shoulder we squeeze into the wooden benches. A woman snuggles into her husband’s arm. A child sits on her mother’s lap. An older woman in a red and green flannel dress approaches the lectern. As though she were about to tuck us all into bed, she reads to us the story of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. We all listen with rapt attention. She barely has to lift her voice to be heard.

Nearby in the pottery shed, Jeffrey Friedman demonstrates his craft by the light of a single candle, though the museum artisan hardly needs the light at all. “I’ve made a thousand bean pots,” he says. “I could do it by touch.” The shed is so dark it’s hard to tell what’s in it. The flickering light glances off a bowl behind him and a rough-hewn beam above. Beyond that glow there are only shadows. This is the darkness that early New Englanders knew—their lives playing out in tiny pools of light.

Friedman begins telling a story of a man who grew up in a village like Sturbridge. In his diary, he wrote about visiting a city for the first time at night. He found the oil lamps blinding and marveled at how people could walk the street at night. “The city was transformed into something alive and bright,” Friedman says, then returns to his work. At times, onlookers ask questions, and he answers obligingly. But the scene always slips back into silence, save for the rhythmic kick of the potter’s wheel. Just a man at work in a flickering circle of light, and strangers bearing witness from the shadows.

At the entrance of the museum, I spot three familiar silhouettes. My parents have just flown in from Texas. They move a little stiffly in the cold, bundled as they are in the warmest clothes they own. My 6-year-old son, Salem, bounces between them, oblivious to the weather. The festival is like nothing he’s ever seen. After a few tentative minutes, he finds the spirit and sets out to conquer the village like a miniature Alexander. Here a magic show, there a model railway—he samples what each building has to offer till his tiny attention span is satisfied, then he bounds off toward another door.

He lingers longer at the craft building. For a few dollars we purchase a candle for him to decorate. An interpreter fastens the wick to a metal dipper. Carefully Salem lowers the rod, and the candle disappears below the surface of molten red wax. He holds it there while my mother seeks the best angle to take a picture. I stand tensely behind Salem, ready to avert any disaster. My father keeps watch over the whole scene like a rooster guarding his flock.

The candle emerges bright red and festive. My mother takes another picture. Salem inspects his work, then asks, “Can I make another one for my teacher?” My mother’s hand is in her pocketbook almost before he finishes the sentence.

As the night winds down, we join a small group on a carriage ride around the town green. The muscular horse at the front is three times as tall as Salem, who marvels at the gusts of frosty air billowing from its nose. The wagon begins to move. Completely unbidden, a guest at the front of the carriage begins to sing “Jingle Bells.” My father joins in immediately. Quickly, this group of strangers transforms into a band of carolers. Salem doesn’t know many of the words, but it doesn’t slow him down. He sings full-throated and wide-eyed as the horse plods through the night.

By the time we get off the carriage, the candles in the lanterns have burned down to nubs. Soon the pools of light will vanish, and the village will rest until morning. In the meetinghouse, two men have lowered the chandelier into reach of the candle snuffer. One by one, the flames go out, and the shadows creep another inch from the corners.

Salem grips both of his grandparents’ hands as we shuffle toward the exit. None of us wants the evening to be over. Each would like to steal a few more moments together. But clearly the night has come to an end. The candle has given all it has to give.

Go with the Glow

Year after year, these three living history museums light the way for the holidays.

Christmas by Candlelight at Old Sturbridge Village: Discoveries await around every corner of New England’s largest living history museum, from the lighted Christmas Tree Trail to a spectacular nativity scene made up of 600-plus individual pieces. Fridays through Sundays from Nov. 29 to Dec. 29, plus Dec. 23 and 30, 2024. Sturbridge, MA; osv.org/event/christmas-by-candlelight

Candlelight Stroll at Strawbery Banke: Experience more than three centuries of seasonal traditions as you step inside historic houses dressed for the holidays. Fridays through Sundays Dec. 6–22, 2024. Portsmouth, NH; strawberybanke.org/candlelight-stroll

Lantern Light Village at Mystic Seaport Museum: Old-fashioned lanterns brighten up the Seaport campus, along with live music, carriage rides, storytelling, and more. Fridays and Saturdays Dec. 6–21, plus Dec. 22. Mystic, CT; mysticseaport.org/lantern-light-village