The Perfect Column Was My Calling

I promised myself to write a Christmas column that defied cliche.

Nothing about returning gifts, no “Dear Santa” letter, no reworking of “The 12 Days of Christmas,” no remembrance of “my best Christmas ever.”

The idea was to go out Christmas Eve and, as dusk turned to nightfall, find some solitary soul making his only visit of the year to church. I envisioned a grand Catholic church and someone approaching the front door, taking off his hat, walking about two-thirds of the way into the sanctuary, kneeling in a pew and stating his piece to God. Maybe he’d explain why he hadn’t been to church all year or what it was about Christmas that made him want to drop in.

In newspaper lingo, it would have written itself.

I went to a bustling church in Anaheim and, sure enough, people streamed in. It became clear rather quickly, however, that my great idea wasn’t resonating. I couldn’t find the right person, and the more times I explained my idea to others, the more I tired of it.

If that idea was my Christmas present, consider it returned.

So I went home, spending the rest of Christmas Eve racking my brain, knowing I’d be in the office on Dec. 25, trying to come up with Plan B. Sleep came, but not on the wings of an idea.

On Christmas Day, fearing my mood would darken as the afternoon deadline loomed, I figured I’d better make the round of family phone calls.

I phoned my mother in Denver, who was spending Christmas Day across town with my brother, his wife, their 7-year-old son, Jared, and my sister-in-law’s parents from Ogallala, Neb.

I told Mom I didn’t have a dadgum column, and she lamented that I had to work on Christmas Day. Not to worry, I said; we had free turkey and pumpkin pie in the cafeteria.

She described the day. It was cold in Denver, and a light snow had begun falling Christmas Eve, leaving several inches on the ground. The day before, the weather reduced my sister-in-law’s parents to road crawl as they drove in from Nebraska, but they now were happily ensconced at my brother’s. Other cars no doubt on their way to holiday gatherings instead found their way into Interstate 80 ditches, they said.

Mom had just awakened from a nap when I phoned, and my brother was taking one. My sister-in-law was cooking the early-afternoon turkey dinner, and it wouldn’t be long, Mom said, until everyone was seated around the table.

“You’ve got to come back some year for Christmas before Jared gets much older,” Mom said. It’s all about watching a child, she said. Around the tree on Christmas Eve, Jared had opened one box and found a helmet inside. “I wonder what you need that for,” someone said.

My brother took him down a hallway, around the corner and toward the garage door. There stood the present Jared will never forget: his first brand-new bicycle--the one that will render obsolete the garage-sale job with the training wheels.

Recounting Jared’s reaction, Mom laughed. “He started shaking all over. He was so excited. He had a look on his face of pure joy. I guess he didn’t know what to say or how to express joy any other way, so he just started shaking.”

I can picture him doing it, maybe even hamming it up a bit. I also can picture everyone else in the room having just as much fun over a new bike as Jared. Knowing that crowd, it may have been somewhat misty-eyed.

I asked Mom to put Jared on the phone. In the past, that has proved suspenseful--as he holds the receiver but often keeps the other party wondering if he’ll ever speak into it. Inevitably, his parents, like offstage prompters, cue him. This Christmas, he was in character.

“Did you get anything for Christmas?” I asked.

“I got a bike.”

“What kind?”

“A Mud Shark. I guess it goes through mud and stuff.”

“Were you surprised?”

“Yes. Very.”

“What did you do when you got it?”

“I fainted.”

“What did Grandma and Grandpa Ribble get you?”

“I forget.”

He then remembered they pitched in to help get the bicycle.

“Have you ridden it yet?”

“Uh-uh. It’s snowing here.”

That pretty much wrapped it up. I said goodbye and awaited his sign-off. Instead, the phone went into some atmospheric zone of silence and I hung up.

Sitting here in the office, I pictured the scene. My brother about to awaken, my sister-in-law taking rolls out of the oven, her dad watching a football game in the living room, a 7-year-old going nuts because he can’t ride his new bike in the snow.

An American family snapshot of Christmas, if you will. In how many millions of households was that identical scene being played out at exactly that moment? I don’t know, but thinking of this one warmed me.

Looking for the story with the angle, I almost missed the obvious one.

I guess I broke my promise. I guess this all qualifies as one big cliche.

Somehow, typing it all up, I don’t seem to mind.

*

Dana Parsons’ column appears Wednesday, Friday and Sunday. Readers may reach Parsons by calling (714) 966-7821, by writing to him at The Times Orange County Edition, 1375 Sunflower Ave., Costa Mesa, CA 92626, or by e-mail at dana.parsons@latimes.com