A deep message of substance
Dear (insert name here):
I should explain up front that we have this system in our house
for dealing with Christmas cards. I’m talking about sending, not
receiving them.
Sherry takes care of the family -- extended in all directions --
and our close mutual friends. That leaves me with Navy friends,
business friends, guys I played basketball with in Indiana, editors
of magazines I once worked for that don’t exist any more, college
roommates and old girlfriends -- among others. You can find yourself
on this list.
Our system works pretty well as long as Sherry doesn’t complain
about having the bulk of the work or nag me about getting my cards
out. I’ll freely admit I’m not very efficient about Christmas cards.
But I’m sensitive. I always carry in my head this fantasy about
writing deep messages of substance to all these people that would
bridge the gap of long separations.
Sending Christmas greetings via a picture of Santa Claus with my
name at the bottom seems like a real cop out.
As a result, I let the cards pile up on my desk, awaiting that
window of time to ponder and compose proper messages. And the window
is always elusive, sometimes for several months.
My target date last year for sending off my Christmas cards was
Valentine’s Day. This was a decided improvement over Easter the year
before. One year -- I can’t remember which -- I waited so long that I
sent one card quite early to cover two years. In a way, that was
superbly efficient, but it left me feeling mildly guilty.
That’s why for Christmas 2002, I have created this all-purpose
letter that I can slip in with the Santa Claus card and not only feel
profound but get my greetings out well before Valentine’s Day. It
hits me as a win-win situation. I plan to offer this letter to Sherry
as an adjunct to the messages she is laboriously writing on each
card. Or maybe even as a substitute for them.
At this point, as I understand the requirements of a letter like
this, a review of the past year is in order. We will keep it as brief
as possible.
It started in New York City on top of the marquee of the Minskoff
Theater with our friend and neighbor Treb Heining, the balloon
entrepreneur, who showers the celebrants in Times Square with
confetti every New Year’s Eve. As part of his volunteer crew, we were
up there -- with our son, Erik -- dumping the confetti and ringing in
the new year with a glorious and expansive view of Broadway and the
inauguration of a new mayor.
We also saw theater, were deeply moved at Ground Zero, visited
good friends and got very, very cold. We will probably never again
leave California in the winter. The year more or less ended on Oct.
26 at about 7:45 p.m. when the California Angels scored three runs in
the bottom of the 8th inning to beat the San Francisco Giants 6-5 in
the sixth game of the World Series. Sherry and I were there. Although
we had good seats, we couldn’t see much through the phalanx of
thunder sticks waving in front of us, but we could feel every second
of it. And it felt even better than looking down on Times Square on
New Year’s Eve -- and was considerably warmer. It took another game
for the Angels to win the Series, but it really all ended the day
before, while we were watching.
There were some things that happened in between. Workshop
productions of two of Erik’s plays were put on in L.A. theaters to
good reviews and good response.
Erik is now writing a play that will have a six-week L.A. run next
February. He’s good. One of these days, the right person to move him
up to the next professional level is going to be sitting in his
audience.
Our friends from France came visiting in April, we attended the
high school graduation of my grandson, Trent, in June, and we spent
my birthday in July with friends in North Carolina shooting off spud
guns, exotic fireworks and eating real fried chicken on the Fourth.
My oldest daughter, Patt, had her birthday in Las Vegas later in
July, and I set a new Guinness record for speed in losing my gambling
stake.
In a colossal example of bad timing, we spent the first three
games of the World Series attending the Shakespeare Festival with
friends in Ashland, Ore.
Oh, yes, and we had our car stolen from an L.A. street while
attending one of Erik’s plays.
There were probably some other things, but this is getting long on
facts and short on substance. We’re all well, including our dotty
dachshund, Coco, who this year became older than I am. She is also
much more eccentric than I am, a fact Sherry seems reluctant to
admit.
Coco may be the only dog alive that gets a cookie for relieving
herself in the proper place, a drill she now seems determined to
extend to improper places. We don’t talk about her age in front of
her, a courtesy not always observed for me.
I have not made good progress on my Civil War novel because I have
been too busy thinking about Christmas cards and also contemplating a
society in which our leader is pushing smallpox shots as the antidote
to a war nobody wants that would only increase the danger of
smallpox. Among other things.
On the day after Christmas, I’ll be off to Boulder, Colo. for a
delayed celebration with my youngest daughter, Debby, and my two
grandsons, Trevor and Trent. Seeing these young people will redouble
my conviction that never before in my recollection has the message of
Christmas been needed more urgently than it is now. “Peace on earth”
is no longer a Christmas card cliche; it’s a necessity for mankind.
So may we share peace in the year to come, along with all sorts of
other good things that might even include another World Series.
Best wishes and Merry Christmas from Joe.
* JOSEPH N. BELL is a resident of Santa Ana Heights. His column
appears Thursdays.
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