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.