A Christmas surprise

In November 1987 my wife and I sat in a restaurant in Palo Alto, discussing what to do for Christmas. Various family plans were considered. Somehow the idea came up of visiting my family in London, but without telling them in advance.

The next day we reserved a flight, and on Dec. 20 we arrived in London. We spent the next few days in cautious sightseeing, always afraid that by a million to one chance we would meet someone we knew. We avoided Westminster Abbey on Christmas Eve, knowing that the family often went to the evening service there. We went to St. Paul’s Cathedral instead.

On Christmas Day we arrived at my sister’s house at about 9 a.m. and rang the bell. My nephew Dan looked out and told the others, who had just started to open the presents around the tree, “It’s Janis and Peter from California.”

“Right, Dan, who is it really?” was the response.

But he opened the door, and we were confronted by a sea of open mouths. My mother, age 80, my sister, her husband, his mother, age 85, and my two nephews stared at us in shock.

After the initial astonishment, hugs and questions, we settled down to a typical family Christmas. As dusk fell and the mist rose, we all drove to Westminster Abbey to attend the Christmas carol service. We were lucky enough to be seated in the 600-year-old choir stalls, for a memorable experience.

Afterward we drove home for a traditional Christmas dinner. We were very tired, emotionally and physically, but we will never forget the Christmas of ‘87.

A Christmas wish

“Is Santa Claus real?” Jimmy Cole asked Claire Marton.

“Of course!” said Claire with a laugh. “Do you think that your dad is Santa Claus? I hope not!”

“Well …” Jimmy began, but Claire stopped him.

“It is what you think and it is what you know,” Claire said.

Later, when Jimmy came back home, his big sister Melody asked him whether he wanted to play with her.

“No thanks,” he said. “I have homework to do.”

“Well, OK,” Melody said, sensing that Jimmy was upset about something.

“Bye, Sis,” Jimmy said and trudged up the stairs. He opened his room door and banged it shut. Then he climbed up onto his bunk bed. There he was surprised to see a note. It said: “Dear Jimmy, you are going to get your wish — a puppy dog for Christmas. Signed, Santa Claus.”

“Wowie!” exclaimed Jimmy. “Santa is real!”

Soon it was Christmas Eve. Jimmy set a platter of gingerbread cookies on the table. Then he went upstairs to bed. His mother and father tucked him in. He fell asleep thinking of his wish.

At midnight a strange sound woke him up. He got out of bed and went downstairs. Santa Claus was standing near the Christmas tree holding a big bundle. “How do you do, Santa?” Jimmy surprised Santa.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” Santa asked.

“Okay,” Jimmy said. He went back to bed.

The next morning Jimmy found the bundle under the Christmas tree — the cutest puppy dog he had ever seen. He named the puppy Superdog. Then he and Superdog skipped out the front door to tell Claire the news.

Postmark: Huntington Beach

The sturdy man in overalls and I were the only people in Safeway’s parking lot at 6 o’clock one morning last spring. As he was leaving the store and I was going in, we exchanged a casual “Good morning.” In a pleasant way, he reminded me of the African-American foster child my son and his wife were considering adopting. Then he asked, “Do you live here?” I told him I did.

“I’m from Huntington Beach,” he said. “I was called up here to preach to a congregation in Santa Cruz. But my truck broke down and the repairs took all my cash.” He pointed to a white panel truck. “I phoned my wife to wire $35 for gas to get me home, but she wasn’t there.”

Huntington Beach! The name evoked a flood of memories. “What a wonderful place to live,” I exclaimed. “When I was a child, my parents made reservations a week at a time at the state park there. We’d set up a tent close to the water’s edge, and I’d spend the day bodysurfing.”

But his eyes were saying, Lady, you’re missing the point! “Look at my hands, ma’am. I’m not a bum. These are the hands of a working man.” Indeed, they were. Large, calloused, with the knuckles gnarled. But he didn’t ask for money.

I’ve never been sure how to respond to folks at store entrances with signs requesting handouts. Stories circulate about beggars with large bank accounts. So I’ve followed my instinct in the matter; it’s all I have to go on.

I’ll give him $5, I thought to myself, still chattering about Huntington Beach in the 1940s. He can get the rest from others. When I ran out of words, I looked in my wallet. I had a $20 bill, a 10 and a five. Precisely $35! It was a sign. I gave it all to him. The next thing I knew, my cheek was being pressed against the cool plastic of his jacket. Hugging me, he chuckled, “God bless you!” and headed for his truck.

Had I been conned? On the outside chance he’d want to repay me, he’d need my address. I called him back and handed him my business card. Inside the store, I felt foolish. Not only had I parted with a lot of money, I’d given my name and address to a stranger. What had happened to me?

The answer came yesterday. Among the catalogs, bills and Christmas cards delivered to our mailbox was an envelope with no return address. It was postmarked Huntington Beach. Inside, clipped to a $20, $10 and $5 bill, was a sheet of Christmas stationery. Tears came to my eyes as I read these words, printed neatly in blue ink: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”

E Street Trailer Park

Shabby. Ugly. Rusted metal. Dented aluminum siding. Three rows of old single-wides, squished tightly together, surrounded by battered cars, cracked asphalt.

Morning traffic whishes past the tiny trailer park on the corner of E Street and Calhoun. Drivers hardly notice it, the decaying trailers, the cars, the scraggly weeds pushing their way up through the driveway. Maybe if they don’t look it will go away. They never see the wooden sign nailed crookedly to the only tree: “E St. Trailer Park — No Spaces Available.”

But many lives are lived there in the long, narrow, tin boxes. Lives are lost there, too. No different from anywhere else. Mary Gonzales lives there. A single mother whose dreams of becoming a dancer ended when she made a teen-age mistake. Now, 15 years later, she struggles to keep her son from the gangbangers who maraud up and down E Street.

Henry Dawson lives there too. An 85-year-old World War II veteran. A hero with a purple heart. Alone except for his old dog, Martin, and his tiny garden of potted plants that runs up and down both sides of his rusting trailer.

Then there’s “the cat lady,” Mrs. Agramonte. Rows of bowls surround her front porch, food for any stray that happens along. And there are many. Day and night, little cat faces peer out from her kitchen window. All are welcome.

Kenny Meyers lives in the park with his mother. Their trailer is the one at the very end, backed up to Calhoun Street, with the wooden fence that divides the property from A-1 Auto Repair on the other side. Kenny’s 8, full of light and energy. He thinks nothing bad of where he lives. It’s home. It’s where his mother returns every night after her 12-hour shift at the Cactus Cafe. Home to him.

Jose Sanchez lives there too. Every day he walks 10 city blocks to his job at the Wholesale Warehouse, where he drives a forklift 8.5 hours a day. Then he walks home alone. Every night. Always alone.

There are others, young and old, without the heart or the means to live anywhere else. A poor, close-knit community within the huge urban sprawl.

On the first night of December and for the 30 nights that follow, the ugliness disappears into a fairyland of colored lights and starry illuminations. As departing commuters whiz past E Street in the winter darkness, they finally take time to look, to wonder at the beautiful light spectacular.

Maybe they don’t think of the varied lives of the park’s residents, but they do, at least for a while, take notice and marvel at the sparkling red, green, yellow, blue and silver of the mystical city of lights that transforms the corner of E Street and Calhoun from a desolate ugliness into a place of hope and beauty.

The sign high in the old oak blinks off and on for all to see: “Joy to the world! Joy to the world!”

The Magic of Christmas

Walking down the streets of downtown Los Altos, people come out of flower shops with centerpieces for their Christmas dinner. The horse carriage jingles as it takes couples for a ride down Main and State streets and individuals come out of coffee shops sipping their Holiday Peppermint Mocha.

Christmas time in Los Altos. For many, it takes on many different colors.

For some, Christmas is a period that symbolizes a break from the current year and the New Year. A period where children are off school, college kids come home and meet up with old, cherished friends. It is a time when families get together and look back at the previous year and all that has happened.

However, during this holiday season, people naturally look back at the previous year and, more generally at their life, and start to wonder, “Have I lived my life the way I wanted to?” and “Was it all worth it?” For some, these questions create part of the holiday stigma that plagues people every year.

The holidays can be filled with happiness and love. However, it can also be a time of great depression and stress.

So many of us seem to be caught up with the idea of creating the “perfect” Christmas. We devote weeks to ordering the “perfect” centerpiece, redecorating our homes to add that holiday touch, finding the “perfect” gift, wrapping it with the “perfect” wrapping paper and ribbon, and photographing our “perfect” family for others to display in their collection of cards. When we see all the time and effort we place on creating this “perfection,” it is only natural for us to feel anxiety, causing us to lose the real meaning of Christmas. When this happens, we must wonder, “Is all this planning leading us to what we are really after?”

After all, isn’t the Christmas period the season to be jolly? So, when did this spirit begin to fade?

Can we blame it on the superficial and materialistic “eye glasses” people saw through during the peak of our economic boost? Is it because the economy — especially here in the Silicon Valley — has shot down so much that people are desperately trying to live those happier times again, or can we blame it on our country’s current state of uncertainty about going to war?

Although we may never realize why exactly the search for perfection becomes such a prevalent force for us around the holidays, we should try to search for the truth that can be found at the heart of Christmas. In the end, it won’t really matter if the red tulip in your centerpiece has withered.

What matters the most is that you are here, surrounded by the people that matter the most to you, about to begin a new year, filled with opportunities and possibilities.

So, on Christmas morning, after Santa Claus has delivered his gifts and you are curled up in pajamas by the fire, feel for that moment the true magic of Christmas and the true magic of your life.

A Christmas Poem

Santa, have I been good enough,

To receive a little something special in my stocking this year?

Won’t you at least take a look at part of my list,

Before you answer, or have to check with your deer?

I’d love a whole trainload of opportunity, to share

with everyone that needs it. Put it immediately into effect.

Add six extra boxcars of honesty, a caboose of trust, and

A track made of kindness. Oh, please don’t forget.

Can’t I have some sweetness or a crystal vase filled with love,

That’s right, a bouquet fragrant and in full glorious bloom.

Maybe you could work in an important silver link chain,

With a good luck charm, someone to help us all here real soon.

Please give me an extra yard of fine golden handmade encouragement,

Three bolts of support and mother-of-pearl closure buttons to use,

So I can complete my childish faith-woven creation, and reveal it

To everyone, each who in his own way, has paid his dues.

Santa, remember that communication problem here I mentioned,

The one that’s torn our country and world literally in two?

If you have one in stock, I’d like to just borrow a big miracle,

And I’ll return it when we all know the right thing to do.

A mountain of security for everyone to climb would be nice,

Some shelter and food and coats would help all that are painfully poor.

Send along a card, an encouraging word delivered with honor and respect,

To anyone else that is sick, or alone, or unsure.

Of course, you won’t forget to throw in my dream destination ticket,

You remember don’t you, the one I begged you for so hard last year.

I know, I haven’t been all that perfect as usual,

But I would like to spend 2003 again right here.

It’s getting late, and I’m really pretty tired now,

Santa, I’ll pray for you in all my dreams tonight,

It’s OK if you just take care of everyone else, not me,

I know you can help handle the heavy stuff, no problem, overnight.

Santa, what if everyone believed in you as I do . . .

And celebrated your day, Christmas Eve, all around the world,

Then, perhaps, for our children, once a year we could all be together,

And my perfect gift, “Peace on Earth,” could be for everyone, revealed.