Spirit of Christmas Had a Dickens of a Time

The Pickwick Club’s Christmas spectacular was the very Dickens. Even the queen and her prince were there. Victoria and Albert, that is.

“An evening of seasonal Victorian entertainments,” the invitation promised, hosted by “the world-famous theatrical family of Mr. Vincent Crummles.”

And there he was, straight out of the pages of “Nicholas Nickleby,” greeting one and all, waving a pole from which dangled a clump of mistletoe.

“I’m too large a character to be confined within so small a book,” explained Mr. Crummles (a.k.a. David Springhorn of Pasadena).

Ladies and gentlemen sipped cider (there were no stimulants), nibbled savories such as shepherd’s pie and pasties and danced waltzes, polkas and something called The Portland Fancy. “I miss the old graces. This is a moment of grace,” said a be-feathered Mrs. Vincent Crummles (Linda Underhill of San Rafael).

Ostrich feathers bobbed atop her head and black feathers (“chicken, madame”) fluttered on the plunging bodice of her circa 1830s gown.

With logs ablaze in the greenery-swagged fireplace, one could almost forget for the moment that this was Davies Hall in Altadena, not Dickens’ England. (The metal folding chairs, which grew harder with each passing hour, were a reminder.)

But, as Mrs. Crummles suggested, “It’s more the spirit of Dickens than the letter of Dickens” when The Pickwick Club celebrates.

Mr. Crummles, a character as familiar to a true Dickens devotee as Mr. Pluck, Miss Squeers or Mr. and Mrs. Curdle, then took the stage to announce a performance by his theatrical troupe, renowned worldwide “or at least within the boundaries of several provincial parishes.”

There followed an evening of truly terrible poetry, incredibly bad jokes and, in the true English music hall spirit, a sing-along or two, helped along by oversized cue cards.

Mr. Crummles introduced a pair of ladies “whose hearts are large, and whose bodies reflect that radius.” Enter two plump, tiptoeing, wand-waving fairies, “Snowdrop” and “Gumdrop.” (The 19th Century predated political correctness.)

“Snowdrop” sang of the injustice of being 40-plus:

“My magic wand is full of power, but this is not enough. They want their little magic from a younger bit of fluff.”

And then there was a Sweeney Todd skit (“Sweeney Todd the barber. My God! He was better than the plague . . . “). All joined in a chorus of “Rule Britannia,” led by Mrs. Crummles, who’d draped herself in a Union Jack. Queen Victoria and Prince Albert arrived with their nine offspring, including a cigar-puffing Edward, Prince of Wales.

A bit of an inside joke, Edward (Jonathan Graff, an actor from Playa del Rey) explained later: “Queen Victoria hated cigars” and it’s said, on learning of his mother’s death, the heir to the throne lighted a big stogie and announced, “Gentlemen, you may smoke.”

Graff is a dedicated member of the Pickwick Club, a sort of literary society that meets quarterly in a Victorian Pasadena home to sip port and discuss the likes of Dickens, Poe and George Sand. This being 1994, it admits women, which wouldn’t have happened in Dickens’ day.

Springhorn, a portly actor who portrays W.C. Fields at Universal Studios, is founder/president and Darla Kruger (“Gumdrop”), a legal secretary in real life, is “recording secretary and everything else.”

Those who join, said Graff, are hooked on “the genteelness of the era, the gentleness. You could talk and dance at the same time. And you could easily tell the men from the women.”

At evening’s end, guests pulled their chairs into a semicircle around the piano and sang carols. “We’re bringing back our idealized version of the past,” said Kruger. “I’m Jewish and I have a lovely time with this.”

“Do not restrain yourselves,” urged Mr. Crummles.

The finale: A rousing “Hallelujah Chorus.” Cue cards were hoisted just in case anyone didn’t know the words.

All told, the evening had a “very warm” feeling, reckoned Kruger. “Or maybe it’s my corset.”

Not All Little Angels Have Wings and Halos

Just before noon on a Saturday, Clark and Donna Staub of Claremont arrived at the Angel Store in Pasadena with their little ones all freshly bathed and ready to sit for their angel portrait.

At least Hydra the Dalmatian and Laurie, a big black and brown mixed-breed hound, were ready. They blinked stoically as proprietor Bridget Fonger strapped them into satin halos and wings.

“The dogs are awesome,” said Fonger. Yes, agreed Donna Staub, amazed, “And they’re both in heat.”

Dylan Staub, 4, also seemed resigned to his otherworldly ordeal. He was thinking ahead--to lunch at McDonald’s, maybe, and a visit to the toy store.

“Can we get Grandma a dump truck?” he asked. His parents assured him Grandma would adore a dump truck, but first let’s get on with this portrait for Grandma.

Fonger opened her doors in June, about the time the AIDS Service Center in Pasadena began a family and pediatric program. She took the coincidence as a sign. For each hand-tinted portrait, she donates 15%, or a minimum of $10, to the center. To date, about 80 angels or angel groups have been snapped.

Dylan’s brother, Rainer, 20 months, wasn’t up for this angel stuff. “He won’t wear a hat,” explained his father, as Rainer shook off his glittery halo. And those big, scratchy feather wings elicited more tears.

“That’s OK,” said Fonger. “He’s a little angel who set aside his halo and wings for the moment.” Sometimes, she said, “I feel like a dentist must feel.”

The Dalmatian’s halo had just slipped to a jaunty angle.

“Your own wings! Wow!” said photographer John Emmons, trying a little psychology on Rainer, who only cried louder.

A compromise was reached. Even with one wingless, halo-less angel, the portrait is destined to be a family treasure. “I’m really happy with it,” Donna Staub said later. “Everyone was looking at the camera and smiling, except the dogs, of course.”

Hydra and Laurie were Emmons’ third and fourth canine Christmas angels. Earlier, he’d immortalized a Labrador and a dachshund. No cats so far (the very thought makes him wince).

The family Staub departed and Nicholas Matute, 4 months, arrived from Glendora in the arms of his mother, Michelle. An angel with a pacifier.

“It’s time for your close-up,” said Emmons, adjusting Nicholas’ wings.