No Place Like L.A. for the Holidays

Searching for Santa at the Beach

By Bill Plaschke

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Snow stands no chance here,

a place where desert winds turn nighttimes balmy deep into December. Trees cling to their leaves,

and leaves cling to their color. And then there are

the palms--willowy and bold, standing in defiance

of the entire concept of winter.

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With many opting to stay put for the holidays

in a still-uneasy post-Sept. 11 world, five of our columnists write about making holiday memories close to home. And we offer up a few ideas for places around town to go to create your own.

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“Do you see him?”

“Where? Where?”

“Out there, right above that tanker.”

“That’s an airplane. It’s buzzing.”

“Wait! Wait! Over there!”

“Where? Where?”

“Right above the cliff, way out there, I’m sure that’s him.”

“Where? Where?”

“Right there underneath those stars. That slow-moving red light.”

“Oh, yeah, red.”

“You see it glide?”

“‘Yeah, like a sleigh.”

“Shhhh. Can you hear the bells?”

“Yeah, the reindeer.”

“Oh my gosh, it looks like it’s turning right toward our neighborhood.”

“Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“Can we go home and go to bed now?”

*

Our family knows there is a Santa Claus not because we read about him in tired books or watch him on teary Hallmark movies or visit him in crowded malls.

We know because we see him work. On the busiest night of his year. In the place closest to our Southern California hearts.

Every Christmas Eve, we see Santa in the skies above the beach.

Then we Dasher to the car and Blitzen home, climbing under the covers just before the old guy climbs down our chimney.

So far, so good, although once our young son thought Santa beat us home before we reminded him that, no, it was just the naughty neighbors’ ancient, obsolete, stinking eyesore television antenna.

We go to the beach because, well, how else would Santa get here? From the North Pole, south through the Arctic Ocean, over the Bering Sea, then due southeast until turning inland above Zuma, Santa Monica, Carlsbad or somewhere like that.

We don’t know where exactly Santa hits land, only that we always see him when he does, a red beacon of promise high above the cold sand and crashing darkness.

The only problem, of course, is that it must be dark. And on Christmas Eve, who can wait for the dark?

For us, this is not an issue, because before Santa, there must be church. That means attending the annual 4 p.m. children’s Christmas Eve Mass.

For the uninitiated, a Catholic children’s Christmas Eve Mass is like recess with pews. There are screaming, crying, kicking, and even occasional misbehaving by the children. In our dozen years of attending such Masses, I’ve been able to hear the words of a priest only once, last year, when our brave padre spoke gently to a parishioner who was running up and down the aisle dressed like the Grinch.

Exhausted, and occasionally beset with flesh wounds, we return home from church for turkey sandwiches and old sweats. Then we climb in the car and go searching for Santa.

Once on the road, we order the GameBoys turned off, at which point our three children introduce themselves to one another. Then we all sing. Nobody seems to know anything other than the first verse of any carol, and soon our oldest daughter inevitably begins chortling the schoolyard composition about St. Nick’s body odor.

But by that time, with light traffic, we have reached the beach. A different sort of holy place on a holy night. Quiet, nearly empty, whistling air, chilly sand, black water.

For a few moments, standing outside our car, arms wrapped around one another, we can hear only the thump of the waves. Or is that our 6-year-old’s heart?

Then, together, we all look into the sky. A forever sky. There are planes with red lights gliding above docked boats with jingling sails, but that is not where we look.

We look beyond that. We look until all the adult is rubbed from our eyes. We look until we see.

“Daddy! Daddy! That’s him! That’s him! “

*

Magical Kingdom

By Mary McNamara

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The day after a trip to Disneyland feels a bit like the day after Christmas--non sequitur and vaguely unjust. In the dull silence after sensory splendor and frenetic activity, one moves about in general hollowed-out exhaustion as the blood adjusts to normal levels of sugar and salt. The body aches in odd specific places--the small of the back, the backs of the thighs--where muscles strained in unusual activity: bending, hefting, standing for long periods.

Originally, my husband and I chose December for a trip to the Magic Kingdom because (a) we wanted to see the decorations, the lights and the Christmas parade and (b) we figured that during the lull between the holidays, the lines might be shorter. We chose a workday during the first week of the month, and we coaxed our friend Steven into joining us. (My first rule of parenting: Keep the adult-to-child ratio as high as possible.) Our two small children so enchanted, the day so wide-eyed and holding-hands special that we, including, miraculously enough, Steven, decided to make it an annual event.

For me, it was a spiritually uncomplicated decision. I love Disneyland. Always have. I love how pretty it is, and clean; I love how winsome young men magically appear to sweep up the smallest morsel of popcorn the moment it drops. I love the way Main Street looks, and all the rides, old and new; I have almost gotten over the loss of Captain Nemo and the metamorphosis of the Swiss Family Robinson treehouse into a Tarzan exhibit. For my husband, it was a bit more fraught--he has a harder time separating the marauding, merchandising, commercializing parent company from the charm of Walt’s park. He also worked there selling popcorn one long-ago summer, so he knows a bit more than is perhaps good for him.

But one look at our son’s face the first time he saw Sleeping Beauty’s Castle and all was forgiven.

For us, December is Disney-friendly because the weather is cool, the decorations are festive, and, most important, It’s a Small World has been redone for the season. More than 25 years ago, my brother and I were trapped for close to half an hour amid the manically singing and dancing dolls of the ride in DisneyWorld. Since then even the sound of a passerby humming the refrain has caused both of us to break into a cold sweat. Grimacing with maternal duty, I ended my boycott last year only to discover a veritable holiday fairyland, with candles and snowflakes and Christmas trees. And as proof of the existence of God, that song was, for much of the ride, replaced with Christmas carols.

Disneyland is a different experience altogether as a parent. As a single adult, I went for the rides. The parades, the shows, the characters, those were the salad bar of the park--strictly for suckers. To get your money’s worth, you had to hit Space Mountain, and later Indiana Jones, at least three times. There was no time for relaxed wandering or, heaven forbid, sitting down to eat. But neither Danny Mac nor Fiona is tall enough to go on either of those rides, and they need lots of snacks. So now I love the shows and parades and just walking around the park, especially at night. Disneyland at night in December is really quite something. “Hap birt’day,” 20-month-old Fiona crowed every time she caught sight of a tree lit up in white fairy lights. “Hap birt’day, hap birt’day.”

For a day, that’s exactly what it was--a glorious winter birthday party that gets the grown-ups out of the office and with the children for a whole day that doesn’t involve one single chore. We all stay up late and eat spun sugar and candy apples, go on rides that make us shout with dizziness and leave our eyes dazzled, our ears ringing with pleasure.

And this year, I found the perfect Christmas present for myself and every parent. Forget the sweatshirts and the Tigger hats; if Disney wants to make some serious money, it should rent out those smiling attendants with their dustpans and brooms. Then it would be Disneyland in my house all year round.

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The Snows of War and Peace

By Al Martinez

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I was 20 when I first saw snow. It was during the Korean War, a few days before Christmas. The 7th Marine Regiment was in reserve, tucked into mountains along the 38th parallel, exhausted by an advance that had kept us fighting a determined enemy for 90 days in a row. Our casualties were high, our pain deep.

But the first snow brought us peace

It came in the night like a swift and silent illusionist, transforming the dark, war-ravaged hills into ridgelines of gleaming white, purifying the scorched earth with a gentle coating of ice. Yesterday’s dead air suddenly crackled with the essence of a chilled champagne, and the sky glowed in pastel shades of gray.

I had never seen anything quite like it before. I stood in the doorway of a squad tent absorbing the glowing dawn. Sounds were muted, the air was still, and for that moment at least the world seemed at peace. I was filled with serenity at a time when I needed it most. The memory remains 50 years later.

Now, almost every holiday season, I seek the snow in tribute to that isolated image of tranquillity. Schedules and the fickle nature of weather often forbid that we find the first snow of the season, but we do find snow. It comes with timeless sorcery to places like Big Bear, Yosemite and Lake Tahoe. And even if it doesn’t always gleam with remembered iridescence, it continues to shine in dark places of the soul.

Sometimes my wife and I travel alone to the wintry regions, and during those times our destination is usually a ski resort or a hotel that looks out toward the mountains. At Big Bear, it’s the Big Bear Chateau, in Yosemite the elegant old Ahwahnee Hotel. While both offer woodsy elegance, I’m just as happy in a lower-priced motel or bed and breakfast. It isn’t the good life I’m seeking. It’s the snow.

Our holiday forays to the high country become family affairs when we can get everyone together at the same time. That includes three grown children and five grandchildren scattered about from Portland to L.A. We rent a cabin somewhere off the beaten path large enough to accommodate us all and nestle together like bears in hibernation before a roaring fire. Sometimes I cook enough spaghetti to feed a platoon, and hot drinks soothe the soul.

Lake Tahoe represents a kind of midway point between Oregon and Southern California and more than once has sheltered us in a snowy winter. Sleds and snowmen are the orders of the day for the kids, and for some of the adults too. I don’t have to do anything. Just being in snow is enough for me, feeling the sharp touch of icy weather, smelling the perfumed aroma of pine and fir, a mixture as pungent as rosemary and oregano.

I was raised in Oakland, where snow doesn’t fall, so I guess that first snow in Korea had an additional element of appeal. It was the first snow in my life and remains the first snow of memory. I have seen many storms in the years that separate me from my military experience, many mornings aglow with a purity that cleanses as it fascinates, but none as significant as that one in Korea.

I think of it today. The lure is strong. Soon now, the memory of that moment and the almost mystical enticement of falling snow will take us again to the high country in a cabin off the beaten path. And while the children play, I’ll stand in tribute to a distant moment of peace at a terrible time of trial. And I’ll remember.

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A Wonderful Phone Call

By Steve Lopez

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One recent morning, while roasting chestnuts on an open fire, I opened the paper to a Liz Smith column that triggered a fond Christmas memory. Smith had written about Jennifer Aniston, a nice-looking young actress who stars on a chippy sitcom many people seem to be fond of. Bear with me, and I’ll get to the Christmas angle.

The column made it sound as though it would be easier to get hold of Saddam Hussein than Aniston, who apparently has a PR guy with the instincts of a Doberman. If a magazine wants to do a cover story on the actress, they’ve got to go through this guy. If by some miracle he deigns the call important enough to return, he then spells out several nonnegotiable demands, according to Smith.

First and foremost, Aniston has a problem with photos that show her smiling. Apparently she doesn’t like her teeth showing. “And no profiles,” Smith wrote. “Aniston doesn’t like the way her nose looks from the side. There will be absolutely nothing doing if her hair in any way resembles the hair of her TV character, Rachel. What Aniston really likes is a picture of herself smirking slightly. She likes to smirk.” I like to smirk, too. Especially when I read about some young thing who thinks she’s Grace Kelly on the basis of a tired sitcom.

Please indulge me, old coot that I am, as I think back on a time when many celebrities somehow found the courage to face the day without an entourage of image consultants, personal trainers, dieticians, jet pilots, managers, flacks, nannies, therapists, masseuses, bodyguards and various other baby-sitters and ego boosters. Reading about Aniston, in fact, reminded me of a brief but warm encounter with a star from yesteryear.

Many moons ago, while working as a young cub in San Jose, I was assigned the dreadful task of calling celebrities and asking about their fondest holiday memory. San Jose is not exactly teeming with celebrities, and I had no pipeline to Hollywood. Scraping bottom, I called a few politicians, as I recall, as well as quasi-celebs of the TV meteorologist variety.

Shirley Temple Black was my biggest catch, but she wanted to consider the question, write something down, and get back to me. Desperate, I began scavenging for numbers, and one of my colleagues dug into a dusty file and pulled out a Beverly Hills contact for Jimmy Stewart.

My colleague had no idea whether the number was any good, so it was like dial-a-prayer when I picked up the phone. What were my chances? A woman answered, and I figured this must be a management agency. I explained my dopey assignment and asked if she could bring herself to tell me how I might contact Mr. Stewart.

Just a minute, she said. And then she called out: “Jimmy?” Good lord. It was Jimmy Stewart’s house, and I’d just spoken to his wife. I still didn’t quite believe it until he got on the phone and said hello.

One word, and the voice was unmistakable.

My voice caught, and I probably stammered more than he ever did. But I laid out my mission and asked Stewart if he cared to comment. I fully expected him to decline or to have me call his people and see if they could set something up. Instead, with good cheer and ultimate class, he told me he certainly did have a fond holiday memory. He said he could not get through Christmas without thinking back warmly on Frank Capra and the satisfying experience of making “It’s a Wonderful Life.” The Christmas classic, dark and hopeful at the same time, is a redemptive tale of a complicated man taking stock of his life. It was released in December 1946, a much, much different time in Hollywood and in America.

Stewart told me he was pleased that the movie had endured, especially given its message. I thanked him for his thoughts; he said it was nothing.

It felt kind of neat to then wish Jimmy Stewart a merry Christmas.

*

A Gift to Build Upon

By John Balzar

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I watched Maria Gonzales-Rodriguez cry. That was her holiday gift to me. Before long, I expect there’ll be more tears. And that will be my gift in return.

It’s turning out to be a better holiday season than I might have expected from this strange year of 2001. That’s because I took a bit-player’s role in one of America’s most sentimental dramas: an old-fashioned neighborhood house-raising.

I shoveled dirt on Saturday to help a stranger achieve the American Dream. I’m left sore right now, my knees bark and I’m gulping ibuprofen. Naturally, I feel on top of the world. I don’t mean to boast. I didn’t do so much really. But I did a little. So did a lot of other people. And you’ll pardon me for being soupy, but America is a better place for what we did; and we are better for having done it.

The goofy secret of civic volunteerism, of course, is that everyone gets back just a little more than they give. Morning: I arrive at the Habitat for Humanity construction site in Long Beach. I select a hard hat, a pair of gloves and a shovel. There are 13 of us, an honest rainbow of American diversity. Some, I gather, are from a church group. Others are regulars, do-gooders who just cannot do enough. A couple of us are newcomers.

Our job is to load dirt into wheelbarrows and cover up the plumbing that snakes through trenches so a foundation can be poured for a new house. We are 13 ants. And we are to move a 5-pound bag of sugar across the kitchen counter, by the spoonful, and pack it around sewer and water lines. I could tell you that I’m here because George Bush sounded the call for all of us to join “in service in our own communities.” I could tell you that I’m here because Jimmy Carter set the example long ago by grabbing hammer and nail for Habitat. Both of which are true. And it’s also true that my wife, Liisa, recently won the job as coordinator of volunteers for Habitat’s South Bay-Long Beach affiliate--which makes me a proud conjugal volunteer more or less permanently.

Midday: These are not tears in my eyes, not yet. This is sweat. Have you ever noticed how heavy dirt is? Not to mention dirty? In a quick-gain, me-first world, Habitat for Humanity is one of those happy social countercurrents, which I would say even if my wife weren’t party to it. These are not giveaway homes, although they spring from the spirit of giving. Families endure years in substandard quarters to prove that they can qualify to repay the no-interest mortgage. They must also provide 500 hours or more of their own labor. Armies of volunteers, corporations, churches and civic groups here and around the world provide the rest.

Maybe it was that 1960s movie “Spencer’s Mountain,” precursor to the TV show “The Waltons,” but I’m a sucker for this all-American ideal of a community pitching in to build a neighbor’s house. Even if my part this holiday-season Saturday rose no higher than the top of a trench.

Late afternoon: I drive across the Los Angeles River to the community of Wilmington to see what it will be like when this house is finished. Habitat is dedicating 26 homes on an old railroad right-of-way. The mayor is here to cut the ribbon. A high school marching band fills the neighborhood with music. The crowd tramples the new sod and spills into the streets. Twenty-six families take their place for a mass open house so we can all track dirt onto their new carpets while the kids, dressed up and eating cotton candy, show us where the Christmas trees go.

Then Maria Gonzalez-Rodriguez steps to a podium to thank the volunteers who have built her home. She recalls watching the progress nail by nail. She explains that her house is full of love, which she knows because she watched as strangers wrote messages of hope on the plywood inside the walls. She holds hands with her husband and asks everybody to vote for her daughter, Genevieve, who is trying to win a scholarship as Miss Wilmington.

And, of course, Maria breaks down and cries. “There’s a lot of good people in the world,” she says. “And I met a lot of them here.” That reminder was her gift to me. It will keep me going these holidays, until the next dedication, when a brand-new set of keys opens the door on the oldest of all dreams for another family--and I can say I helped. And I’m pretty sure that when a toddler points out where the Christmas tree goes, it won’t be sweat in my eyes anymore.