Small-town Christmas

The lingering trails of sweet perfumes swirl and laze, overlapping like voices in a mall. The man at the Nordstrom piano, accompanied by the constant hum of escalators, has a serious, faraway look in his eyes and seems not to notice holiday shoppers shuffling and bustling by. It’s 71 degrees outside; the eastbound 10 is jammed. It’s Christmastime in the city.

But far from SigAlerts and toy aisle mobs, far from stores where a necktie costing $59.90 is considered “on sale,” Christmas is celebrated in small-town ways. That is what I think about as I listen to the man at the black piano. I remember Guy, the chain-smoking bus driver, mayor and Santa in the town where I grew up, the way his white beard sagged as he handed us candy in brown paper bags when we got off the bus.

I think about the one-room school where I attended first grade and how for the Christmas play I wore a towel on my head and a bathrobe, for I was a shepherd -- a 6-year-old Buddhist shepherd. In small towns, everyone is included, whether they want to be or not. I don’t think I felt out of place in the play, because I was with friends, but I often feel out of place in the city.

So does Jim Stanfield. He used to live in Whittier, but he’s never going back, not to stay, at least. Stanfield, 62, found his home nine years ago when he moved to Ferndale, a Victorian village in Humboldt County, four miles in from California’s northern coast. It’s dairy country. It’s also where last year, Stanfield found Santa Claus. Stanfield stopped believing in Santa about the time he turned 7, but in Ferndale, he started believing once again.

“Yes,” he says, “I believe there is a real Santa Claus, a lot of them. There should be more.”

One of Santa’s elves in Ferndale is Ellie Green, who used to live in Sherman Oaks. She’s not planning to return either. The redwoods speak to her in a way she can’t describe. She paints, has an art gallery, a harbor-blue 1957 Chevy, and a Victorian elf costume. Her life is full.

She sets out a Christmas tree on the sidewalk each year, as the other merchants on this town’s Main Street do. Schoolchildren make ornaments and come around to decorate them. The trees line both sides of Main Street, which dead ends at a Sitka spruce, about 120 feet tall.

The first Sunday each December, Tom Ford wakes up early and he and son Greg drive in Tom’s 1988 Ford pickup to the spruce, and begin their annual climb to hang lights, which marks the start of the holiday season in Ferndale.

It takes a couple of hours, and after the Fords climb down, they head to the firehouse, where retired volunteers have sausage and eggs, hash browns and toast waiting for them. About 1,400 people live in the area, and about 1,000 show up for punch and cookies and the lighting of the tree, a tradition started in 1934.

Some Ferndale folks say they don’t catch the holiday spirit until they hear the community choir sing. The tenors get a little wacky by the time rehearsals end, says Betty Diehl, who has directed the choir for all 33 years of its existence. But when the lights go down, familiar faces and familiar voices radiate uncommon force and gentle grace. It’s enough to bring tears.

“When we get together and sing,” says Diehl, “it lifts us out of ourselves.” When the last song is sung at Sunday’s final performance, the audience will be asked to join in, and together they will hold, like a shared memory, the final note of “Silent Night.”

“IT’S the culmination of all the rehearsals,” says Diehl. “When it’s all over, I think we’ll feel that we have delivered the message we wanted to give.” This year, their message is peace.

That will be festively shattered Sunday night when the tractors roll into town. They will roar, decorated with lights, down Main Street for the traditional tractor parade. Afterward the drivers will head to Mary Ann Bansen’s place for holiday cheer. And the following night, Bansen will usher carolers onto a flatbed, and drive them around to sing for shut-ins.

In Ferndale, no one is forgotten. For those having a rough go of it, Ron Smith, head of the Community Chest, makes sure everyone has plenty to eat. He turns no one down. If someone’s husband gambled or drank the money away, he doesn’t pass judgment. He merely calls Jack at the grocery store and sets up an account.

Then, on Christmas Eve, families and friends gather. You might smell Dungeness crab caught just off the coast at Green’s house; apple pie at the Bansens’. Then, heavenly peace and grand anticipation give way to Christmas morn, when fireplaces are lighted early and, throughout the valley, presents are opened.

In case Santa missed anyone, a firetruck will be out delivering more gifts. As the day is celebrated, in Ferndale and small dots on the map everywhere, lasting memories, like the ones I cherish, will be made, and, in all probability, there won’t be a traffic jam or $59.90 necktie anywhere in sight.

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Duane Noriyuki can be reached by e-mail at duane.noriyuki@latimes.com.