Joyful, all ye relations arrive

There are a few things I still like about the holidays. I like the way store clerks ask “credit or debit?” -- words you can warm your hands by. I like the way Ann-Margret looks in “The Santa Clause 3.”

I like crows against low gray clouds . . . the first whiff of Fraser firs . . . wild pheasant on a fork.

I like that thick bacon you get from Niman Ranch. And the red velvet cakes at Porto’s in Glendale, which is to bakeries what O’Hare is to air travel.

I like an open bar (big surprise). I like martini glasses against holiday lights and barkeeps in plaid bow ties.

I like how, when you open an old treasured book, the binding crackles like a log fire.

I like the kettle drum sounds kids make when they run on old wooden floors. I like the way Scotch tape sticks to their socks.

“It’s a honey of a holiday!” sing the first-graders in their Thursday morning recital.

Yeah, we’ll see.

::

We’re driving to young Colin’s birthday party the other day. Colin is turning 6, so it’s a pretty big deal. Is it just me, or do half of all birthdays happen in December? I count back nine months and decide that March must be a very fertile time.

Anyway, we’re driving to Colin’s birthday party in that indeterminate part of the San Gabriel Valley -- might be Arcadia, might be Temple City -- when the little guy spots something out the window.

“Look at all those birds,” he says. “What do you call it when they go places?”

“Migrating,” I say.

“Vibrating?” he asks.

“Migrating.”

“Look!” he says. “They just stopped to pick up some people!”

Like Santa, the little guy seems to see miracles that no one else sees. He spots something and his eyes glisten like the crystal of a watch. I worry, sometimes, that he might grow up to be a writer.

But it’s a week till Christmas, no time to be so negative. In fact, there are plenty of things to be excited about. For one, I finally got the outside lights up. Score!

When Posh complains about the delay, I tell her how I was tired of the same old lights on the same old house. She suggests I move.

Which brings up the usual whispered discussion of relationships and marriage in general, including such topics as:

* boredom

* lust

* division of duties

* harmless flirtations at holiday gatherings

* where the dog should sleep

* the creepy way I talk to inanimate objects (fax machines, remote controls, boats)

* the slobby way I dress around the house -- “like Garth Brooks when he’s cleaning out the garage,” she says.

The hooded sweatshirt, I explain, is timeless and elegant -- the black tux of the American suburb.

Then she brings up the incident where I almost punched the woman at John and Danielle’s incredible Christmas party.

“I don’t look back, only forward,” I tell her.

“But you wanted to punch her,” she insists.

“Who?”

“Oh, never mind.”

If I can continue to hold my punches, this is going to be one honey of a holiday.

::

I like board games on Christmas Eve. I like the way snow looks in old black-and-white movies.

I like ski racks on Porsches of a certain age . . . beat-up old toboggans . . . snow shoes from 1930.

I like slow-dancing a Christmas tree into the house. A little left. No, right. OK, back a little. There.

I like stirring the chili, the gumbo, the soup and adding too much oregano and pepper.

I like pancakes and coffee on cold winter mornings.

I like wreaths on the fronts of buses.

Most of all, I like all those vibrating birds.

::

So the little girl arrives home today, her undergraduate career already one-eighth over. Lesson No. 1 you learn in college: All the good things in life go by far too fast.

We’ve been trying to make the house special for her, but not too special; otherwise, she would think she’s in the wrong place and immediately turn around and leave.

Posh puts garland around the fireplace.

The little guy decorates the dog.

In that same spirit, I suggest pinning angel wings to Posh’s back, a gesture that would reflect our true feelings about her. Jimmy Stewart’s guardian angel gets wings. Why not mine?

But Posh passes on the angel wings, fearful that I might get carried away and start to paw her in front of strangers, which happens a lot with angels during the holidays.

Here’s the deal: It won’t take much to make the little girl feel at home again.

At Thanksgiving, she merely stood in front of the open refrigerator and -- after three months of dorm food -- made squeaky sounds of delight at the bounty that lay before her. Then she mewed.

She sounded to me like a small forest creature from a Burl Ives cartoon.

And, for a moment, I think she actually was.

Welcome home, squeaky. Merry Christmas to us all.

chris.erskine@latimes.com