O nce Upon a Time…

That's how these things always start. The “Once Upon a Time” bit. Everyone settles in, and with some sort of anticipation the audience just knows that this story is going to be a good one. Once upon a time stories always are. Because “Once Upon a Time” stories always have a Moral Part. Some cultural tales are just timeless that way.

It goes without saying that I am usually the last one to actually get the moral part. I also suffered similar problems understanding the Jesus parables in Sunday School. My life has been a living testimonial to that little under achievement. Being a Lutheran pastor's kid is no guarantee to anything other than a lifetime of really bad potlucks.

So where were we? Oh yes, the “Once Upon a Time” bit. I was explaining that all good stories begin with, “Once Upon a Time.”

But wait. Hold the horses. OK, so I have to admit that I have some serious doubt going here regarding this standard upon which all greatness is judged. Just one little, itsy bitsy objection.

Maybe in the olden days, Once Upon a Time” worked. But in this day and age? I'm not buying it. Not with so many things distracting us. Cell phones, pagers, 24-Hour Fitness and divorce court certainly confuse our limited attention spans.

So let's just modify the tradition a wee bit…to “Once Upon a Season.”

There now. Isn't that much more realistic?

So without further ado…

O nce upon a Season…

Standing in the Spokane Hallmark store, I looked at my watch. Everywhere around me women shopped, smelled candles and potpourri, giggled, and shopped some more. It was the pre-season holiday blowout. Big savings! Shop Early! Spend! Charge!

In front of me a woman held up a prized incentive blessed upon her by the cashier. She'd spent forty dollars so she received a wonderful, new complimentary plush toy. Behind her, another woman embraced a limited edition, with a purchase of $25.00 or more, Amy Grant Holiday CD. Still yet another woman gushed after scoring the very last limited edition decorator ornament that was twelfth in the series of ninety.

I listened to the holiday music. “Silent Night” sung by gypsy moths. “Deck the Halls” sung by chipmunks. And this endless “Jingle Bells” shit. Obviously somewhere in the back of the store they had a bunch of people on meth positioned in front of microphones. Enough already. Jingle jingle, jingle jingle …

I stood looking at the Dickens Christmas Village display. A woman approached me. She shouldn't have. She didn't know what she was getting herself into. I tried to look bored. Not interested

“Aren't those precious?” she asked. I decided she must work here, but with all the crowds of willing, even eager, female shoppers, why did she pick me? I was a definite hard sell. A man in a Hallmark Store is about as natural as a woman at Tool Town. She felt sorry for me. She was going to help me get in touch with my feminine side.

The woman held up one of the figures, a bonnet-wearing woman whose hands were buried in a very politically incorrect fur muff.

“Every year they come out with such wonderful pieces. I just think these are sooo precious. Don't you?”

What? Did she just use the word precious again? You don't ask a guy, any guy, if something is precious. Especially, in a Hallmark Store. That isn't the way to make us alpha males feel comfortable. We are already overwhelmed. We are already on the verge of bailing, because we are totally surrounded by so much that is dedicated to expressing so much “feeling.” Guys don't feel. We repress.

I didn't respond.

The perky woman didn't take the hint. “I just love Department 56. Every year they come out with most adorable collectibles. I mean who can resist them?” She held up a snow covered Dickens Village building. The hideous fairy tale building looked like it was on Prozac. No building should look that cheery, not even at Christmas.

“And just look at this year's Dickens Village pieces. I only buy the ones that are going to retire each year, otherwise my husband will kill me. But I simply think they are the best collectible village pieces around…” She sighed, holding the piece cradled gently in front of her as if she were modeling it for the cameras on “The Price Is Right.”

The woman was still talking. I think she would have been talking had I not been standing there. She loved Department 56 Dickens Village more than life itself. More than her marriage. And she needed a fix. I immediately understood why she worked at Hallmark. She could be closer to her source.

Additional pieces were examined and held up to me for approval. I stood frozen, unable to move. I began to visualize what it would be like to be her husband. I'd take her to the gun show and hold up guns in front of her and say, “Isn't this Colt .45 precious? Every year those folks at Winchester come out with the most adorable bullets!” I'd sigh and roll the chamber and she would be sensitive to my needs and allow me to buy all the pieces in the Colt collection that were about to be “retired.”

Back in the present, I looked at the Dickens Village piece she now pointed toward. A group of Victorian carolers stood covered in snow, their porcelain faces red-cheeked, upturned and united. I could agree on the united bit. They were united in misery. The women's corsets were killing them. And the men were dying; they needed a drink. I empathized with the figures. I couldn't imagine being cast for life, covered in snow, freezing my ass off, endlessly singing “Silent Night.” Stuck perpetually fearful that the grandkids would sneak us out of the Dickens Village and into the middle of the nativity scene under the Christmas candles where we'd be subject to Yuletide wax torture. This was no life for a collectible.

“Today, as part of our pre-holiday sensational seasonal savings event, all Dickens pieces are 10% off. Would you like me to box something up for you?”

The woman placed the carolers back down on the shelf and, as if to add insult to injury, sprinkled more plastic snow over the top of them.

Looking up, I shook my head. “I'm sorry, I don't collect.”

“Really? You don't collect?” Her expression seemed one of great hurt. “Why not? It's great fun and even if you don't like setting up your own village, Department 56 pieces are good investments. Some of my retired pieces still in the box have become quite valuable. Today's a wonderful opportunity to buy because these pieces almost never go on sale. Besides, how can you say no to such a charming starter set?” She started to pick up the beginner's Dickens Village obsession set.

“That's OK. I'm not interested. Christmas Village stuff is really just model railroading for women.”

The clerk, half bent down, froze. Stunned, her unguarded expression conveyed complete shock. How could anyone not like Dickens Village? Did I not have Christmas Spirit? Did I not know the joy of the season even though it was only the beginning of November? She straightened, gave me a puzzled look, and turned to help another customer. My soul was lost. I was beyond hope. And yet as I walked out of the store and sat on a bench in the middle of the mall, I thought I caught her looking over her shoulder at me. She was going to pray for my soul.

Good luck.

I had a history with Dickens Village pieces. Oh did I ever.

A few days before Christmas my grandfather Orin Lopeman passed away. We held his funeral the day before Christmas Eve . The snow was so overwhelming the funeral parlor couldn't get the hearse out of the funeral home, much less locate the cemetery plot where he was to be buried. My life seemed to be completely colored in tones of white and gray and all the shades in between. As the mourners dispersed, I felt my self scattered in so many directions I didn't know how to collect my thoughts.

The day after the funeral, I drove to Spokane's North Town Mall to return my grandfather's Christmas Presents. I was stir crazy. I had to get out of the house, crush my inaction and embrace motion. Any motion seemed preferable to locking myself in still life as a way to compensate my powerlessness over nature. Over death. Over my sadness.

As I slid and spun my way through town, I couldn't help but acknowledge that with the ever-replenished snow, the endless white never soiled. Inches upon inches of white seemed to cover any trace of dirt, color, or for that matter, any trace of life.

Under snow, Spokane is truly one of the most beautiful cities in the world. The huge leafless trees that line her boulevards capture each and every flake. The evergreens stand tall and provide contrast against the horizontal blowing snow. The Spokane River cuts a gentle gray path through the city and the remaining birds that haven't migrated south for the winter gently glide across the currents in the parks downtown. In the midst of the sobering silence of so much snow, Peace on Earth and Good Will to Man seems just shy of arrival. I love the seasons, and the reflection they provide. On any other occasion, I would have parked my 4x4 and trudged through the drifts while holding the cool, crisp air deep in my lungs. I would savor the Christmas Eve snowflakes gently coating my hair.

But this was not any ordinary Christmas Eve.

Parking in the crowded lot, I gathered my grandfather's gifts and made my way into the warmth of the mall. Not only had he died just before Christmas but, he'd passed the day before his birthday. I strolled amidst the displays as if in a trance. His memory seemed everywhere and as I walked I remembered helping him set up displays at North Town before it was a three story mega mall. I remembered my reward for serving as his assistant. Fresh doughnuts and strong coffee provided warmth as we raised his hand painted signs in store windows. I remembered showing him what I wanted for Christmas at Sears and JCPenny and his laughter that it was always the same thing: Hot Wheels and Matchbox cars. I remembered everything as I walked amongst the last minute crowds. Yet in remembering everything, I was fearful that someday, I wouldn't remember anything.

Hurried shoppers rushed to and fro, covered in coats and scarves. Carols sifted down from speakers overhead. I was mechanical and focused. JCPenny was first. Then a sweater returned to the Bon Marche. A book on guns returned to B. Dalton. His unopened birthday presents and still-wrapped Christmas presents gently placed on counters. Hurried clerks paused and stood questioning. Wrapped gifts returned before the big day?

Maybe my face said it all. Maybe the rushed clerks were just too busy to question further. Unwrapping the gifts, they poured over the receipts, made adjustments, sorted and credited.

“Sign here, and how would you like your change? Have a Merry Christmas, Mr. Anderson.” I nodded and they turned their attention to the next customer.

By the time I finished, the mall was growing quiet. The crowds thinned. I don't know why I sat down on the bench but in contrast to the other shoppers, my hands felt naked and empty. I had no parcels left, no foiled bags. No wondrous purchases, no demonstrations of love.

Staring past the shoppers, I watched the last children sitting on Santa's lap and I witnessed the camera's regular flash. I watched the animated mechanical elves, until hypnotized by their routines. I watched until nothing registered. I had nothing left to return. Nothing left to keep me occupied. Except my thoughts and my memories.

I remained on the bench, completely alone. I suppose my face conveyed something universal. Something that any stranger could read, identify with, and understand.

“Are you OK?” I looked up and saw a middle-aged woman, her hands full of bags and purchases. Her arms were literally overflowing. Packages and bags, bows and ribbons, wrapping paper and boxes all threatened to cascade out of her arms. Yet she took time in this last hour, the hour before the big hour, for just one more unplanned distraction.

Me.

I shrugged.

“No you're not. I can tell. Here, I'm…” Out of the stranger's arms cascaded wrapped treasures and future joy and endless selflessness. “Oh cripes, let me set this stuff down.”

Bags of packages landed on the benches and spewed onto the floor. “Every year I swear to myself that I am not going to put things off until the last minute and every year I end up here, just like I was the year before, rushing around like a crazy woman.”

I could feel my breathing. The sounds of the carols and the shoppers seemed muted. The bench held me locked in place.

“Honey, its Christmas Eve and you are sitting here looking like your dog just died. Are you OK? Do you have somewhere to go?” The woman looked at me with concern while I just stared at the floor unable to move.

Now I know that in the rule book of the North American Real Men's Association crying is simply not allowed. Tom Hanks had it right. You don't cry in baseball and certainly not in public. Nor in private. But especially, not in a mall, with a total stranger, on Christmas Eve.

I turned and stared at the woman. Shrugging again, I tried to speak. I wanted to tell her of my grandfather who painted signs and who taught me how to drive and who made Spokane the most wonderful and magical place on earth. That it was his birthday and that he wanted a big sweater for Christmas, something to keep him warm against all the chemo and radiation. I wanted her to know that he worked at this mall when it was nothing and that after he painted his signs and placed them here, it was something.

But no words came out. I had no voice. All I had were eyes that overflowed and as much as I blinked, they just kept refilling. I didn't sob, I didn't heave. I just bled tears. Silently, through blurred vision, until this nameless woman leaned over and held me in an embrace.

Stranger to stranger. In the middle of the most frantic moment of the year, someone brought calm. In the darkening night, someone turned back and checked in on another solitary soul.

I don't know if real men believe in angels. I'm not totally sure what angels are supposed to look like. From what I've seen, they seem to wear a lot of pastels, and are a little soft and blurry. I've heard some people claim angels float with giant wings that shine completely brilliant. Other people say that I wouldn't know an angel if I saw one. My cowboy friend Thom Davis claims one saved his life in a big rig accident. I believe him.

I know, on that Christmas Eve, in the midst of the confusion of last minute everything, I met an angel. A woman with a million things to do and a million less seconds left to get them done. A woman who already carried more than she could. A woman who could have looked right through me but who instead chose to look right into me.

I also know that in the twinkling of an eye, she paused and made room for one more. And I believe, that if I saw my angel again, I probably wouldn't know her. I can't remember her face. Nor can I remember how long my tears flowed. I can't remember her perfume or the sound of her voice. All I can recall is that when I finally stood, my eyes red and my tongue-tied, my voice still completely speechless, that something felt different. Turning to help her reload her packages, and pile bags upon extended limbs, all I can recall to describe the tone of her voice and the sound of her words is that her voice was soft.

“Honey, you take care. I'll be thinking about you.”

She began hurriedly walking toward the exit. I turned and began walking slowly in the opposite direction.

For some reason after a few steps, I turned and looked back.. As the lights began to flicker off in the deserted mall, she was gone.

My friend Sharron believes in Angels.

She also believes in Dickens Villages. Sharron needed help. She with her bobbed brown hair, purple clothes and endless weight challenges looked harmless on the outside. But beneath her soft exterior, she was a force to be reckoned with.

Sharron's apartment clearly portrayed this nightmare world of soft pastels, fluffy everything filled with potpourri, and scented candles. Her furniture bore a disturbing dedication to too much floral. This was a no man's land of lean cuisine dinners, Oprah book of the month club offerings and way too much Enya.

To enter this world meant a certain cleansing was required. A purging of sorts. This was a time to reflect and to nourish the highest thoughts towards the Goddess within. To embrace a shared journey toward a universal serenity while welcoming visions of peaceful bunny rabbits and Care Bears, fine soft chocolates and Half Yearly Sales at Nordstom.

Here in the safety of her sacred space, Sharron decried the harm Barbie had done to women's self image and imagined her Ken doll in a dress, getting his nails done and forgoing drumming circles and hunting. There would be no talk of monster trucks, mud wrestling, or Metallica. In my development as a man, it was a time like no other. In other words, it was a time to hurl.

Nothing brought her philosophies home more than the holidays. Sharron lived for the annual display of her Dickens village. The village went up before the Christmas tree and served as a sort of exorcism for all the bad male energy that had possessed her “secret garden within” over the last year.

One year I was allowed to witness the sacred setting up of the village. Soft background harp music played as the lights dimmed in the December gray. Pieces were gently removed from their boxes. Lights were checked. Figures were positioned. Cotton batting was formed and sprinkled with plastic snow.

Performing sacred rights, the pagan became pure as a small hamlet rose up from the fireplace mantle. Yet don't let the snow-laden paradise mislead. This was no land of joy. This was a land of rules. Sharron explained the “rules” of Dickensville.

“There are no taverns in my village. The men shall not drink. We do not have football. There is no television. No cars, trucks, planes or trains are allowed. We do not smoke and we never cuss. We do not chew anything besides food and smoking was never invented. This obviously includes cigars, dip, and cloves.”

I stared at the endless snow Sharron shook over the village. She continued.

“In my village the men are perfect gentlemen. If they must belch, fart, or do any other disgusting thing, they go outside. Then they must immediately draw themselves a bath to cleanse. We do not shower. We bathe. By candlelight.

We do not have fast food. We do not have bowling. We do not have hard rock music. We do not have PRCA rodeo or NASCAR racing. There are no guns, no wars, no fishing, and of course, no fishing tournaments. We are all vegetarians!”

Reading my mind, Sharron answered my yet to be posed question. Laughing she responded, “Tim the men in my village do not need to go to the gym. They naturally have perfect bodies. If they need exercise, there is a quilting circle held nightly in the town square.”

The thought of beer deprived men, unknowing of the joys of ESPN, freezing their asses off in a quilting circle in the town square was too much. I stared in disbelief. Sharron's imaginary Dickens Village was a concentration camp for men.

I'd never really paid attention to Christmas Villages before I'd met Sharron. I'd never dreamed that women held as much fascination with the world of miniature as their male counterparts. I could only guess their fetish arose from jealousy over our so much better miniature railroads, our killer Hot Wheels towns, and our sweet soaring remote-controlled airplanes.

Watching as Sharron placed her village people men in horrible positions of compromise, I knew something had to be done. Men all over the globe, both ceramic and human, counted on a strong response to this challenge. I figured I was the man for the job.

I stared in wonder through the display case glass. It was beautiful. It was completely tacky, horribly too bright, and seemed to encompass all the wonderful qualities of garish. It was a Holiday Village piece only a man could love.

“It” was the original, Department 56 Official Snow Village Piece: Dinah's Drive-In. Gazing at the shiny bright red and white, checker boarded drive in hamburger stand with a huge milkshake and dripping cheeseburger adorning the roof, I realized nothing could be more perfect. I salivated just looking at it.

“Tim, I absolutely hate it. Besides it wouldn't go with any of my other village pieces.”

I listened. I read between the lines. I listened again.

An hour later, after completely touring the mall, we found ourselves back at the same Hallmark Store. Sharron was still talking about Dinah's Drive-In. Despite the fact we now looked through the glass of a different display case. A case stocked full of muffed carolers, white carriages, and blue Christmas men folk. But as we gazed at the endless Victorian pieces, Sharron's mind was elsewhere. She still commented on the hamburger stand. “I mean, who would want something so tacky? Did you see that? It, it…Tim, it has an huge cheeseburger and a milkshake on the roof for God's Sake! It's just way too bright. I mean blinding bright. And besides all my people are vegans.”

On and on she went. Sharron hated it. Horrified that Department 56, the creators of the sacred village line, could compromise and embrace something so common. Something so hideous. Something so horrible. Something so disturbing.

Something so coveted by a one Ms. Sharron. That's right, she hated it so much that she wanted Dinah's Drive In with her entire heart.

She couldn't fool me, though. I knew how to read between the lines. I heard her loud and clear. She could not resist the temptation of a good old-fashioned symbol of pure American Male fun. Cheeseburgers. Barely-clad carhops on skates. Love-struck, short skirted, ceramic girls hanging on and freezing in the arms of self-assured jocks. Jocks wearing their letterman jackets with their convertible T-Birds. T Birds with their tops down, in December of course. Ms Sharron, like it or not, was completely busted.

The perfect gift, presented as a love offering, could free up those snowbound Dickensville boys. No more quilting circles in the town square. No more beerless, beefless meals. The endless gray winters would be replaced by a new dawn. One promising that once again, real men could be, well, real men.

Ms Sharron would cherish her Dinah's Drive-In. Deep down in her potpourri-filled heart of hearts, I knew that she'd always wanted a strip mall Christmas Village. If she received just one piece in the Snow Village collection, I was confident she wouldn't have the will power to return it. And once she had one piece, I also knew Sharron would gladly accept other tokens of love. Many, many other tokens symbolizing the tastefulest of the tasteful pieces. Bowling alleys with huge bowling pins on the roof. Starbucks coffee houses. Harley Davidson dealerships. Bulldozers and mobile homes. Muscular flagmen and studs steering Mustang convertibles. Airstream travel trailers pulled by butch Buicks. There would be taverns and traffic jams.

The men of Dickensville would be free at last.

And, shocking as it might seem, I myself drifted into the hobby. Department 56 came out with Log Homes, a Hunter's Lodge, and a Fishing lodge among other manly and rugged village pieces. Upon completion of the house up at the ranch, I too received my first Snow Village piece as a house warming present. Others followed. Before long, I had a real man's Christmas village and my hamlet had rules as well. No potpourri. Vegan meals allowed on leap year. The only vehicle allowed in town was a Peterbilt. Participation in quilting circles was completely optional. By both sexes.

In my village, every day is a snow day. The truckers all get home for Christmas and stay past New Years, everyone spends hours on their sleds sliding down the mountains and no one ever hits a tree. The hunters get their 5 point buck, the fisherman get that 20lb trophy trout and the women can have as many Oprah books as their eyes can handle.

Surprisingly, even Sharron added her touch to my village. One day I came home from running errands and found new Pink Flamingos and palm trees buried in the deep drifts of my Real Man's Village.

I don't resist the Christmas Village urge as much as I once did, although I doubt I will ever fully embrace a Dickensville Christmas. Still, during the Christmas season, with its lingering gravitational pull that begins long before and is felt long after the season, I try to stay focused. Ensuring that the cliché “the reason for the season” is not lost, I try to grasp all that keeps one's heart untarnished. The commerce, the decoration blitz, the rush to spend and give, the expectations surrounding the gifts one gets and the eventual monumental cleanup effort-they can all erode the magic of the season.

Yet I am here to proclaim that there is still magic to be found in the season.

As I've written in the past, I had to learn quite a few hard lessons associated with the holidays. Some came easy, most didn't. The pull of emotion as each year is judged by the meaning associated with year's prior is exhausting. The memory of those no longer surrounding the tree as the gifts are unwrapped becomes the strangest balm, both comforting and yet somehow lacking.

After my grandfather died, I did not decorate the house for several years. Others I loved also passed on and as a result, the house remained darkened season after season. Everything remained packed away, the decorations, the pictures, and the lights, until a bunch of laid over trucker's kick started my stubborn refusal to embrace what joy I could. I think that's the bittersweet nature of the holidays. They force everyone to pause and remember the good and sometimes recall the unmet longing that I think we all have. A longing associating where we are with a sense that maybe some things could have been better.

Since that difficult Christmas several years ago when those kind-hearted truckers stood by my side and helped me relive Christmas memory after Christmas memory, my house remains perpetually decorated. Maybe my neighbors on the mountain think I'm crazy when in July the tree still shines, the house remains lit, and the Christmas Village never comes down.

Yet, I never want to forget the spirit of the season, or run from the memories of those I've lost. I don't want to be kick started again. When I'm down in Spokane, I still look at Christmas Village Pieces as I bravely enter Hallmark. And although I rarely make it to the mall anymore, when I do, I still think about that fateful holiday season. When the snows were deep. When an icy chill set in over everything, and the cold winds blew in from unmentionable places and the drifts became completely insurmountable. I still remember an angel at North Town Mall and I often think about my first introduction to Sharron's village as I also think about my own ceramic hamlet.

But most importantly, I think about a village some 2000 odd years ago.

I unashamedly believe in the original Christmas story. That so long ago there too was a village with rules and that at least originally, there didn't seem to be any room for someone who represented a new approach. Just like in many villages, too much freedom seemed more than the populace could handle. The folks that controlled the rules were unprepared for one who came who represented a different approach. A child whose mere presence and words, carried a new standard.

Upon arrival, His village had no room. It too was dark and barren. Full of fear, uncertainty, and the confusion of too many voices and not enough leaders. I can't help but wonder if that original Christmas village couldn't still teach us a few things. I question if we can't still learn some important lessons about making room for strangers, and embracing those who are a bit different. I have to believe that in this new era there is renewal to be found in those old stories. Maybe instead of hiding ourselves in the security of regulations, we could again ease up on the controls. Allow folks to get a little breathing room and find their way. On their own.

It took a village to harbor a defenseless sacred child. It took a village to find room when everything was full up. It took a village to provide that child safety and spread the word. It took a village for once upon a season to originally occur.

And surprisingly enough, it still takes a village. For everyone to live Happily Ever After.

Merry Christmas.

© 2002 Timothy Anderson