Wishing all your luminarias burn bright this holiday

JOSEPH N. BELL

I am authorized to announce that neither rain nor snow nor sleet nor

high winds nor the CEO moving away will stop the lighting of

luminarias in Santa Ana Heights on Christmas Eve. Headquarters for

the event, formerly at the Altobelli residence which is now defunct,

will be located in a tent on the empty lot, so help me Santa Claus.

So if you’re out looking at lights, come and see for yourself.

And while you’re driving by, have a look at the sign, hung on

poles at the front of the empty lot. It was created by Nancy Buck, a

fine artist who lives across the street -- and the sign has a

history. Some years ago, I found an envelope slipped under my front

door, containing a 20-dollar-bill and a note from Jim Altobelli,

asking me to use this money as his guest to go see a movie called

“Field of Dreams.” He considered it then -- and still does -- the

finest movie ever made. I have no idea how many other $20 bills with

a similar invitation he scattered about the neighborhood.

If you saw the movie, you’ll remember that it has to do with an

Iowa farmer who out of a deep affection for the game builds a

lovingly crafted baseball field adjacent to his home that attracts

the uniformed ghosts of famous old players, notably Shoeless Joe

Jackson, a legendary hitter whose career was destroyed in his early

20s by an alleged involvement in the group of Chicago White Sox

players who accepted money from gamblers to throw the 1920 World

Series.

The farmer was responding to an ethereal voice, resembling a

public announcer at a ball park, telling him: “If you build it, he

will come.” The sign on the vacant lot -- where a new Altobelli

family home will soon be under construction -- reads: “If He Builds

It, They Will Come.”

That’s the sort of thing that comes down in this neighborhood.

The luminarias were already taking place when Sherry and I moved

into our house 22 years ago. They just covered our block then; now

they take in several cross streets, as well. The operation is a model

of teamwork involving a crew ranging from little kids pulling bags of

sand on their wagons to old folks like me giving advice with a drink

in hand.

Sand and paper bags and candles have to be purchased and picked

up, the bags packed with enough sand to hold a candle and then

distributed at intervals along the curbing and lit. There are no

bosses -- everything is voluntary -- and even the clean-up, which is

considerable, takes place on Christmas morning, while laggards like

me are still in bed. I’ve never been sure who performs this service

because I’ve never been up early enough to watch. But the whole

joyous process catches what I like to think of as the ultimate

Christmas spirit.

So does our annual neighborhood Christmas party, which happened

last Friday. It’s one of those progressive dinner-type events that

start with booze and hors d’ouvres, move on to the main course, and

end at dessert and singing that can go on until the last kid has

fallen asleep. Sherry and I hosted the final course this year, and

our house was filled -- in addition to the usual suspects -- with

many small people (including my 3-year-old brother-in-law) who found

their own levels of social discourse and teenagers who once attended

this affair as small people and are now fraternizing a little

gingerly with the old folks.

The high point of the evening, as always, was some very loud and

frequently off-key singing while Sherry, at the piano, ran through

the Christmas Song Book. The choral group included born-again

Christians and Catholics and Jews and agnostics and even a few

suspected Democrats, all singing from a very powerful sense of

inclusion. I just hope the kids of all ages who took part or were at

least aware of this performance will remember it when they are

raising their own families.

As I write this, Jim Altobelli is kicking around his vacant lot

wondering how to get the lumps out where the tent will be pitched so

a proper floor can be put down. He assured me that there will be

lights and heaters and catered food to offer to workers exhausted

from loading and delivering sand-bags. Unfortunately, we will miss

much of these doings because Sherry’s family will be gathering at her

brother’s house in Ontario for an early Christmas Eve.

But we’ll be back in time to see the luminarias. I recommend them

and also the sign which I am told will be changed periodically to

reflect -- with proper irreverence -- the current state of the

building project. (Nancy says she’s open to suggestions.) If you

should come for a look, please see all this as our Christmas pageant

-- a wide variety of people of many beliefs working together in a

spirit of love and good fellowship and inclusivity to the end of

peace and generosity and good will. The only judgments being passed

down here have to do with how much sand to put in the bags.

I can’t think of a better Christmas greeting from the Bell Curve,

especially since I’m lagging badly on the quota of individual cards

my wife assigned to me.

Since every year she has a lot more on her holiday plate than I

do, I tell her that I’ll take over the bulk of the Christmas cards,

then get stuck on a message on the first card while she tackles my

pile.

My recurring joke about getting my quota out by Valentine’s Day

has unhappily worn thin, so this column is going to have to do.

Besides, I can’t imagine anything more appropriate or satisfying

than to wish that all of your luminarias burn brightly at this

holiday season and in the year ahead.

* JOSEPH N. BELL is a resident of Santa Ana Heights. His column

appears Thursdays.