A Baker Street Christmas

If Santa neglected to stop by your house this year, it’s probably because he’s been stuck on the top of Ginny and Mike Tynan’s roof since Thanksgiving. Santa, his sleigh, and eight tiny, illuminated reindeer sit atop fort Tynan every season, beckoning the arrival of the year’s most celebrated event. That, and about 10,000 blinking lights of every conceivable color are constant reminders that Christmas is here, again, already.

I can’t question the veracity of the Tynan’s Holiday exuberance. After all, they have three children, Kevin, Kelly and Andrea. Kevin’s the oldest, having just turned nine last summer. He likes to pretend that things like Christmas and birthdays are lame, but he can’t hide that untainted joy at the mere mention of a major holiday. He’s trying to grow up too fast. Fortunately for him, he’s failing. And if I know Mike and Ginny, they won’t allow it. Kelly is six. She’s full into the magic of the whole ‘stockings hung by the chimney with care’ charade. Andrea is three. The indoctrination has just begun for her.

Ginny and Mike have every reason to go overboard and plummet themselves into financial ruin each December. With the mountain of gifts and the quantum-physics equation that is their electric bill, they must just scrape by each year. But it doesn’t seem to concern them, and I actually believe that to be the truth. For with each shredded mound of wrapping paper, carelessly discarded bow, and ignored card, they retrieve a tiny piece of their own childhood innocence. It’s a feeling that seems to carry them all the way through to the next year, and God bless them for it. Someone deserves to be happy, including the Made-In-Taiwan plastic Santa adorning their rooftop with care.

Across the street and two doors down sits the residence of Gerald Bouman. Gerald is a 37-year-old, moderately successful CPA. He’s lived in the neighborhood for eleven years, two more than the Tynan’s. Gerald has no children. He and Tina had planned on raising a family, and if any two people were meant to be parents – and good ones at that – it was Gerald and Tina Bouman. She was an elementary school English teacher for Christ’s sake. They could easily have afforded to live on his income while Tina applied those teaching skills to their beautiful son or daughter. That plan was irrevocably altered when Tina died of ovarian cancer.

That was three years ago. Amazing, the doctors all declared, how a woman in her young thirties could have such an advanced case. Even with early detection, her odds were poor. But by the time she was diagnosed, it was too far along. Tina and Gerald never noticed the signs. They were too busy planning life for the child they never conceived. Blinded by the thought of a child that would never be born to a woman with advance ovarian cancer. That’s one of those demented ironies that only God is able to understand, I suppose.

Needless to say, Gerald was devastated. He turned into the Baker Street hermit. Days would pass without anyone catching a glimpse of him. And on Baker Street, replete with prying eyes, that’s saying something. But just as time has a way of covering all wounds with hideous scars, Gerald resumed his life. He makes the same trip to the same office every morning in the same eggshell white Toyota Camry. He remains single and unattached today. He has lost interest in marriage, relationships and children. He had one promise, one hope, one dream, and it was buried a thousand times deeper than Pompeii by powers that need not explain themselves to our wandering sense of justice and fair play.

Yet, without fail, the hollowed shell that was once the vibrant Gerald Bouman decorates his house, his yard and his shrubbery with sparkling tribute to the Christmas spirit. To the eyes of the unknowing, his home appears to all the world as a domicile filled with peace and contentment. Whether Gerald is clinging to tradition for a sense of normalcy, or he truly feels connected with his spirituality I’ll never know. Maybe Gerald doesn’t even know. Maybe it just makes him feel better seeing his property ablaze in ornamental hues. And if Gerald Bouman can be made to feel good about anything, who the hell am I to even question.

By far, the consensus most unattractive property on Baker Street belongs to Hildy Bradford. The lawn and hedges are usually overgrown and unkempt. Where there is a lawn, that is. Much of the yard is dotted with brown patches uninhabitable for vegetation. Growing rice in the Sahara would be easier. The shutters on the house are racing one another to the ground, with no clear winner in sight. The paint is faded and chipping, and even the world’s bravest daredevil would think twice about walking on her dilapidated porch for fear of a cave-in.

But Hildy Bradford is given a pass. This Christmas will be her 83rd. Her and Walter took up residence on Baker Street in 1946, shortly after he was assigned stateside duty. Walter was a decorated veteran of World War two. He was wounded in combat, more than once, and never complained a day in his life. Not about war, not about death, not even about humidity. Walter was reared in a different time, often I think, on a different planet. Walter and Hildy knew a time when poverty literally meant no food or warm clothing in the winter. A time when a day at school was considered a blessing. A time when a country and an idea was worth fighting and dying for. Walter never complained because complaining took breath. And if he was in a position where he was still drawing breath, then there was nothing to complain about.

Walter passed away, must be seven years now. He was slightly older than Hildy, just hitting 80 when he went. It was a peaceful passing, asleep in his bed, next to the woman he cherished. Just as it should have been. Walter deserved it, and so did Hildy. For it was her that stood by his side when he bounced from camp to camp as a twenty-year-old hero to be. It was her that stayed back home, holding tight to a prayer that her husband, lover, partner would return home soon, none the worse for wear. They were married for 59 years when he died. No one would correct her if she laid claim to 60.

In keeping with his character, Walter made a point of celebrating Christmas in style. Candles in each window, blinking lights from a real tree visible when passing by the house. Garland adorning the bushes and porch rails. It was tasteful, classy and joyful. Hildy still does what she can to carry on the tradition. Her children and now grandchildren visit often, and help with the festivities. Walter would be proud, for even if the house is a bit of an eyesore, it’s still a pleasurable sight to behold. Love lived there, and it’s embers still burn.

The Cassidys live three doors down from Hildy. For them, Christmas is the celebration of the birth of their savior. The lights, trees and presents are nice, but to the Cassidys, those things can’t touch a chance for eternal life. Tim is 35, Meredith 31, and little Margaret Ann is a bouncing nine-months. Tim is a pastor at St. Elizabeth’s cathedral. He has the endearing smile, the dulcet speaking voice and a hefty dose of charm. He also has a great hook shot. If Tim Cassidy is on the court at the playground, you want him on your team. He’s also not afraid to lay an elbow into you when the ref isn’t looking. “God likes winners,” he likes to joke. You almost hate yourself for laughing along and letting it slide.

Meredith is a hospice nurse. She sees death or it’s approach every day, in the most personal way. Often, she is the last person a departing soul will see before walking toward the light. Meredith believes there is a light. Tim preaches the light. Little Margaret Ann will be shown the light. Whether she bathes in it’s glory will be up to her.

Theirs is not a K-Mart Christmas. But it is a celebrated time nonetheless. Santa and Rudolph are absent. But their spot in the front yard is filled admirably by the most spectacular manger scene you’d ever want to lay eyes on. The baby savior is present in all of his radiant glory, as is Mary, and Joseph, and three wise looking men on three less than wise looking donkeys. If you stare really hard, I swear you can actually see mir. I’ve often wondered if Tim “acquired” the pieces from the church rectory. He has the smile to get away with it. And even if he were caught, his insistence that it was for the betterment of his child and community would win over any opposition. He’s that good.

But more than that, the Cassidys are good people. They care about their faith, their families and their neighbors. And while they stand as far away from the commercialization of their sacred day as humanly possible, they do not begrudge a living soul for getting caught up in the moment. For if Christmas brings a modicum of joy into an otherwise regrettable existence, then why question the why?

If God lived on the Casiddy’s side of Baker Street, then his shadow fell upon Maureen Lester's side. Or at least her little corner of it. Maureen’s supposed husband, Kenny, went out for a pack of smokes in the middle of the night… six years ago. Not many are left holding out hope for his return. Actually, no one really hopes to see him return. He was a belligerent drunk, loud, obnoxious, and cruel to small, furry animals. He drove a 75’ Chevy pickup that left another organ rotting in the driveway after every journey. Kenny worked construction, until an unfortunate mishap with the trowel from a cement mixer severely damaged several of his favorite vertebrae. But, being chock full of the American spirit, Kenny turned that moment of carelessness into a lifetime of disability checks, and an out of court settlement. Yep, Kenny had nothing but time on his hands to drink and cultivate an expansive midsection. Slapping Maureen around also became a cherished hobby.

When Kenny left, he took the contents of the bank account. Fortunately for Maureen, the disability checks still came addressed to 185 Baker Street. That and her job as a disheveled breakfast waitress at the local truck stop kept her and little Bobby fed and clothed. Of course little Bobby is 17, and damn lucky not to be incarcerated. The Budweiser gene was successfully passed on from father to son. Maureen’s yard frequently resembles a recycling plant. Her front, back and side yards have been shredded by the wheels of Bobby’s dirt bike, so much so that it appears as if trench warfare has taken place recently.

It took quite some time for me to realize that Bobby’s name was not actually “Bastard.” Most of the time that’s the only word Maureen seems comfortable using in a complete sentence. “Get your ass in here, you little bastard.” “Knock that shit off right now, you little bastard.” “Your just like your goddamn father, you little bastard.” More often that not, Maureen is a sympathetic figure. While pity may not be a welcomed feeling to most, one can not help but feel a healthy dose of it towards Maureen Lester. She had to be a knock out at one time. Even now, beneath the fatigue, the rage, and the disillusionment, one can still catch a glimmer of elegance in her seen-too-much-in-this-life face.

Yet, though she may have less reason than most to give a damn about December 25th, Maureen still manages to work wonders with what she has. She used to have a set of mismatched reindeer, until Bobby severed several of the poor creature’s limbs, and set fire to Blitzen. But strings of festive lights still hang from the porch rail and lamppost. In fact, the reflection off of Bobby’s empty beer cans is quite beautiful and remarkable if you ask me. It seems that Maureen is still able to count on a yearly moratorium from the torment, and that is worth celebrating. I’m not so sure about Bastard. I mean Bobby.

Yes sir, it seems that no one is immune from the Christmas Spirit here on Baker Street. From one end to the next, on either side, a healthy dose of reds and greens assault the nighttime sky. It’s an illumination that would put any landing strip to shame. From the three story, Victorian era mansion of the Von Erichs, to the single floor ranch of Larry and Edna Fowler. From Benny and Tina Murphy’s seven child estate, to the love nest of Ken Masters and Johnny Raymond (neither of whom most likely will ever conceive). Regardless of marital or economic status, title, position or rank, Christmas is welcomed on Baker Street. It is prayed for, planned on and celebrated by all. All except one.

Baker Street is a dead end road, for now, that screeches to a halt a mere two hundred yards from a four-lane expressway. When the proper zoning is orchestrated (or purchased), Baker Street will merge directly into oncoming traffic. Until such time, it’s boundaries end on the property line of a small, gray, single story cape cod dwelling. 282 Baker Street. There is still ample woodland separating the highway from Baker Street. The shadows from the thick coniferous trees cast #282 in perpetual darkness. Such a backdrop would lend quite an inviting canvass for an all out assault from Christmas lights. That is, if any such lighting existed at #282.

Except for it’s notoriety as the last stop on your tour of Baker Street, #282 seems to hold no redeeming qualities whatsoever. Sure, it is not the paint-chipped eyesore that Hildy Bradford inhabits. And it certainly doesn’t have the 12-ounce litter that decorates Maureen Lester’s front yard. But if nothing else, chipped paint and empty beer cans can at least be misconstrued as personality. And personality is exactly what 282 Baker Street is in desperate need of.

But a lack of personality is not the only curse hanging over that house like a brewing Nor’easter. There is something unsettling about that plot of land. It is a vapid space, devoid of hopes, dreams and desire. It is as lifeless as a civil war tombstone. It is the only house on Baker Street minus a front porch. There is no welcoming stoop, or porch swing, or weather-beaten outdoor furniture. There are no pink flamingos or garden gnomes inhabiting the grounds. There are no pets, or even traces of unwelcome rodents. It doesn’t even appear that birds fly over the property during their yearly trek to warmer climes.

Life, it seems, is the missing component at 282 Baker Street. The other homes have laughing children cooling themselves under the sprinklers in the oppressive summer heat, or building snowmen in the depths of winter. Other homes have the weekend car-washing husband talking about horsepower and acceleration to the neighboring automotive digest reader. Other homes have the manicured lawns, the back yard cookouts and the sunbathing bikini clad women. Other homes have the red and green lights, the Sleigh commanding Santa Claus and the sparkling Christmas trees. Other homes have the festive air of joy, thanks and love swirling about them.

282 Baker Street has a shroud of uninspired discontentment. The few who pass by are left wondering if they should feel sad, worried or ignorant of it’s resident. There are no outward signs of neglect on the property. The lawn is cut, but not sculpted. The ground is uncluttered, but never in use. The house is maintained, but not nurtured. It is a dwelling, a domicile, mere shelter from the elements. Even prehistoric man decorated their living quarters with elementary sketches and drawings.

282 Baker Street exhibits no such signs. It is dark and uninviting. It is as if the spirit of Christmas is incapable of extending to the far end of Baker Street. Either that or the blissful joy associated with the precious Holiday is expended on all of her other homes, arriving deflated and devoid of meaning on the doorstep of #282. At this home, Christmas arrives and departs the same as any other day, including tax day and the anniversaries of the deaths of friends and relatives. It holds no charm or magic, and it is not awaited for with held breath and tingling skin. 282 Baker Street is my home, and Christmas will not be invited again this year.