There's something about George

  I’ve been trying to figure for some time – what is the deal with George Bailey? What is so compelling about the tale of the executive secretary of a “cheap, penny-ante Building and Loan” that draws me back year after year? Why is the holiday season just not complete without my annual "It's A Wonderful Life" fix? It is as much a part of my pre-Christmas routine as rum-laced eggnog, Bing Crosby crooning "The Christmas Song" and desperate 11th-hour trips to the mall that commence sometime after NORAD has picked up Santa’s sleigh crossing the Arctic Circle.

I think Roger Ebert has helped me finally figure it out.

The veteran Chicago Sun-Times film critic, who is my North Star for all things cinematic, reviewed Frank Capra’s 1946 film classic when it was released in video laserdisk format several years ago, and observed, “The movie works like a strong and fundamental fable, sort of a Christmas Carol in reverse: Instead of a mean old man being shown scenes of happiness, we have a hero who plunges into despair.”

A Christmas Carol in reverse.

By George, he’s got it.

Dickens’ iconic tale was an instant popular and critical hit when it was published in 1843, and it remains the gold standard for Christmas yarns. We have the plot memorized (spoiler alert!): After Scrooge’s trip through time courtesy of the three Spirits, he comes to the realization that a life single-mindedly devoted to accumulation of wealth at the expense of personal relationships is empty; that it is more blessed to give than to receive; that, to paraphrase Jacob Marley, mankind is his “business.”

Good lessons, all, and told in a vivid and entertaining way.

But I think one reason we love A Christmas Carol is that we can distance ourselves somewhat from the miserly, materialistic Scrooge as he gets his comeuppance. After all, “Scrooge” has passed into the language as a term describing a miserly curmudgeon, a mean-spirited person; a skinflint. He’s not us, right? Scrooge is a 19^th century “1 percenter” – if he was on Wall Street today, he’d be a hedge fund manager driving a Ferarri and wearing Armani suits, with a Bluetooth earphone permanently afixed to his ear.

But George Bailey – now there’s a likeable fellow. He’s the quintessential Everyman. As Clarence the Angel remarks when he studies the young George’s face in freeze frame as he demonstrates the size of trunk he needs for his world travels: “It's a good face. I like it. I like George Bailey.”

Yes, Clarence, we all do. Which is why his Christmas Eve journey of self-discovery – a journey that, in Ebert’s words, plunges him into the depths of despair – is so moving. It’s easier for us – well, most of us (I’m talking to you, fellow 99-percenters) – to identify with George Bailey. Unlike Scrooge, George needs no lessons in generosity or self-sacrifice.

What George needs – on this “critical night” for him – is affirmation that the selfless life he has lived has counted for something. As with Scrooge, self-knowledge does not come easily.

Young George Bailey seems to always be in the right place at the right time – to help someone else out at his own expense.

He’s the small town boy who dreams of seeing the world, going to college and building “skyscrapers a hundred stories high.” But his ambitions, and his efforts to shake the dust of the “crummy little town” of Bedford Falls off his feet, are consistently foiled by fate: his father's fatal stroke, his brother's marriage, and the run on the Bailey Bros. Building and Loan that ends his honeymoon before it ever starts.

We don’t see George wringing his hands or bemoaning his lost opportunities as he settles into middle age. There is no weeping or gnashing of teeth. He seems to accept that this is just how his life has evolved.

But the death of the old dreams means a light has gone out in his eyes.

James Stewart portrays this transition with a deftness and understatedness that are nothing short of brilliant. We can see it in his body language, his expression, a world-weariness that contrasts with the beaming young man measuring for his steamer trunk.

If you’ve made the passage to middle age – and beyond – you know exactly how George is feeling. Where has life gone? What happened? Wasn’t I going to win a Pulitzer Prize and write a bestselling novel?

As the Stage Manager in Our Town says, “You know how it is: you're 21 or 22 and you make some decisions, then whisssh! you're 70.”

Whisssh! indeed.

Henry Potter (Lionel Barrymore), George’s longtime nemesis, recognizes what’s going through George’s mind as he takes stock of how his life has turned out:

“He’s an intelligent, smart, ambitious young man – who hates his job – who hates the Building and Loan almost as much as I do. A young man who's been dying to get out on his own ever since he was born. A young man – the smartest one of the crowd, mind you – a young man who has to sit by and watch his friends go places, because he’s trapped. Yes, sir, trapped into frittering his life away playing nursemaid to a lot of garlic-eaters. Do I paint a correct picture, or do I exaggerate?”

No, Mr. Potter, you do not exaggerate.

All of which sets the stage for the climactic Christmas Eve, when Uncle Billy, George’s partner in the Building and Loan, carelessly misplaces an $8,000 cash bank deposit.

George responds in a very human fashion: with anger – at Uncle Billy, and his family – then panic, and finally depression.

“This drafty old barn!” George rages after he returns home to find one of the children sick with a cold. “Might as well be living in a refrigerator. Why did we have to live here in the first place and stay around this measly, crummy old town? ... You call this a happy family? Why do we have to have all these kids?”

Finally, after Potter turns down his plea for an emergency loan and tells him that his life insurance policy means George is “worth more dead than alive,” he winds up on the bridge intent on suicide. Enter Clarence, the “apprentice angel,” who intervenes to not only prevent his suicide but to show him what would have happened if he'd never been born.

The journey through the “parallel universe” version of Bedford Falls, now called “Pottersville,” is a revelation: If George Bailey never existed, that means brother Harry Bailey drowned at age 9, so he didn't grow up to be a war hero and save the lives of all the men on a troop transport; the building and loan closed down after Peter Bailey's death; and – in what is probably the most dated reference in the movie – Mary has never married and is living out her life as (gasp) “an old maid.”

“Strange, isn't it?” Clarence says. “Each man's life touches so many other lives, and when he isn't around, he leaves an awful hole.”

Unlike A Christmas Carol, the message here is not to throw off materialism and become selfless and giving – George was that already.

Unlike Scrooge, George Bailey doesn’t need to start living differently. His “aha” moment  helps him realize the life he has lived has had an incalculable impact on those around him, and even some who were at some distance removed – like the troops on the ship that was saved by Harry Bailey’s heroics.

“You see, George,” Clarence tells him, “you really had a wonderful life.”

Which is why it’s so touching when all the people George has helped throughout the years have a chance to give back to him in his hour of need, setting up the tear-jerking final scene, with the townsfolk pouring money into the basket and singing around the Baileys’ Christmas tree.

Without George’s dark journey into despair – and his transformational return from the brink – the scene would not be nearly as compelling. If we have gone on that journey with George, we should – like he did – come out on the other side with a greater appreciation of what our lives have meant to others.

Everything in life takes on a new meaning for the Transformed George. “Oh look at this wonderful old drafty house,” he exclaims as he runs inside after his epiphany on the bridge. On his way up the stairs, the old familiar knob on the bannister comes off in his hand. This time he kisses it lovingly and puts it back.

George is seeing everything anew, not with rose-colored glasses but with a newfound wisdom and appreciation for all that his wonderful life has meant to himself and to all who have come within his orbit.

Such awareness is not universal, and is an everpresent theme in our literature.

When she has come back from the dead, Emily, the tragic character in Our Town, asks the Stage Manager, “Does anyone ever realize life while they live it ... every, every minute?”

The Stage Manager’s response: “No. Saints and poets maybe ... they do some.”

Saints and poets – and George Bailey.

Which is what draws me back to his story year after year.

It’s impossible to look at the gentleness and wisdom of his countenance and not agree with the assessment of Clarence the Angel: It's a good face. I like it. I like George Bailey.

Let There Be Light

            

Scrambling up and down my aluminum extension ladder one gloomy November afternoon a few years ago, I was struck by the singular thought: “God had it right.”

You know, in the beginning … when He was tending to that little six-day cosmos improvement project otherwise known as the Creation?

What was the first task on His fairly lengthy to-do list?

“And God said, Let there be light: and there was light.” (Genesis 1:3)

It was the quintessential act of creation, the first step in bringing order to that which was without form, and void: “And God saw the light, that it was good.”

My thoughts exactly, as I finished fastening several strings of multicolored lights to plastic hooks anchored in our gutters and garage overhang, and threw the switch to illuminate my creation in the gathering dusk.

O dark, where is thy sting? O gloom, where is thy victory?

Sure, this sentiment is probably fueled in some small measure by my inner Clark Griswold: A bit of holiday exhibitionism, a dollop of yuletide competitiveness: “Russ, don’t you want to have something we’ll be proud of?”

But it is more than neighborhood one-upsmanship.

Each year, with increasing intensity, I have been aware of something deeper, almost primal, stirring me to confront this gathering gloom of fall, to face it head on and somehow try to turn it back, as if I were King Canute, attempting, in vain, to hold back the sea by my command. Hence my impulse – nay, my compulsion – to risk life and limb (the Google reveals that “2.1 million individuals were treated in U.S. emergency departments for ladder-related injuries from 1990 through 2005,” so I am not making this up), all for the sake of stringing some multicolored lights across the front of my house.

Why?

Why indeed.

The older I get, the more this annual incremental loss of daylight that marks the inexorable descent into winter strikes me as nothing less than a cosmic insult, an outrage, an abomination, something to be fought with every fiber of your being.

Do not go gentle into that good night. … Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

The “good night” that poet Dylan Thomas spoke of was, of course, death: The “dying of the light” is a powerful metaphor for the waning of life.

But here, I can tell, the audience begins to stir.

Death? Really? Isn’t this guy overdoing it a little?

The physician diagnoses “seasonal affective disorder” and scribbles on his prescription pad, “Take two weeks in the Caribbean, and call me in the spring.”

Fine. If I’m mentally unbalanced – the sufferer of a mood disorder – at least I’m in good company.

The ritualistic observance of the solstice – that point at which, because of the earth’s tilt, our little corner of paradise is farthest away from the sun – is a nearly universal phenomenon in non-tropical climes, and dates back several millenia. It is well documented that many cultures the world over perform solstice ceremonies, carrying on in the tradition of ancestors who were fearful that the failing light might never return unless humans intervened with anxious vigil or antic celebration.

Historians tell us solstice rituals were so firmly established by the advent of the Christian era that the leaders of the early church, faced with a deafening silence in Scripture about the exact date of Christ’s birth, adopted Dec. 25, perhaps in an attempt to pre-empt the existing pagan observances.

The result is that one of the most sacred – and certainly most widely observed – celebrations of the Christian church is, on a cultural level, an amalgam of the holy and the heathen. This intermingling of Christianity with a potent potpourri of pagan practices and traditions – the greens, the yule log, the mistletoe – was abhorrent to many in the early church, who knew their history and recognized the influence of Roman Saturnalian and Bacchanalian festivals, not to mention the traditions of my personal favorite horde of heathens, the Druids.

But upholders of Christian orthodoxy who have tried to pull the church back from the brink of paganism have been largely ignored. To which I say … amen.

Hand-wringing aside, there was a certain genius in the selection of December 25^th to observe the most widely celebrated festival of the Christian calendar.

Timing is everything. If the message of Christmas is that God sent His Son to be the Light of the World, when are we more receptive to that message than in our darkest hours – literally?

This is the season when the message of the prophet Isaiah, renewed in the Gospel of Matthew, and set to music by Handel, strikes a deep-seated chord: “The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light: and they that dwell in the land of the shadow of death, upon them hath the light shined.” Isaiah 9:2.

The observance of Hanukkah – the “festival of lights” – commemorates the Jews’ triumph over their Syrian-Greek opressors 21 centuries ago, when they pushed their enemy out of the Holy Land and reclaimed the Holy Temple in Jerusalem. When the victorious warriors tried to relight the Temple’s menorah – the familiar multi-branched candelabrum – they discovered all but a single “cruse” of olive oil (one day’s supply) had been contaminated by the occupiers. Miraculously, the supply lasted eight days, until new oil, prepared according to the rites of purification, was ready. Thus began the tradition of lighting a single candle on the first night, then two on the second, three on the third, until all eight candles (plus the ninth, the shamash  or  "servant" candle in the center)  are lit – a visual image, if there ever was one, of the triumph of light over darkness.

This theme, of light conquering darkness, is hardly unique to the Judeo-Christian tradition.

I am reminded of the Inuit poem that precedes the end credits of “Never Cry Wolf:”

I think over again my small adventures

My fears, those small ones that seemed so big

All the vital things I had to get and to reach

Yet, there is only one great thing, the only thing

To live to see the great day that dawns

And the light that fills the world.

“The light that fills the world …” Whether we acknowledge it, or, or quote it in our holy books, or write poetry about it, we all long for it, we all are drawn to it, like – dare I say it? – moths to a flame.

At this time of year, I love returning home at night.

Making the sharp right turn from the street to our private road, my heart warms at the sight of the simple string of white lights running the length of our wrought-iron fence.

The inviting lights pierce the darkness and cast a glow on the road, leading me home.

So simple a statement, so profound an act:

Let there be light.

I get by with a little help from my Friends

I realized what a terrific person [Annie] was and how much fun it was just knowing her and I thought of that old joke, you know, this guy goes to a psychiatrist and says, "Doc, uh, my brother's crazy. He thinks he's a chicken." And, uh, the doctor says, "Well, why don't you turn him in?" And the guy says, "I would, but I need the eggs." Well, I guess that's pretty much how I feel about relationships. You know, they're totally irrational and crazy and absurd and … but, uh, I guess we keep goin' through it because, uh, most of us need the eggs.

-- Alvie Singer (Woody Allen), at the end of Annie Hall

That’s pretty much how I feel about Facebook.

It’s totally irrational and crazy and absurd, not to mention annoying and intrusive and addictive as hell.

It numbs your mind with requests to join “FarmVille” or “Send Cupcakes” or “Which US President Are You?" I just turned down an invitation to “[b]uild a virtual Football team on Facebook and compete against your friends!” Know what?!? No thanks!

(Advisory to all my Facebook Friends: I generally ignore any invitation to join ANYTHING with the word “Ville” – you know, FrontierVille, PetVille, HooterVille, DeliveranceVille – or attaching the prefix “e” or “I” or “@” to “Cupcakes” or “Hugs” or “Flowers.” However, if someone comes up with “What Kind of Schizophrenic Are You,” I will take a chance – just out of morbid curiousity.)

Sprinkled in are chatty status updates from your e-kith and kin about (pick one) the great batch of cookies they just made, a grandchild’s latest accomplishment or the video of the skiing dog that you just HAVE to see.

And the privacy issues? Don’t get me started.

Peridocally, a news story comes out about the latest privacy abuses, the latest revelation that Facebook – proclaiming its innocence all the while, its fingers firmly crossed behind its back while it smiles its smarmy smile – has sold your profile information to some megacorporation like so many rail car loads of Iowa corn.

Be assured, Facebook advertisers know you. They know your likes, your dislikes, your demographic profile, your digital DNA.

Recently one of my younger FB Friends posted a list of the advertisements that had shown up in her “sidebar”: “A special offer for cat lovers whereby I can purchase large tubs of kitty litter for only $4.99 each; An invitation to sell my eggs; Meet single dads in your area!; Details on how I might self-publish a book. Facebook has clearly pegged me as a lonely but fertile crazy cat lady with unrealized literary ambitions.

But Facebook’s Hal 9000 computer is clearly fallible, which I regard as sign we are not on the brink of the Apocalypse. It frequently tries to sell me books by Ann Coulter or Sarah Palin or to admit I really, after all, “like” Sean Hannity and Glenn Beck. Glenn Beck? REALLY? Are you paying attention, Hal? Do you know ANYTHING about my political leanings?

And yet … and yet. Like the motorist slowing to gawk at the highway crash, I can’t look away.

I’m too addicted to little gems like the ones frequently offered by one of my Friends, a literature professor in a New England college:

· “FYI: If you take a lit course, you should be prepared at least to read the Sparknotes if not the actual texts themselves. I'm pretty sure Gilgamesh did not visit the Temple of Doom, guys. But thanks for the laugh.”

· “Just noticed that most of the inhabitants of Sesame Street are effectively homeless. This became clear to me when Maria and Luis had to invite Big Bird and Abby the Flying Fairy to stay at their apartment during a bad rain storm. Something should be done.”

Likewise, I’m hooked on the e-banter I can engage my children in.

On New Year’s Eve, my older daughter posted a message on my Wall reminding me that as of midnight, “this goes to 11” – an homage to the movie This Is Spinal Tap, which has given birth to many family in-jokes. It led to each of us trying to one-up each other with lines from the movie:

Daughter: “Don't drink too much champagne tonight...you can't dust for vomit.”

Dad: “Are you challenging me to a Spinal Tap-off? Huh, punk? Oh ... I'm sorry. I should be more conciliatory. As we say, ‘Love your brother.’ We don't say it really, but ... No, we don't say it. ... We don't really, literally mean it. ... No, we don't believe it either ...”

Daughter: “I believe virtually everything I read, and I think that makes me more of a selective human than someone who doesn’t believe anything.”

Dad: “It’s such a fine line between stupid and clever.”

To the Spinal Tap-illiterate, this thread must have been as comprehensible as the Dead Sea Scrolls.

But to one of our mutual Friends, it was e-gold: “I love your family. Nerds, all.” To which my younger daughter replied, “Yep. All.”

Banter and silliness – necessary staples of life every bit as much as bread and India pale ale – periodically give way to the significant, the profound, the touching.

I am currently tracking the progress of a friend at the University of Washington Medical Center for chemotherapy. Daily posts by his wife provide not only timely updates on his progress but often produce what Dolly Parton’s character in Steel Magnolias described as her favorite emotion: laughter through tears.

It was through Facebook that I followed the arc of grief experienced by a Friend who lost his wife suddenly. He posted, for all his Facebook Friends to see, the stages he went through, in real time. Far from being maudlin or sentimental, his messages were thought provoking, vivid and unabashedly personal. He marked every significant milestone – the memorial service, the 30-day anniversary of her death, his return to work – and gave his friends a chance to respond, immediately, with thoughts and sentiments that I like to think were many times more heartfelt and personal than a Hallmark card.

At one point, he traveled to Hawaii and posted some beautiful sunset pictures from a beach where he and his wife had spent treasured times.

I shared with him the moving lyrics of Sand and Water, a song written by Beth Nielsen Chapman after the death of her husband:

I will see you in the light of a thousand suns,

I will hear you in the waves.

I will know you when I come, as we all will come

Through the door beyond the grave.

He responded, “Thanks, Dave, that was very appropriate for my day yesterday!”

So often, we are reduced to generic platitudes in dealing with grief. But because of the instantaneous nature of this new “social networking” medium, I was able to share those words at a time when they were likely to mean the most. At least I like to think so.

In one sense, Facebook is our digital back fence, a meeting place that spans cyberspace.

When author Russell Baker was a boy, he, his sister and their widowed mother lived with an aunt and uncle in Baltimore. In his warm and wonderful memoir, Growing Up, Baker fondly recalls the grownups’ talk around the kitchen table: “At New Street, we lived on coffee and talk. Talking was the great Depression pastime. Unlike the movies, talk was free, and a river of talk flowed through the house, rising at suppertime, and cresting as my bedtime approached before subsiding into a murmur that trickled along past midnight, when all but Uncle Charlie had drifted off to bed, leaving him alone to reheat the pot, roll another cigarette, and settle down with his book.”

I sometimes think of us as 21^st century descendants of that communal rite, our laptops in place around the family room, the TV droning on as background noise, while we update old friends on the goings-on in our life, root for our favorite sports team, wring our hands over the sorry state of the world or share the latest pictures of our grandchildren.

At home, I never pass by my resting computer without glancing at the blue bar across the top of my Facebook home page, looking for the telltale white number on red background that tells me someone else reached out to me, across the miles, with a message or a comment or an invitation to “Friend” him or her.

In the film Shadowlands, Richard Attenborough’s extraordinary portrait of the relationship between C.S. Lewis and his wife, Joy, one of Lewis’s young students tells the Oxford don what his father – also a teacher – used to say about the reason we read: “We read to know we are not alone.”

That’s also the reason, in a digital age, we “post,” we “upload,” we “link” – and, in doing so, we consciously decide to put up with the Farmville invitations, the obnoxious targeted ads -- and the demands that we explain to the Hal 9000 WHY we didn’t like the ad and removed it from our sidebar.

We tolerate it all because, as the man said – most of us need the eggs.