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Photograph by Chad Pilster
Reign of Deer: This elaborately decorated Campbell house illustrates our protagonist's dilemma.
An Agnostic Christmas
By Michael J. Vaughn
Ed. Note: Author Vaughn says his comic tale, 'An Agnostic Christmas,' came about by chance. "I've always had a fascination with Christmas lights and was trying to justify my love of Christmas with the fact that I'm an agnostic," Vaughn says. The story and tongue-in-cheek illustrations by artist Frank A. Bella was published in book form in November (Dragonfly Press, 1999). The story originally debuted in December 1995 in Vaughn's hometown paper, The Sunnyvale Sun. It has been reproduced here in its entirety.
The neighborhood that Scootie Jones grew up in was populated also by Santa Claus, and his reindeer, and the three wise men, and General Electric. Scootie's cul-de-sac was one of those where the neighbors had all agreed to make of the December holidays a dazzling, block-long forest of electrical lights, illuminated figures, garland-wreathed entryways and window-framed Christmas trees. Even the Applebaums kicked in, using a string of white lights to outline a Star of David on their garage door, and erecting a huge menorah covered in aluminum foil on the front lawn. Every evening of Hanukkah would find Stanley Applebaum out in front of his house, plugging in one more oversized light bulb atop the menorah's candlestems.
Of all the neighbors, none was more enthusiastic nor better equipped than John Sorenson. The Sorensons' was the biggest house on the block, a sprawling two-story affair with an upper balcony and a barn-style garage, and John Sorenson set out each winter to cover every square inch with ornamentation. He wrapped the balcony railing in a zig-zag weave of varicolored lights. He strung the rooflines with large outdoor bulbs, dangling like ripe fruits from the eaves. A smiling Styrofoam snowman greeted visitors at the head of the walk, surrounded by banks of fake snow, and in the frame of the large front window stood a 10-foot-tall Douglas fir, banked in white lights and silver balls, circled by a flock of white silk angels from the hands of Felicia Sorenson.
The center of the front lawn hosted a nativity scene of illuminated plastic figures, possessed by that inner glow one might expect from a holy family. The plastic Jesus had his head cocked to one side, and the paperboy, Markie Rodriguez, took great pleasure in placing the morning Star in the crib so it would appear the infant messiah was perusing the Dow Jones average.
But the crowning achievement of John Sorenson's holiday entourage was a fully rigged plastic Santa--sled, reindeer, bag of gifts and all--lofted along a wire from the second-story television antenna down to the center beam of the garage. The effect was such that Santa appeared to be circling the house in preparation for a landing. Every Christmas Day at noon, the neighborhood kids would gather on the Sorensons' front porch while Mr. Sorenson went up to the second-floor bedroom, found a secret button the whereabouts of which was known only to him, and released a cascade of candies and small toys piñata-like down onto the heads of the awaiting throng. It was easily the event of the year, challenged only by the Jacksons' Fourth of July fireworks display.
The rest of the 22 households on the block followed suit, though not in so ambitious a fashion as Mr. Sorenson, and the weeks preceding Christmas would bring a steady string of onlookers to the fabled lights of Arbor Court. Every third year or so the Star would send down a photographer and feature the court in its special holiday supplement.
The only chink in the neighborhood's collective armor was Scootie Jones' father, Harman. Harman Jones, who described himself as a "devout agnostic," declined to take part in any activity which would seem to favor one religion over another, and so the Joneses refrained from the holiday carnival and, viewed from above at night, Arbor Court resembled a long electrical smile with one tooth missing.
This caused no end of frustration to the decorative ambitions of John Sorenson, and a tense discussion of the issue between himself and Mr. Jones would eventually work its way into the Christmastime rituals right along with caroling and mistletoe. Harman Jones would be taking out his trash on the day after Thanksgiving, and John Sorenson, who just happened to be strolling down the court with Felicia's pet poodle, Spikey, would drop by to make the annual request.
"Hello, Mr. Jones! How are you this morning? Did you have a fine Thanksgiving?"
"Very fine, Mr. Sorenson. My wife makes a pumpkin pie that you would not believe. I must have eaten five slices all by myself."
"Wonderful, wonderful." John Sorenson leaned down to ruffle Spikey's head, working up courage for the battle to come. "So tell me, Mr. Jones, have you given any thought to maybe doing some decorating for the holidays?"
"Why, yes, Mr. Sorenson. We are getting a tree. Fine pagan solstice tradition that, the worship of an evergreen in the time of darkness. Very universal, too. And I do love the smell of it."
"Well, Mr. Jones, I was thinking in terms of outdoor decorating."
"Oh, that!" Harman Jones scratched his head in false contemplation. "Why, I can't see why I would do that, Mr. Sorenson, seeing as how I don't have any particularly religious feelings on the matter of Christmas."
"Well, Harman, I certainly wouldn't ask you to change your feelings on the subject. Not at all! I'm just asking you to perhaps put up a few lights. You know, nothing complicated, just something to fit in with the general spirit of things."
"The general holy spirit of things."
The first shot had been fired, and so now John Sorenson was free to talk bluntly. "Now, Harman, you know how beautiful the block looks all lit up every year, and there's always one dark spot, and it's your house. You know the kids come from all over the city to see this thing. They enjoy it so much. Wouldn't you like to take part in something that brings pleasure to the children?"
"Not if it doesn't agree with my religious beliefs," said Harman.
"But you haven't got any religious beliefs!" said John Sorenson. "You told me so yourself."
"What I have told you is that I have chosen not to choose, and to put up electrical lights in celebration of the baby Christ would be an act favoring one line of thought over all others. I won't do it."
"How about a reindeer, or a snowman, or some candy canes? They're not very religious. I've got extras. I'll loan you anything you need."
"But don't you see, John? These are all things which have become tied up in one way or another with a Christian holiday. Now, granted, that holiday was stolen from the Roman pagan holiday of Saturnalia, since Jesus was actually born in the summer, but still, in this country, in this context, it is a religious event. I know I've tried to explain this to you before, John, but I derive a certain power in leading a life in which I know that I do not need to have answers, and that is why I insist on things like this. It leaves one's intellectual and spiritual channels so much more open than investing oneself in a specific organized body of beliefs."
Illustration by Frank A. Bella
Whoa!: "... eight plastic pink flamingos, silver bells around their necks, led by a large stuffed Saint Bernard with a glowing red nose."
By this time, John Sorenson, a man more acquainted with financial statistics than with the roamings of spiritual eccentrics, was reeling, teetering from one foot to the other like a captain on a foundering ship. He gathered himself for one last foray.
"You're a stubborn man, Harman, and half the time I have no idea what the heck you're talking about. But just think about it. Please? It would mean so much to the neighborhood."
"Oh, I'll think about it," said Harman Jones. "But not too much."
For 12 years of Scootie Jones' young life, the dialogue around the trash can remained pretty much the same, a tiresome, pointless conference between a religious man, a non-religious man and a vicariously religious poodle. But then, one year, something changed. John Sorenson's wife, Felicia, took up the banner.
It had been an extremely bountiful Thanksgiving that year, with more cousins, aunts, in-laws and nephews than Scootie had ever seen crammed into the confines of their modest little ranch-style home. The next day, his father had to cart six full bags of garbage out to the trash cans. Felicia Sorenson came by on the third bag, poodle in tow.
"Good morning, Harman."
"Oh! Good morning, Felicia. Hi, Spikey." He took a hand from his garbage bag and fluffed the old poodle's fuzzy head. "Where's your husband? Did he finally give up on me?"
"He did," she said. "But I didn't. Listen, Harman Jones, this is a perfectly wonderful thing the people in this neighborhood do, and folks really seem to enjoy it, and I know my husband's a little bit of a fanatic about it, but you know, in a life of work and bills and labor strikes and all the tiny little things that get you down on a regular basis, the Arbor Court Holiday Fair is one thing that really gets my hubby excited about life. And the only thing that keeps it from being perfect is you, Harman. I know about your religious sentiments and everything, but couldn't you just once see your way to putting up a string of lights or something? I mean, look at the Applebaums; they're Jewish, and they don't seem to mind taking part."
"Ah, but the Applebaums are religion-impaired, just as you are, Felicia. Mine is the only free-minded household on the block, and God bless me but I see no reason why I should add to my electrical bill just to provide a false sense of neighborhood unity. Much as I would like to please you, I'm afraid I can't go against my beliefs."
That would have seemed a conclusive response, but Felicia Sorenson was no quitter, and she was well-acquainted with the ways of persuasion. So, she tried another tack.
"How about this, Harman? I make a chocolate cake that my husband refers to as Heaven's Own. And you know how my husband feels about heaven. So here is my deal: for every strand of lights, for every illuminated figure, for every lit-up object you place on the front of this house of yours, I will produce for you one of Heaven's Own, and deliver it to your doorstep. And, if you do a really fine job, I may just lend a few more personal tokens of affection, as well."
If there were any doubts as to the exact meaning of this last comment, they were erased by the sight of Felicia Sorenson's tongue stroking along the edge of her finely shaped lips. Harman gave the matter more thought than usual.
"This thing really means a lot to you, doesn't it, Mrs. Sorenson?"
"When the lights are up, Mr. Jones, my husband is happy. And when my husband is happy, I am happy."
"Well then," said Harman, applying the last touch to an idea taking shape in his sly little agnostic's mind. "I suppose I will be putting up something for the holidays this year."
Felicia Sorenson found herself fixed squarely between shock and jubilation. Upon recovering, she burst upon Harman Jones and gave him a kiss on the cheek.
"Oh, Harman! I knew you would do it. Thank you. Thank you so much!"
Harman, suddenly cognizant that he shouldn't be embracing neighbors' wives out in full public view, held Felicia at arm's length and wiped the lipstick from his cheek.
"It'll be my pleasure," he said. "Happy holidays, Mrs. Sorenson."
"Happy holidays, Harman! Come on, Spikey, let's go tell Daddy!"
Felicia and Spikey trotted off together down the street. Harman laughed and turned to fetch bag No. 4.
Jilly Skamadjian Jones and her three children had no idea what force had gotten hold of Harman that Thanksgiving weekend, but something was certainly different. Harman locked himself up in his garage workshop, ignored all televised sporting events, and refused to let anybody see what it was he was working on. And all during that following week, he would arrive home an hour late and slip some large object into the garage before anybody could catch a glimpse. One morning, as the fifth of December approached and the rest of the neighborhood had already completed its transformation to Messiahs 'R' Us, Harman Jones called in sick to work when he did not seem to be sick at all. The kids went off to school, Jilly went off to do some shopping, and Harman went back to his mystery cave.
Just imagine you are John Sorenson, respected stockbroker, treasurer of the Santa Ana Presbyterian Church, unofficial grand poobah of the Arbor Court Decorating Committee. Imagine that the one holdout who has plagued your favorite time of year with his dark front porch has finally agreed to come out of the closet and hoist up his lights for the good of the neighborhood. And every night you drive home from work in your Olds Cutlass, and you round the corner at Valentine Street and you drive past your home in order to make a circuit of the block and check for signs of life at the Jones household, breathless with anticipation. And then, one clear, cold December evening, you round that corner and you realize right away that something is different, because the front lawn that has always been dark and plain is suddenly brilliant with color and light.
And imagine that you drive slowly to the front of the Jones house, the house of Harman and Jilly and Jennifer and Steven and Leonard whom they call Scootie, and you have begged this man every day-after-Thanksgiving for the past decade-plus and finally there is something there and your heart is beating faster than a one-horse open sleigh and you will give your wife the biggest kiss when you get home--and then you take a look.
Perched there in the center of Harman Jones' front lawn is a barber pole, red and white spiral lit up from the inside, festooned with tinsel and garland, and on top, a single shining star. Positioned around the pole at the four corners of the compass are luau-style tiki torches with electrical orange flames. Over the center of the garage door hangs a traditional wintertime snowscape interrupted only by the large neon letters of a popular brand of beer. Tacked onto the front door at eye level, the spot usually reserved for a wreath, is an illuminated clock from a '50s-style diner, its hands permanently fixed at 12:25. Out near the sidewalk, next to the mailbox, stands a small billboard advertising the kind of after-shave commonly endorsed by professional quarterbacks and home run hitters, lit up by two strategically placed spotlights. Lending an element of audience participation to the scene is a strip of bright green Astroturf along the front walk equipped with a putter, a dozen red, white and gold golf balls, and an automatic putt return.
Finally, and most sensationally, spread along the width of the front window there stand eight plastic pink flamingos, silver bells around their necks, led by a large stuffed Saint Bernard with a glowing red nose, and reined up to the kind of vibrating electric rocket ship you might find at the front of a supermarket. Astride the rocket ship is a life-sized cardboard cutout of Gene Autry in full cowboy gear. Gene has one hand flung back, an old guitar strung about his neck, and a red cowboy hat with a white puff on top. Over his shoulder he carries a large bag full of laundry.
Harman Jones never did receive Heaven's Own nor any other favors from Felicia Sorenson, and though somewhat disappointed that he had held to the letter of their contract and yet received nothing for his efforts, he exulted in having made his point.
He received no further post-Thanksgiving visits from the three Sorensons--husband, wife and pooch--but continued to participate in the annual Holiday Fair nonetheless, consistently drawing the largest crowd in the neighborhood to witness his growing assemblage of post-modernist illuminated agnostic artworks.
Michael J. Vaughn and friends will give a dramatized reading of 'An Agnostic Christmas' on Dec. 17 at 8 p.m. at Coffee Cantata, 1702 Meridian Ave., San Jose; and on Dec. 19 at 7 p.m. at City Espresso, 1820-B Campbell Ave., Campbell. The Campbell reading is followed by a gig by Randie & the eDawgs. For more information, contact Vaughn at 408.402.9846.
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Campbell, California
