LETTERS FROM HOME: ANGELS AMONG US

Dec. 30, 1993

Dear Dan and Polly,

DC made chocolate cakes and salads to serve 25 homeless people who gathered at her church on Christmas Eve. Another couple roasted a turkey and brought mashed potatoes and gravy. DC recognized some of the folks from the clinic. One woman claimed to be receiving Madonna's "Material Girl" through her fillings. Another man sitting on the floor in the corner of the small, chilly gymnasium appeared near death. He was the color of a fish belly and ducked in and out of consciousness. He's a diabetic and had lost his insulin. He also has cancer, and had been taking morphine for the pain.

DC went next door to the church where the clinic director was attending services. He had just sung "The Little Drummer Boy" with his daughter, while his aged father and young son played drums. The clinic director told her the man in the stupor tends to take his morphine all at once and had refused help over and over again. They settled on a plan of taking him to the nearby emergency room if he keeled over during dinner.

Mountain Walker, a man who roams these Northern California hills working on behalf of environmental and humanitarian causes, also stopped in. A woman named Ananda was in charge. Very forceful. Asked me which helping organization I belonged to. I said, "Her," indicating DC.

Someone had cut down a small tree and placed it in a coffee can on the state. There was no Christmas music. The sound of sirens filled the room most of the evening -- made by police cars one of the guests received for Christmas. But no one complained. They went back for seconds. One big-pupiled man was the first in line and the last to leave. "I just stopped eating," he said, neither proud nor embarrassed.

As we washed the dishes, Ananda repeatedly chided the family who had prepared the turkey, because once the carcass was picked clean she discovered the giblet packet still inside. I thought she was being a bit hard on these do-gooders, who obviously were uneasy around street people in the first place. Then DC and I watched her wet a towel and gently wipe the dirt from the face of a little angel who would be sleeping on the floor of that gym on Christmas Eve.

DC and I finally gathered our pans and bowls, said Merry Christmas and goodbye, and walked the two blocks to our house.

She made a pizza and spread a tablecloth on the living room floor next to the wood stove. She lit the candelabrum while I slipped "It's A Wonderful Life" in the VCR.

DC has many Christmas traditions -- peppermint carnations, mechanical ornaments, bubble lights, church. The only thing I must do is watch Jimmy Stewart save his brother from drowning, save his boss from accidentally poisoning a customer, save the building-and-loan, and save himself with a little help from his friends. "Sappy movie," DC said. "Uh-huh," I enthused.

It's comforting to think we all have guardian angels, and that someone is watching over sick men in the corner and dirty-faced little girls. The Taoist in me says stand back and let it all be. The Presbyterian in your daughter says otherwise.

Ananda is probably somewhere making soup from turkey bones. For auld lang syne be damned.

Love, Sam