A Christmas Nose

Years ago Rhumba and I drove up to Ashland at Christmas to celebrate with her virtual sisters: the kind you earn through long friendship and shared experience. Blood is optional.

And they were great folks: one a teacher of profoundly disabled children, and the other a children's theater instructor. Ashland's a famous theater town, and the theatrical sister's two daughters had spent so much time on and behind stage that they didn't speak so much as declaim -- and often. Add to the mix her husband, a shiftless Buddhist monk with a vague grasp on reality, and voila: a Christmas party right out of a '30s screwball comedy directed by Preston Sturges.

I've rarely had so much fun at Christmas. Between the robust conversation of the overly-theatrical children, an animated discussion of the lost continent of Mu, and much much more.

We stayed for hours. But our hosts, the theatrical sister and her husband, were poor as church mice; dinner was modest. And small. Rhumba and I ate what we were served and refused seconds. Else there would not have been enough.

In the evening we said our farewells and drove into Medford to see a movie. After, Rhumba and I both admitted to substantial hunger. But it was 8 pm on Christmas night and Medford had shut up like a tomb. This was 20 years ago, but Medford was conservative even for those slower times.

But since the town was so conservative, I had a hunch that it would have the kind of restaurant that could help us -- one was nearly extinct in California even then.

I drove through a couple of business districts, and then we found it: an aged red building of plaster pillars and plaster dragons, topped by orange-and-blue neon signs proclaiming CHINESE AND AMERICAN FOOD. And inside, the lights were on.

The Asian hostess wore a tight, red silk dress, yet greeted us cordially in a flat Oregonian accent. Opening our menus, we skipped past the bland Cantonese dishes and focused on the special of the day: turkey dinner with all the trimmings. And a good one it was, too. Or, good enough.

If it wasn't for Asian restauranteurs, I don't know what some of us would do on Christmas Day. Most likely half the Jews in Ashland were in that restaurant with us.

Of course, few Chinese restaurants offer both Chinese and American food today; but then, Chinese restauranteurs no longer own only Chinese restaurants.

Rhumba and I did not go to church on this Christmas day, but we did go for a drive: it's a Christmas ritual of mine to head up to UC Santa Cruz on Christmas and photograph deer. The campus shuts down for the holidays; and in the complete absence of people, the deer are known to drift in from the surrounding forest and graze on the sports fields, between the administration buildings, in front the library, and elsewhere. I get some good shots.

Rhumba was interested in coffee; she did not want me to go out of my way to find coffee as we drove along; but if any coffee happened by, she wanted it. I deciphered her wishes as best I could and took the long way to campus, past several coffee venues. All closed. I knew where to find a Starbucks, but Rhumba eschews corporate coffee.

There remained but one place to check -- a surfer-dude-friendly coffee house that we don't visit often. And it was open!

We hurried inside and found -- new ownership. All Chinese! In fact, one big happy Chinese family, except for the barrista.

Rhumba says I have a nose for these things. All I can say is, thank God for the Chinese. Without them, Christmas wouldn't be everything it needs to be. And that's one of those little conundrums of the modern age that I'll leave you with. Happy Christmas to those who want one. And a shining solstice to all the rest.

(We never did find any deer.)