A long, long time ago, Robert Earl Keen noticed that his family’s Christmases weren’t very much like the Christmas celebrations he saw on TV.
Suitably inspired, he wrote a song called “Merry Christmas From the Family.” It starts with the words “Mom got drunk and dad got drunk at our Christmas party,” and gets only more dysfunctional from there.
The song has become one of my favorites, probably because we’re hammered with unrealistic happy-ending holiday movies from late-October on these days. Who needs those kinds of expectations foisted upon your family — which, I’m guessing, has a lot more in common with the Griswolds than the Baileys?
In that spirit, I’m proudly presenting the story of the most — shall we say — non-traditional Christmas Eve I’ve ever experienced. I’ll always remember it as my “Free Bird Christmas,” and it goes like this:
The year was 1991. I was living in the Bay Area, working on the sports desk of the old Alameda Newspaper Group. That meant I worked nights — usually 3:30 p.m. to midnight — and being the new guy, I had no chance of getting holidays off.
On this particular Christmas Eve, we wrapped up early, maybe 10 p.m. or so. I made plans to meet one of my late-night-working brethren for a nightcap, and we picked a bar in Dublin. I expected the place to be empty; after all, what kind of loser goes to a bar on Christmas Eve?
As it turned out, lots of us.
I was surprised to see several cars parked in front of the bar. A lively night of holiday cheer inside, perhaps?
Not quite.
I walked inside and the bar was dead silent — the most depressing silent night you could imagine. Even more dispiriting was the fact every chair was occupied by a sad, lonely looking man, ages ranging from probably 30 to 70, sipping drinks in an eerie stillness that belied the festive Christmas lights strung around the bar.
I ordered a beer and sat down, feeling sorry for everybody who had nothing better to do on a Christmas Eve than sit in that bar with, well, me.
But then … it happened.
One of those glum-looking men pulled himself to his feet and walked slowly to the jukebox. He inserted a few coins, pushed a couple of buttons and returned to his chair.
Seconds later, I heard those unmistakable notes blasting out of the speakers, and it hit me: “Oh my God. He just played ‘Free Bird.’ “
Now, look. I love “Free Bird” just as much as the next man. But on Christmas Eve? In a bar filled with gloomy, all-alone guys?
I remember thinking “This is perfect. Perfectly depressing.”
However, faster than you could yell “how ’bout you!,” the mood in that bar began to change.
When the song got to “if I stay here with you, girl,” I noticed some guy had started drunkenly singing along. As the second verse rolled around, a few others had joined in. And then a few after that.
Suddenly, as if by some kind of higher-power intervention, heads were lifted, eye contact was established and for the first time all night, smiles were taking the place of frowns as one forlorn figure after another joined the chorus. A Skynyrd Tsunami was sweeping the room, and there would be no stopping it now!
As the ghost of Ronnie Van Zant is my witness, by the time “please don’t take it so badly” rolled around, almost every man in that bar had climbed to his feet and was crooning along, hoisting beers and putting arms around shoulders in the most spontaneous, and unlikely, drunken singalong one could ever hope to imagine.
(Did I join in? Of course! How could you not?)
As “fly high, free bird” yielded to the seven-minute-long guitar solo, there were high-fives, yells and hugs, handshakes and greetings, smiles on every face and “happy holidays” and “Merry Christmas” at every corner of that bar. In short, it was wall-to-wall joy in a scene that must have looked straight out of a Farrelly brothers production of “It’s A Wonderful Life.”
But then …
The song faded out, and just as quickly as The Miracle on Amador Valley Boulevard had started, it ended.
Within a few minutes, after a couple of abbreviated attempts at further conversation had died out, the men returned to their chairs and once again sat in silence. But I couldn’t help but notice their heads were held more highly, a few smiles were still in place and maybe, just maybe, they’d been reminded that holiday loneliness aside, there was still some joy to be found in this big old world, if only someone would simply push the right buttons.
That’s when my friend showed up, walking over and greeting me with the words “Wow, pretty quiet in here tonight, huh?”
“I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you,” I said, “but I’m pretty sure I just witnessed a Christmas miracle.”
That was 32 years ago. I still think of that night every Christmas Eve and the depressing scene I saw upon walking into the bar. This can be a mighty tough night to spend alone, so in honor of everyone who finds themselves in a similar situation for whatever reason, I’d like to raise a toast and a prayer to all the lonely people out there who could probably use a friend — even if it’s just for a song.
How ’bout you?
Mike Wolcott is the editor of the Enterprise-Record and still likes to listen to “Free Bird” every Christmas Eve. His column will return Jan. 7, 2024. Merry Christmas, from “the family” to yours.