Jimmy Stewart's Voice

If snow ever fell down ever-so-gently and landed on the tip of my nose, you know, like it does in holiday movies, I would probably never move from that spot. I would close my eyes, wish, pray, will it to happen again. But, it wouldn’t. Because snow never falls on the same nose in the same spot twice. It’s like lightning striking. You’d better enjoy it the first time, buddy. And so I would walk back into the house and unwrap the striped scarf from around my neck and stand in the foyer just long enough to overhear my mother and aunt talking about how I should cut my hair. And I would walk into the room just as they are moving on to another topic, so I don’t make them uncomfortable. Because I would need a haircut and because these two women are in charge of the food.
I would walk past my little brother’s bedroom to find him sitting on the floor, playing video games and I would sit down beside him and listen to the artificial bleeps and bloops until I would decide that perhaps this is not a good time for a brotherly conversation and I would move on. I would stop by my little sister’s room, which would, no doubt, contain my little sister, my niece, and their twenty or so dolls all sitting at a tea party. I would have one small cup of invisible tea and then ask, politely and in a British accent, to be excused.
My father and uncle would be sitting in the living room, one on the couch, one in a recliner, and they would both be watching “It’s a Wonderful Life.” And I would sit on the floor next to the fireplace and watch as an angel, who looks quite non-angelic in black and white with a beer belly, gets his wings. And I would close my eyes and wait for it. Wait for that voice that trumps Bing Crosby’s and Frank Sinatra’s and Elvis Presley’s. And then it would sound, echoing through the dimly-lit living room, bouncing off the million-lighted Christmas tree, tunneling through the stocking-clad fireplace. “Attaboy, Clarence,” he says.