Bowling Alone on Christmas in Bedford Falls

Bowling Alone on Christmas in Bedford Falls
by Daniel Nuccio at Brownstone Institute

Growing up, Christmas was not a holiday in my family but a season. Every year on Black Friday Eve, following a bountiful feast at my mother’s family home, my mother and I would study the ads in the papers. We’d plot a path to embark on at dawn that would take us from JC Penney’s to KB Toys, Kohl’s, Toys “R” Us, Best Buy, and Borders. Our careful planning would ensure she’d get the best deals on the kitchen gadgets, home electronics, and toys she’d give as gifts and that I’d save a little money on a couple of much-desired video games or DVDs, as well as the books I hoped would last me through break.

Not long thereafter, elves would begin leaving my siblings and me daily gifts. Weekends would be occupied by mostly Santa-centric activities. Breakfast with Santa at the zoo. Arts and crafts with Santa at a community center. A movie with Santa at the second-run theater. An afternoon of chasing Santa on his fire truck as he tossed candy into the streets. (I’m by no means a fan of safetyism, but this last one surprises me that it was not only a thing but a fire department-sponsored activity.) 

At some point, we’d also get a family Christmas photo with Santa at the mall. In later years we went to PetSmart upon deciding a family Christmas photo wasn’t complete without the dogs. Usually on a Wednesday night not long before Christmas the school at which my mother taught would host its annual “International Night” at which homemade dishes brought by the school’s culturally and ethnically diverse families would be served. On a Friday night right around the time my elementary school let out for break, there’d be a Cub Scout Christmas party as well. One year I even had the distinction of being the kid to yank off Santa’s beard Scooby-Doo style, revealing him to be none other than the father of one of my fellow Cub Scouts!

Yet, growing up, the defining pair of events for the Christmas Season, the events towards which the entire Christmas Season built, were always the massive gathering at my mother’s family home on Christmas Eve and the more intimate get-together there on Christmas Day. This was true in terms of what we all looked forward to most. It was also true in a very practical sense as immediately after Thanksgiving there was considerable decorating to be done at that suburban estate inhabited by two of my three uncles and spinster aunt. One of the uncles was our paterfamilias in a very Roman sense. The other was a Ron Swanson-type who loved Christmas almost as much as he distrusted the government.

Although deceptively unassuming from the outside, the house in which the three resided was quite massive. Initially built as a two-family home, the matrilineal abode sported five bedrooms, three bathrooms, two living rooms, two kitchens, and a finished sub-basement containing pinball, air hockey, arcade games, and a poker table. Throughout much of December, the Ron Swanson-type uncle took charge of converting the place into a winter wonderland, as well as much of the cooking and baking. Sometimes he’d take two weeks off from work for the task.

Ceilings needed to be decked in lights and garland. Walls needed to be carpeted in holiday hook-rugs. An antique nativity needed to be set up in the dining room. An extensive Santa collection needed to be displayed in the main living room. Animatronic elves needed to be jolted to life in the second. A Christmas village needed to be constructed across a third of the sub-basement. A Griswold amount of lights had to be put up outside along with dozens of glowing plastic figures my uncle would jokingly describe as his Christmas gift to Com-Ed. There were also two trees that needed ornaments and a feast to be prepared. Living practically just down the road, and spending most of our days after school there anyway under our spinster aunt’s care, my siblings and I made for the perfect little holiday helpers.  

In exchange for the free labor, we got to spend time with a favored uncle who served as something of a second father to us. I was allowed to place a giant rubber rat from a Six Flags Fright Fest on the old grandfather’s clock in the front hallway and dress him in a Santa hat. My siblings and I also each got our own district in the Christmas village and the privilege of hiding some of the Christmas village’s Christmas Gorillas. (I’m not sure how this became a thing, but it was one of the more beloved traditions in our family.)

Then finally, on Christmas Eve our hard work paid off. Starting around 6:30 the first guests would arrive, followed by a few more trickling in till 7:00. Then came a massive and incalculable surge. By 8:00 or 9:00, seventy or eighty people filled practically every corner. Conversation and cigarette smoke, vinyl Christmas music, and good cheer filled the air. The kids had the sub-basement, mostly free from adult supervision minus a distant cousin who never quite grew up, a third uncle who might play a quick game with us or perform a few magic tricks, and the occasional random grownup looking to play a round of pinball or get a glimpse of the Christmas village and try their luck searching for the traditional Christmas Gorillas.

Around 9:00 or so my siblings and I would exchange gifts with some third cousins. Santa would arrive shortly thereafter, distributing presents to all the kids and sometimes teenagers as my family was never quite sure what the right age was to cut people off. One year I even had the distinction of being the kid to yank off Santa’s beard Scooby-Doo style, revealing him to be none other than my mother’s uncle! (Yes, I was that kid.)

As the evening progressed, spontaneous games of cards would break out. Someone’s child would inevitably make a mess in one of the bathrooms. Maybe around 10:00 a few people would start to leave. Several late-comers (usually someone’s friends just getting off work or finishing up festivities with their own families) would take their place. The last of the guests wouldn’t mosey out till 1:00 or 1:30 – maybe even 2:00.

The general spirit of the occasion was that every aunt, uncle, third cousin’s in-laws and family friend who wanted somewhere to go for Christmas Eve would have somewhere to go for Christmas Eve.

The next day, my family would attend church, spend a little time with my dad’s family in Chicago, then rush back to the matrilineal residence for a massive gift exchange with about a dozen other people including my mother’s immediate family, their spouses, and their children. Many Black Friday purchases would reappear. My siblings and I would receive most of the toys, movies, and video games that would keep us entertained through our return to school. 

For much of my childhood, I assumed that many of these Christmas traditions would last forever. True, I witnessed some come and go as a kid. The account of annual Santa-stalking I provided is probably better thought of as a composite than an exact itinerary. Going to the zoo for breakfast with Santa was something we did for years. A movie with Santa at the local second-run theater was something we probably only did a few times. Other minor festivities could easily be forgotten or swapped out.

But the gatherings on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, I really did think they would endure. My understanding was that these traditions had been part of my mother’s family since she was a little girl, maybe longer. My assumption growing up was they would continue. When I had children of my own, there would be a massive party in my mother’s family home. My parents, my uncles, and aunt would still be there. There would be a massive gift exchange the following night. 

As evidence of the staying power of the traditions that actually mattered, when the Ron Swanson-type uncle responsible for so much of our Christmas magic died unexpectedly of an aneurysm in his early fifties, the party continued. Not only did the party continue, but new traditions were born. I took over the Christmas village – although somewhat more dictatorial in my dealings with my siblings. Several distant cousins started helping with the outside decorations the weekend after Thanksgiving. Others helped with the cooking and baking, bringing a dish or some sweets on Christmas Eve. Collectively, at the time, these little acts of Christmas goodwill seemed to amount to a true George Bailey moment even if George Bailey wasn’t there to see it.

The Strange Land of Bedford Falls

Growing up, I never much cared for It’s a Wonderful Life. By all means, it was a holiday staple in my mother’s family. Someone probably watched it once or twice each year when it aired on a local station. Undoubtedly, we also had a VHS copy we could dust off if someone missed the broadcast. But It’s a Wonderful Life wasn’t a kids movie. 

As a child, I much preferred the old stop-motion cartoons or a VHS of Frosty the Snowman or some Yogi Bear Christmas tape. Then, of course, there were the special holiday episodes of Batman the Animated Series and Tiny Toon Adventures – the latter of which was ironically based on It’s a Wonderful Life. And, when I got a little older, there were the Christmas episodes of The Simpsons and South Park. In terms of holiday movies, the only one I really found tolerable for many years was Christmas Vacation. 

It wasn’t until I was away for graduate school that I caught a showing of It’s a Wonderful Life at the local art-house theater and actually watched the film all the way through. Prior to that, I probably caught enough bits and pieces to put together the story. But, until then, it always seemed like a sort of schmaltzy old Christmas movie that mostly coasted on fond memories held by the Depression-WWII generation and their children. To some extent, I still stand by that assessment.

It’s a Wonderful Life, directed by Frank Capra, is the story of George Bailey (Jimmy Stewart), who repeatedly puts his own aspirations and ambitions on hold for the benefit of his family and community. After doing this enough times, he finds the window to pursue the dreams he had as a young man now closed, and that he is practically fated to never leave his hometown of Bedford Falls. By early middle age, Bailey has a wife (Donna Reed) and kids, a house in constant need of repair, and a local savings and loans business that offers members of the community an alternative to the bank run by the soulless Mr. Potter (Lionel Barrymore). 

When an incompetent uncle and business associate literally mishandles some money, the mistake has the potential to cause Bailey’s personal, professional, and financial ruin. As Bailey comes to contemplate suicide on Christmas Eve, he is rescued by Clarence (Henry Travers), a second-class, wingless, angel who shows him what the world would be like if he had never been born. Apparently, Bailey’s seemingly insignificant life had a greater impact than he ever could have imagined. Then, to wrap everything up, after Bailey decides he wants to live, it’s revealed that all those he helped over the years are prepared to help him in his time of need.

Again, to some extent, I stand by my initial assessment. Where I believe that assessment may have been wrong, or at least oversimplified, is that narratively the film actually is structured quite well with its extensive prologue coupled with the alternate reality shown to Bailey by Clarence. Moreover, the cast is excellent. And Capra probably was one of the better directors of his era, often doing quite well with his string of sort of schmaltzy, Depression and World War II-era films about proverbial little guys (usually played by Jimmy Stewart) standing up to soulless businessmen or politicians.

Additionally, there is a question of whether Capra’s schmaltzy, feel-good messages about family and community are really that bad. Maybe Bailey was better off spending his entire life in his hometown, starting a family there, and running a business that helped his community. Would he really have been happier if he traveled a bit, went to college, then took a job working for a corporation run by someone even more soulless than Mr. Potter? 

Furthermore, when watching It’s a Wonderful Life today, it’s hard not to view it as a truly fascinating artifact from an erstwhile era. Given its age, of course the design of the cars and the clothes seem antiquated and the absence of countless technological innovations now commonplace is quite noticeable. Yet, there is also something about the world depicted in the film that seems entirely foreign – something about the values embodied by Bailey and the inhabitants of Bedford Falls.

The Decline of Social Capital

If I were to try to summarize the values of It’s a Wonderful Life with a single term, one that quickly comes to mind is “social capital.” 

If you’ve heard that term before, you probably have Harvard political scientist Robert Putnam to thank. Although he didn’t coin the term or develop the concept, he did introduce a generation to it with his 2000 tome, Bowling Alone, in which he weaves together countless anecdotes of sad knitting circles and lonely bridge clubs watching their numbers dwindle into non-existence with never-ending descriptions of statistical analyses intended not only to investigate why bowling alleys came to be filled with bowlers lacking pin pals but how such trends might be representative of larger societal problems.   

What Putnam eventually lands on is that in the latter portion of the 20th century, American society saw a continuous decline in social capital – the embodiment of social connections between individuals, their norms of trust and reciprocity, and the civic virtue fostered by those connections and norms.

By Putnam’s account, for the first two-thirds of the twentieth century, families were relatively stable while Americans increasingly became involved in community, social, and political life at the local level. Parents attended PTA meetings. Ordinary citizens ran for local office. Friends gathered at the bar. They hosted card games and parties. Families got together for Sunday dinner. They went for a picnic now and again when the weather was nice. 

If It’s a Wonderful Life had spawned some godawful TV spinoff, one could easily imagine that these are the kinds of activities in which Bailey would have regularly engaged over the course of the series. (Perhaps the show would have been something in the spirit of Bewitched with a bumbling Clarence getting Bailey into various jams through bungled attempts to help him entertain business associates or get elected Grand Poobah of the Loyal Order of Water Buffaloes. Maybe an invisible six-foot rabbit would make a crossover appearance for the Easter episode.) 

Yet, according to Putnam, when the youngest children of this now seemingly mythical civic generation began to come of age in the 60s and 70s, engagement in many civic and social activities began to decline. As time went on, these trends showed no signs of reversing. 

Throughout the book, Putnam spends considerable time on what this means for the ability of normal people to exert any influence on their institutions, as well as what this means for the development of habits of cooperation and a sense of public spirit. Spoiler alert, the answer, according to Putnam, is largely nothing good. The educational and economic outcomes of ordinary people take a hit, as does their physical and mental health – as does American democracy.

Putnam also spends considerable time exploring why these trends are what they are. The breakdown of traditional family life might play a minuscule role. Pressures related to time and money experienced by two-career families also may be a small but measurable factor. However, the two main culprits Putnam puts forth are the introduction of television into American homes and generational replacement. People stopped spending their leisure time outside of their home in the company of others thanks to TV while the generation shaped by the shared struggles and common service that came with the Great Depression and World War II were dying off. The civic generation, which was also a social generation, was being replaced by people increasingly disconnected, isolated, and bewitched by the glowing box in the living room.

The Slow Death of Holiday Traditions

Looking back on my childhood Christmases (or Christmas Seasons), the massive family gatherings that defined them, and how my family responded to my Ron Swanson-type uncle’s death in the years immediately following the loss, I can’t help but think I grew up with some remnant of that strange world shown in It’s a Wonderful Life and got to experience a flavor of the vanishing society inhabited by Putnam’s civic (and casually social) generation. Likewise, I can’t help but think that as time went on I got to see the story of Putnam’s dying chapters of Stonecutters play out up close – or at least get direct accounts of it in later years.

Following the death of my uncle, as I said before, we all did our best to keep the party alive. However, given that my uncle previously needed to take off up to two weeks from work to prepare, compensating for his absence was no easy feat. Before long, some of the decorating efforts started to feel like a burdensome chore. Attendance slowly dropped to maybe forty or fifty. At some point in college, I stopped attending too. 

For a number of reasons, I never quite graduated from the sub-basement. Nominally becoming an adult never felt like it bestowed upon me the privilege or obligation to ask some second cousin’s middle-aged husband how things were going at the cracker factory. Moreover, although my mother may have come of age with her distant cousins, I only saw mine six or seven times per year. Being fairly bookish and introverted at the time, I found making small talk with virtual strangers simply because our mothers used to hang out a rather uncomfortable experience. Hence, it was easier to go see a movie alone or stay home and read.

After leaving for graduate school, I was spending Christmases away from home completely, usually returning only after the holiday craziness had died down. Yet, I’d still call my mother sometime after midnight on Christmas Eve and ask how the party went. Somewhere in her reply, she’d comment it wasn’t anything like before. Maybe only twenty people had shown up, mostly the remaining members of her immediate family, some cousins, their spouses, and perhaps a stray adult child who had never started a family of their own and wanted somewhere to go for Christmas Eve.

And things continued like that for years. Maybe the loss of my uncle spurred the slow death of this once beloved family tradition dating back decades. Perhaps its decline was inevitable given the lack of connection shared by the Gen-Y and Millennial members of my family. Maybe it was society’s changing mores around family and tradition coupled with newer generations getting married less and having fewer kids. It’s hard to say. Nevertheless, for a long time, it looked like what was left of that tradition would endure in a weakened form at least a little longer. Maybe one of my siblings eventually would even get married, have a kid, and begin to imbue it with new life somewhere down the road. But then Covid happened.

Obviously, my mother, now practically the sole survivor of her family and primary resident of her family’s suburban estate, wasn’t going to host a large family gathering in the middle of a pandemic – nor was she going to host a massive gift exchange. But in the post-Covid years, she decided she wasn’t going to do these things either. Partly, this may be because she’s getting older and doesn’t have the energy to prepare the way my uncle did in his prime. Yet, when asked about reviving these traditions in some form in the future, she’s also quick to voice lingering concerns about how you could ever have such a party again safely. 

Now, when I see her on Christmas, it’s just us, my brother who turned the basement into a semi-private apartment, and my one remaining uncle – the one who used to come to the sub-basement on Christmas Eve when I was a kid and play a game with us and maybe perform a few magic tricks. We sit in the living room. We shout a conversation over a TV turned up a little too loud. And, at some point, my uncle makes a comment that the holidays kind of suck now. There are no more parties. No more people. No more kids.

Perhaps the ultimate fate of our tradition was avoidable. Perhaps not. It was dying for years. After Covid, it was gone. On some sentimental level, I view this as rather unfortunate. On a more practical one, I admit my generation didn’t care enough to sustain it.

Yet, what I find rather striking post-Covid is hearing others casually mention the toll the Covid era took on more thriving holiday traditions. A few times per season now, upon politely asking others about their holiday plans, they give some standard answer before adding how things aren’t like before. Families are more fragmented. Parties aren’t as large. A beloved aunt won’t risk being in a crowded room. A favorite cousin stays home, worried they might kill Grandma. Sometimes so few family members are comfortable gathering for the holidays, they no longer gather at all.

Hearing stories like this, I can’t help but be reminded of the dying traditions within my own family that were lost during Covid. I also can’t help but wonder how much the restrictions and fear-mongering of that era continue to shape those of others, thus making the sense of family and community seen in It’s a Wonderful Life seem ever more foreign.

Bowling Alone on Christmas in Bedford Falls
by Daniel Nuccio at Brownstone Institute – Daily Economics, Policy, Public Health, Society