For the past several years, I’ve been fortunate to be involved in what has become a holiday tradition at the Cable Car Division—decorating a cable car for the holidays. In previous years, this was a real grass-roots affair, with the costs being borne by the gripmen and conductors, for the simple joy of it.

I’m single with no kids, so decorating has never been necessary in my personal life. I haven’t had to deal with the crowds or the hassle of running around to find ornaments and garlands, jostling through aisles crammed with Santa hats and angels and stockings with tinny muzak renditions of Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer from a guitar-waving Santa wearing sunglasses and a Hawaiian shirt. No, I haven’t had to deal with all that...until now.

Now, I am part of the teeming masses, searching for that perfect angel, wondering why they don’t make extension cords in lengths that I can actually use, debating between chasing lights or blinking lights, tracking down the ultimate fake poinsettia plant.

Sarcasm aside, it’s a blast to decorate a cable car. It’s a return to the excitement of childhood—stringing garland and hanging ornaments, tying ribbons and testing lights, and the thrill of flipping the switch and watching the entire conglomeration light up for the first time...the glow of the miniature bulbs reflected in the shiny ornaments, silver and gold entwined with red and green, candy canes dangling from the roof of the car, pinecones and mistletoe hanging from the bell cords (strategically positioned above the grip handle, wink wink).

Cries of joy emanate from children as you pull up to the turntable. “Mommy, I wanna ride that cable car!” An involuntary grin spreads across the traffic cop’s face as he clears the intersection for you to cross. A rusty truck follows you for two blocks, driven by a burly, bearded biker who pulls up alongside and croaks, “Hey man...that’s beautiful.” (True story.)

This year, with sponsorships from several Fisherman’s Wharf merchants, we’ve decorated three cars. Arriving at work the following day, I could see my car, surrounded by its less fortunate, undecorated sisters, set on a separate track to itself. It seemed as if the other cable cars were jealous and had moved away in a fit of pique. I asked one of the shopmen to prepare my car for service, when I was told, “Sorry Val, it can’t go out today.” Utterly astonished, and a tad angry, I inquired as to why not. “It’s been painted—they did it this morning. It’ll take a day for the paint to dry.”

Now, normally, they paint a car only if it has been involved in some sort of mishap requiring repair, or as part of regularly-scheduled maintenance. I knew my car hadn’t been involved in any fender benders as of late, and it had passed inspection with flying colors just a week earlier. There was no reason to paint the car now, especially after all the work I had put into it! They knew I had decorated it—I’d been there all day! If it needed to be painted, they could’ve told me right there and then! What part of the car had been painted? Did they damage or remove any of the decorations? I had been in the barn the night before, and specifically asked the shop if the car was due to receive any kind of work. “Nope, clean as a whistle. She’s all yours.”

I thought of the naysayers who’d tried to shoot the project down. Obviously, this had to be their doing. It was probably some kind of scheme to whittle me down by using miniscule reasons as to why the car couldn’t go out. “Oh sorry, we had to paint it...it needs a new thingamabob...probably take a week or so to find it...can’t let you take the car out in that condition...it’s unsafe, you know.” One thing after another, after another, until they finally found or requisitioned the mysteriously missing part, well after the holidays. This way, they wouldn’t have to deal with the extra headache of setting the car aside every night, making sure it didn’t get assigned to a different crew...bureaucracy at its finest. First my car, then the others. “Too much trouble, all this decorating...wouldn’t it be better to just leave all that stuff off?”

The same shopman I’d spoken to earlier approached me the car would be ready the next day. Yeah, sure. Then what? What kind of ‘problem’ will crop up then?

“Y’know,” he said, “we weren’t supposed to, but we thought, since you’d worked so hard on it, we’d touch up some of the scrapes and dings on the bumpers and the running boards. Hope you like it.”

I stopped dead in my tracks. The bumper of my car gleamed a glossy black. The running boards, usually scuffed and splintered from thousands of feet, were carefully sanded and painted. The few decorations that were in the way were carefully removed and set aside, in clear view, easily replaced with a minimum of fuss. The lower portion of the car—dirty from road dust and grime—had been washed clean.

My car was ready! The Christmas Car! I sat down, heavily, on the car across from mine. Seconds earlier, I was full of righteous indignation, ready to take my case to the Supreme Court if necessary—now utterly deflated, like a balloon pricked by a needle. My eye happened to fall on a small ornament, hanging inside the car. There was lettering on it, far too small to read from where I was sitting, but I knew exactly what it said: Merry Christmas.

Christmas...the season of giving...I’d become so caught up in the details and minutiae of arranging donations and buying decorations, getting permission to do this and that, worrying about things like media coverage and schedule logistics, I had lost sight of the very reason I was decorating the car to begin with...to celebrate the season...the season of giving.

My suspicions and distrust led me to not even ask exactly what or where or why they painted the car. I simply assumed it was a sinister plot to deprive me of the chance to decorate, to have fun. In my self-importance, I figured that I was the only one with true Christmas spirit, spending my own money and time to do all this work, that I was the only one capable of giving. It never occurred to me that the shopmen would want to do their part to make the project a success.

Did I really have the true holiday spirit? I wanted to decorate the cars for fun, but I also wanted the recognition, the glory, the attention. I’d decorated a cable car earlier in the year to celebrate the 125th anniversary of the California Street line, and I got my picture in the paper, and on the 6 o’clock news. Was that part of the reason I did all this work?

Those shopmen gave of their time and effort, without being asked or ordered to, without Form 83627-B filled out in triplicate. They gave to help out a co-worker, to show that they also supported and cared about the decorated cars, and wanted the cars and the Division to look their best.

Ten others helped me decorate the car as well—people who gave up their Saturday, when they could have been out at the movies, shopping for their own holiday tasks, running errands or walking through the park. They gave freely and generously of their time, money and sweat. They gave because they wanted to, because I asked them to, because they cared.

I sat on that cable car for a long, long time. I have a different attitude towards the Christmas Car...my car...our car. It was an event I relished, planned and prepared for, but now, in a softer, intangible way, it’s not the same. Instead of worrying about media coverage and tv cameras, I’m going to concentrate on having enough candy canes for the little ones. Rather than worry about passengers breaking the ornaments, maybe I’ll give away the tiny cable cars that are so popular. In lieu of obsessing over whether or not I’ve got enough lights, or how much charge the batteries are holding, I can teach a small child, on his first cable car ride, how to play the bell. No, it’s not going to be quite the same after today.

It’s going to be much, much better this year!

Whatever holiday you celebrate this time of year, I wish love, good health, safety, and peace for you and your loved ones. Godspeed and be well.

—Val Lupiz