American Nostalgia

Ralph and Flick Come to Terms with the Past

By guest author Alan Schmidt.

Ralph, Flick, and Schwartz

He fiddled with a thermostat on the wall back of the bar. I swung around on my stool to look out at what little remained of the day. It was almost dark. Darkness comes early in Midwinter in Northern Indiana. Kids shouted and shoved their way to the tavern front, going to the store, coming home from school. God knows what. Traffic had quickened outside on the street as the two lines of cars, one going to the mill, the other returning, crossed and converged.

I turned back to Flick, who was checking the cash register.

“Too bad Schwartz couldn’t have been here,” I said.

Flick grunted, busy with his change counting. We both knew that Schwartz had been shot down over Italy. They never found him.

A Christmas Story is a staple of countless American households during the holiday season, and it’s no wonder why. It’s a glimpse into classic Americana, a culture wholly unique to this country, taking myths and practices from all various European cultures and putting our own unique flair on them, then adding some unique mythos on top. Many deride these practices as secularizing a religious holiday to the extent that the divine is hollowed out, and they have a point. However, anyone who grew up in the Midwest and took part in Christmas rituals, whether it’s the snowman on the front yard, the gaudy Christmas decorations, visiting Santa in the mall, or the countless radio carols created in the middle of the 20th century, knows there lives a deep spirituality with the land and people. Underneath secular kitsch is a real, enduring tradition. There’s a reason “White Christmas” and “Let It Snow” still blare through speakers through December. Even something as banal as a Montgomery Ward advertisement became a beloved song and Christmas special that takes part. Whether one is in a practical tundra or a warmer climate that never gets snow, Midwest Americana is Christmas.

The theme of the movie is unapologetically nostalgic, brilliantly showcasing the wonders of childhood while also giving a whimsical glimpse into some harder realities, whether it be the schoolyard bully, becoming a victim of crass commercialism through products like Ovaltine, one’s visions of future heroism getting hit with harsh reality, or the underlying poverty of families in the Great Depression era. It was a personal homage to a wonderful childhood and the interactions of friends and family that can never be reproduced, though many have similar stories.

The book it was based on, In God We Trust: All Others Pay Cash by Jean Shepherd, had a far different theme. It begins with an older and jaded Ralph returning to his childhood hometown in Indiana from his new home in the city:

I felt like a spy. It was the first time I had ever ridden a cab in my own hometown. When I had left it I had definitely not been a cab rider. Not taking cabs was as natural as breathing or putting on shoes. I could see the cab-driver giving me the eye from the rear-view mirror. He was wearing the standard midwestern work uniform of lumberjacket, corduroy cap, and a red face.

“You from out of town?”

He caught me off guard. I had forgotten that out of New York people quite often spoke to other people.

“Uh…what?”

“You from out of town?”

“Yeah…I guess so.” Making one of my famous instantaneous decisions, I opted for being out of town.

“Yeah, well, I could tell. Where ya from?”

“New York. Now, that is.”

Ralph is depressed, world-weary, coming back to write an article on a town the world is passing by. He doesn’t like writing the way he’s supposed to write for the fashionable crowd in New York, but it’s better than working the mills. While he grew up there, he’s now a total stranger.

Flick now owns a bar in town decorated with items showing his classic brash personality at full display. Ralph shuffled inside, his old childhood friend manning the place wearing his team bowling uniform, not even recognizing his old friend at first. After the reunion and catching up with the times, the book then presents short vignettes of his childhood throughout most of the work before circling back to the bar and reentering the original melancholy tone. I especially respect what he did in avoiding saccharine idealism, both recognizing his own upper-class snobbishness and recognizing the beautiful traditions, as well as the warts, of his past.

While the movie was unapologetically a love letter to his Midwestern childhood, the book had a far more somber message…

You Can Never Go Back

While I recommend the book, this is one case where the movie was better, brilliantly weaving Shepherd’s (Ralph’s) stories into a whimsical narrative whole that has become a staple of the Christmas season.

There was a common theme in American Cinema, though now not as common due to the current cultural zeitgeist, that portrays the world-weary, arrogant city man going back to his wholesome hometown and realizing the wisdom of these rural bumpkins. There’s a condescending lens through which small-town people are always portrayed, as though they are insulated from the petty politics and power-plays of the cities, a sort of endearing and ignorant innocence. This is why I always found characters such as Jefferson Smith in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington so obnoxious, though I like the movie. That sort of prominent small-town guy would be familiar with the manipulations and machinations of Washington from his experiences being a small-town leader, just at a smaller scale. There’s no running away from human nature.

Movies like The Family Man portray the successful businessman who learns what he missed out on by not marrying that sweetheart back home, and realizing that the quaint rural life, while not as lavish, will bring contentment. Such conceptions have a ridiculous idealism for these towns, where certain personality types thrive, while for other types the environment will make them yearn for death. It was amusing thinking that this powerful, high-IQ, very competitive business executive who lives for the thrill of the deal would be content winning the local bowling league. This isn’t to say that all high-IQ, agentic people would be unhappy in a small town. A lot are content to be the big fish in a small pond, using their skills, will, and charisma to direct the community in the way they see fit. Other big fish want to battle other big fish, something small towns can’t offer. If the executive in The Family Man was actually stuck in his hometown, it’s more likely that he would drink himself to death from boredom than learn contentment.

Because of these dynamics, the two characters in the book, Ralph and Flick, followed very different paths. Flick confides to Ralph how he wanted to go to New York, but heard that it was rough to live there, giving a clue that he regretted staying in his hometown and making a subtle excuse for himself. Ralph, on the other hand, doesn’t like writing in the style polite society forces on him, unhappy with the crowds he’s forced to satisfy for a paycheck, but excuses it by saying that it was better than working a blue-collar job. If the roles were reversed, and Flick had gone to New York and Ralph had stayed in his hometown and they met up like this again, they would just have regrets in the other direction. Visions of a possible future will always bring phantasms of what might have been. Still, Ralph made the right decision to leave, and Flick made the right decision staying.

There has never been a time where men lived their lives devoid of regret. Even the most well-thought-out plans can end up being unsatisfying at the end, and decisions made in crucial seconds will forever haunt men’s dreams. What was new in the post-World War II era is how the sheer number of options increased, both with returning soldiers getting a college education through the G.I. Bill and their progeny now having easy access to automobiles and mass media, a vast world outside their hometowns opening. In contrast to earlier times where most would only travel far away if they were either conscripted, joined a monastery, or had a benefactor who saw a rare talent, the new generation could travel the country on a whim.

Young people found themselves drowning in choices and spent much of their youth in exuberance as the great wide world beckoned to them. As time progressed, most settled into a routine, making hard choices that would close off future possibilities. As time progressed, and their lives became more restricted by unavoidable responsibilities, they looked back at their freer days wondering what they could have done differently.

Media has exacerbated this trend, as the dawn of easy photography, video, and writing has created a groundswell of objects that remind one of the past. While in earlier times you might have had a portrait of your mid-twenties mother, now one’s entire childhood is documented through countless photo albums and videos. Social media allows you to watch the doings of old high school friends you lost contact with or see what the town you grew up in looks like in the modern age.

Sometimes it’s healthy to look back, if just for a moment, to ground oneself in the present. The Germans call this coming to terms with one’s past Vergangenheitsbewältigung, and it’s necessary for maturing into older age. This coming to terms helps synchronize one’s life, like the high school jock who knows that his sports glory days are over, but coaches to give young men the same formative experience. It’s not pining hopelessly for a bygone era, or trying to fit it into modern times, but synchronizing life experiences into a cohesive whole.

Everyone has a story of a parent, uncle, or friend whose mind never left his younger glory years, going to his easy job and then coming home to listen to the same music, watch the same types of shows, and tell the same stories he had twenty years ago like a broken record. There’s a stuntedness in character that, regardless of his glorious past, points to spiritual emptiness.

Modernity has created new nostalgic horrors, not even based on youth accomplishments, first loves, or grand adventures, but merely product consumption. You now have a generation of Disney Adults, Star Wars Fanatics, Video Game Nerds, and other subcultures who base their identities on decades-old media, with maybe a weak update designed to feed on those people stuck in the past. Anyone can tell you that going back to cherished shows and games of youth leaves only a bitter taste, as the magic you felt is gone forever. Whether it’s a middle-aged man watching ThunderCats or revving up his old Nintendo to play Double Dragon, the excitement dissipates as the environment that originally created that formative experience isn’t returning. Soon, instead of trying to regain the magic, they watch countless streams talking about how wonderful that original feeling was, even if they can’t reproduce it.

The persona of the Angry Video Game Nerd is unabashedly about this.

The Third Way

Ralph and Flick’s childhoods were defined by the Great Depression, and their early adult life by World War II. They came back, made choices that separated them for decades, and found themselves old, wondering what the hell happened, like passengers on a train who never checked the destination.

One important character was missing from this reunion: Schwartz. While Shepherd states that the work was largely fictional, it’s likely that this character was strongly based on a real person. Nothing brings to mind the slow, relentless flow of time than death, and while Ralph and Flick reminisce on better times, the story of Schwartz is finished:

On the morning of March 19, 1944, 1st Lt. Paul Schwartz and nine other crew members took off in a B-17 from Amendola Air Field in Italy, part of the massive Foggia complex of airfields. They were one of 234 heavy bombers, including B-17s and B-24s, escorted by more than 100 fighters. The original target was the Ball Bearing Plant at Steyr, Austria. There was cloud cover at Steyr, however, and the armada headed for Klagenfurt, Austria to bomb the air depot where the Germans produced Messerschmitt fighter aircraft.

Schwartz’ B-17 took off with the 97th Bombardment Group. They were the last group to take off, but not the last plane.

A B-17 from the 429th Bomb Squadron, 2nd Bombardment Group was delayed. A pitot tube cover had not been removed, and the pilot taxied the aircraft back to have it done so. When B-18 rejoined the fleet of aircraft, they were 15 minutes late and the 2nd Bomb Group was too far ahead. They decided to join the 97th Bombardment Group’s formation.

At 10:35 am, as they slid into formation, the wing of 2nd Bomb Group’s B-17 hit the wing of the 97th’s B-17, Schwartz’ aircraft. The 2nd Group’s B-17 immediately broke in two, caught fire, and crashed into the Adriatic Sea, according to eyewitnesses. Schwartz’ B-17 banked sharply left. Then it, too, crashed into the sea. The formation was flying low at 3,500′, and witnesses saw only one parachute half-deployed at roughly 500′.

Air-Sea Rescue arrived at the scene at 11:25 am. They located the bodies of four crew of 2nd Group’s B-17 and confirmed there were no survivors from the collision. All of the crew of Schwartz’s B-17 were declared MIA and remain so today. In all, seventeen bombers were lost that day.

A Christmas Story: 1st Lt. Paul L. Schwartz - Project Recover

Reading this story, I wondered if Schwartz would have enlisted if he knew the future and could see Ralph and Flick sitting in that bar, reminiscing on old times. I wonder if he would have thought that the deep guilt of not entering the war was worth living another day, having a drink with old friends to drive the bitter regret away.

I like to think of Schwartz as the one who transcended the dichotomy Flick and Ralph represented. Instead of showing regret for what was left behind or regret for what was never done, he rushed headlong into the future, recognizing that a life of such regrets was no life at all, flying to his demise because he couldn’t conceive of doing anything else. A man who integrated past and present to the extent that he could only conceive of a single future, devoid of second-guesses or agonizing over missed opportunities.

While tragic, the old friend who wasn’t in that bar understood living. He said no words, letting his actions say everything. There’s a lesson in a life that doesn’t see tragedy in dying young, nor resignation in being forced to grow old. One must always aim for the future, looking back from time to time with a wink and a smile. Remember, whatever comes your way, and whatever choices you need to make, to be a Schwartz.