The Bell Curve:

When I reach the current stage of the Christmas holidays — 15 more shopping days ’til Christmas — I tend to get morose. So much to do, so little time to do it. And not a few recriminations for allowing all this, as usual, to reach a crisis state. At such an impasse, I compensate by making lists, a fresh one every day, that offer a sense of progress without really accomplishing anything.

Today‘s list, for example:

 Get down the three boxes marked “Xmas” in the garage.

 Unpack and put up outside lights.

 Buy Christmas cards with room to write a brief message and a rendering of Santa Claus on the cover.

 Make up a gift list.

These instructions seem simple and easy to follow. But each has its own set of complexities. Take the boxes marked “Xmas.” They are quite large and rest on a high shelf in the garage. I put them there many years ago, when I could lift them. Now there is no other space in the garage, and I have to get help to move these monsters up and down.

Then we have the outdoor lights. My neighborhood was lit up like the Las Vegas Strip the day after Thanksgiving, which put a lot of pressure on those of us with more modest visions. Like my single strand of lights that are draped around the garage door, which reflect a humility and simplicity appropriate to the occasion. They also avoid making my house the only dark spot on the block.

For excitement, I have several flashers in my strand of lights, which I think makes a nice conservative touch. All of this is echoed by my next-door neighbor, Bill, who usually waits until my lights are up before he follows suit.

Christmas cards suffer from irrational expectations. My vision is a few cramped paragraphs of updating on every card to make annual contact with people who have been a part of my life. The actuality is that a passel of such cards go out around Valentine’s Day, and I carry over a list of friends and relatives who don’t make the Valentine cut. The list has grown considerably over the years with the expectation of catching up next year for sure.

Finally, there is the gift list that always goes through several cycles. First, there is the individually created gift touching an emotional place in the recipient. Second, there is the gift that requires shopping for known desirable objects. And, finally, there is the Christmas card with a check tucked inside. There’s no way of getting around the likelihood that a check is frequently preferred over bad poetry.

While I was pondering this list a little hopelessly the other day, I ran into an old friend full of the Christmas spirit I was missing. Since I knew her morose level was similar to mine, I asked her how she arrived at these good feelings, and she told me a little story.

She had emerged that morning from a session with her dentist and was waiting for an elevator when a trim, elderly man with a spirited gait joined her. As they waited, he had been singing quietly, and she told him not to stop. He continued with “Joy To the World” just above a whisper.

Then he said “Join me,” and she said she didn’t know the words, so he told her to pick a Christmas song she did know, and the only one she could think of was “Jingle Bells.” When the elevator door opened, the passengers already on board were greeted with a strange pair of newcomers singing two disparate versions of the music of the season. And when the passengers parted at the ground floor, they were all full of “Joy To the World” and “Jingle Bells,” including my friend. I found a new entry for my list.

For the past two weeks, my terrier mix, Gia, and I have been dog sitting my daughter’s poodle mix named Rainn while Patt was away on a vacation. So my little family was increased by two rescue mixers fiercely loyal to their human partners, but also willing to spread that loyalty around generously when deserved.

As I write this, Rainn is on her way to her real home, and I have been sorting out what I learned from watching these two dogs, so temperamentally different, adapting to and then enjoying each other’s presence — a basic lesson that so many humans have never learned about other humans. There was also a sharing of food when one or the other had finished her own, and a lively — and peaceful — competition for my attention.

But the greatest lesson I learned from watching them was their total and infectious embrace of joy. When they had mock fights, growling and throwing their weight around, or when they greeted us at the door when we had been away for a while, their joy had no limits — and it was catching.

I put that on my list, too.

JOSEPH N. BELL lives in Newport Beach. His column runs Thursdays.