Humor

by

Dickens

I suffer no small amount of grief from friends and acquaintances that know of my penchant for Christmas music. I’m unapologetic about it and I listen year round.

There truly aren’t enough songs out there with messages of love and peace and joy to the world. Even Mr. Scrooge eventually declared he would keep the holiday spirit all through the year. Yes, we need more unbridled affection, tolerance and generosity.

As a kid with a keen analytical mind that practically never shut down, I bought into this philosophy hook, line and tinsel. That sort of thing makes good sense when you’re seven. But even Ebenezer would testify it’s no easy task. Who wants to be around someone so relentlessly and ruthlessly cheerful every bloody day of the year? I get it.

So yes, I slide in some yuletide tunes every month or so. I’m no longer seven but I still need the fix. And it’s all the doing of that dear Mr. Dickens.

When the real holiday rolls around, I wrap myself up in the tradition of it all and am happy when I stumble upon any previously undiscovered bits of seasonal fare.

For the past several years, holidays have been relatively quiet since my family is widely distributed around the country. One of these recent Christmas mornings alone at home I turned on the television and discovered a 1938 version of “A Christmas Carol” I had never seen. Perfect!

I’m in the best of moods, all settled in for the telling of a good tale. And then it happened. My analytical mind woke up.

About ten minutes into the film I started wondering — what exactly is wrong with Tiny Tim?

Neither Mr. Dickens nor any of the film adaptations I’ve seen have ever been clear on this point.

While this very thought is building up a healthy head of steam on the hamster wheel in my mind, up on the screen Bob Cratchit comes bounding down the hall of his home with little Tiny Tim perched high on his shoulders. Really high.

And they’re headed straight for a very low doorway.

And suddenly it hits me what the kid’s malady is — Bob Cratchit is an idiot. A sweet-natured, bumbling good guy, yes. But still an idiot. Multiple and massive head trauma is surely in store for this kid, but no one else in the family ever seems to notice, especially Bob.

“Poor Tiny Tim,” they cry. “The nose bleeds and dizzy spells are getting worse. His hats no longer fit and the doctors are stumped.”

I’m trying to recapture the feeling of a holly-trimmed, pine scented Christmas of yore and my damned brain won’t turn off. Why can’t I just enjoy this?

As the film progresses, a disturbing pattern continues to develop. Consider when the Ghost of Christmas-Yet-to-Come announces, “If these things remain unchanged, Tiny Tim will not live to see another Christmas.”

Well, yeah. This kid’s not going to make it to New Years if Bob keeps smacking his little noggin into those solid oak door frames.

Later in the graveyard scene, it’s a little off-putting trying to stay with the story when I just can’t help scanning the background to see if maybe there are a few other little “Cratchit” headstones for Tiny Tim’s predecessors. Long-gone tykes like himself who suffered the same unwitting fate.

I made it through the end of the movie and of course it was all smiles and warmth and giddy camaraderie. But I couldn’t quite shake the feeling that I’d somehow been robbed of a bit more of the innocence we all hold in reserve to see us through the horrors of adulthood.

I still lament a bit for all my grown friends who heeded the call to “act your age”. In so doing, far too many among us have allowed the lessons of childhood to slip away. It’s important — in fact crucial — as an adult to remember to laugh at ourselves and to play like children. These are mandatory requirements for being a fully functional adult.

As evidence in my argument I call your attention to the main character of “A Christmas Carol”. Charles Dickens did not write this story for children. His target audience was, and is, any and every contemporary of Ebenezer Scrooge.

At any age, and at any time of year, the spirit of this wonderful philosophy supports me in my darkness and my joy.

God bless us every one…? You bet.

You’ll excuse me now while I crank up some Burl Ives and dance in my pajamas.

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Contemplation

Contemplation is a deeply reflective word—a gentle, almost soothing assembly of syllables. You don’t rush contemplation. In fact it’s almost scripture that the word be pronounced with even tones and in the slowest and most meditative manner attainable.

Contemplation is the very kind of pastime for which languorous summer evenings were born. Your shoes in the grass, feet up in a hammock, and nothing more significant than a misty notion noodling around your noggin.

Not even an idea, mind you—just a notion.

Because a notion isn’t demanding. A notion has no outcome of any real consequence. And a notion is the fodder of a ruminating mind, all of which leads us back to… contemplation. Contemplation has oodles of hours to waste batting a notion around until tedium takes hold or the dinner bell rings.

Whereas… an idea? Well, an idea insists your brain get up off its frontal lobes and do a little legwork. An actual idea demands hard, cold calculation and ties up too much gray matter at one time. A single idea is exhausting. But a notion?

Well, with a notion you can…… do it.

Or you can…. not do it.

Or you can do it.

Or not.

And so on.

Why?

Because it’s a notion and it’s accountable to no one. And notions are why they invented contemplation. A notion is about as far down on the scale of wistful, glassy-eyed ponderings as a human mind can handle and still be functional.

Here’s an example of a notion:

Since a cat’s voice is already really, really high, wouldn’t it stand to reason that, if you feed a cat helium, its voice would then become so high that only dogs could hear it?

Okay, now that’s a notion. The kind of innocent nonsensical distraction that diverts a brain from all that makes sense in the world. Too much sense actually and far too little room for the soul to breathe.

The sad fact of the matter is that most folks can’t be bothered with contemplation. Apparently nobody with a life has that kind of time on his hands. And still I wonder what my life would be if I never took two minutes or ten hours to step outside myself and ruminate on the origins of a daffodil.

I wonder.

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Blush

We have all been victimized by this involuntary act. And frequently at the most inopportune moments. I haven’t blushed in years. Or if I have I most certainly denied it, as all who blush are bound to do. Whatever the age, whenever it is pointed out, the armor goes up and recriminations run riot.

“I did not”, you hear them cry. “It’s just hot in here!”

Yes, I’ve told that lie too, knowing all the while how ludicrous it sounds. But you stick to your guns when your dignity is so very clearly in harm’s way. You handily debase yourself without hesitation. Looking the fool is, after all, far better than owning up to even the faintest flush of authentic emotion.

The alternative of course is too grim to consider. No one in a civilized society wants a thing to do with any weasel who so obviously wears their emotions on their sleeve, let alone parades around in them like a holiday hat. Admission to a blush is tantamount to pariah status – at least that’s the internal spin we give it.

In point of fact there is a sweetness in a blush, in even the most unattractive among us. It is one of the great ironical stigmas of the modern era. A reddening of the features betrays the facade of staunch and worldly confidence that has taken decades to command. To lose one’s social footing would be horrific on so many levels. God, please don’t let it happen in a business environment!

And while I am a fan of the blush, a keen and effective reminder that a tiny breath of innocence and purity still hides in all of us, I am of two minds about it. No one contests that it has its charm. But when you fall in love at my age, it’s rather like being sea sick – you think you’re going to die but everyone else just thinks it’s funny.

The blush may be the great betrayer. But it is also one of the finer points of being truly human.

Damn it.

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Anticipation

There is nothing mystical about foresight. It’s standing up on your toes for a quick peek over the crowd to catch a glimpse of what might be next. My father taught me early on to anticipate. If you’re a waiter, don’t just deliver what they order. Think ahead whether they may want more than their meal. When you’re driving, count on the likelihood that this distracted guy on the cell phone may cut you off without looking.

Over the years I’ve trained myself to think three or four steps ahead before taking action. Though I often miss the mark, more often than not this bit of mental legwork plays to my advantage. Anticipating events in the physical world saves grief. I know this to be true.

But emotional anticipation isn’t such an easy tread.

I saw a delightful film the other night called “We Bought a Zoo”. There’s a wonderful scene in which the new owner of the zoo, played by Matt Damon, comes across an escaped full grown 850 pound North American grizzly bear. Damon’s character stumbles onto a grassy hilltop where the bear is mere feet away. The normally sedate creature appears more animated than he’s ever seen him, almost drinking in the cool morning mist gazing out into the open valley before him. Then the bear notices Damon and his mood shifts. But Matt can’t bring himself to use his gun. The bear closes in and angrily slaps the weapon from Damon’s hand and roars in his face. A fellow zookeeper hits the bear with a tranquilizer dart and drops him at Matt’s feet.

Other zoo personnel gather round and remark that Damon is lucky to be alive.


“He was completely free for a moment”, he says to the others.

They look at him. And Damon’s character does something remarkable.

“I want to expand his enclosure. Make it much, much bigger.”

Not a reaction typical of a man who moments before faced death. But he recognized what the bear had been going through. He anticipated what it would be like for this poor creature to go back to the way things were. It is this sort of compassion, not just for an animal, but for the people in our lives, those close and valuable to us, that elevates the substance of who we are as human beings.

I haven’t often been very good at anticipating things. I never saw either of my divorces coming. But there is much to be said for perseverance. So I continue to try peeking over the crowd to get a brief glimpse of what others might need from me. And in so doing, I trust that I will better meet my own needs.

Or not. With my timing, the bear would have eaten me.

 

 

 

dd