Rose Mary is taking a break this week. This is a reprint of her column from Dec. 2009
The Lord Mayor . . . gave orders to his fifty cooks and butlers to keep Christmas as a Lord Mayors household should; and even the little taylor, who he had fined five shillings on the previous Monday for being drunk in the streets, stirred up tomorrow’s pudding in his garret while his lean wife and baby sallied out to buy the beef.
— Charles Dickens “A Christmas Carol”
In 1843, 30 years before Irvington’s historic Benton House was built, “A Christmas Carol” instantly became a best seller that is still being printed.
Dickens was influenced by Washington Irving’s account of a Christmas that he had spent at an English manor. Christmas practices had lapsed in England after the Puritans stopped the celebration as being pagan. The word “Christmas” was banned as blasphemous, and if the smell of a roasting goose escaped a home the owners would be arrested.
Originally Dickens wrote a political tract about the treatment of the working poor by the unfeeling rich. It became transformed into the story about the epiphany of Ebenezer Scrooge and the Cratchit family that is known to everyone because of all the dramatizations of it.
Some people grumble that they wish that Christmas were over with and exclaim “Thank God Christmas comes but once a year!” Contrary to Andy Williams’ song, this isn’t universally the most wonderful, “hap-happiest” time of the year. Many cups are half empty rather than half full: not enough money, lost jobs, too much to do, family problems, sad memories and too many events.
Impossible expectations make us lose sight of what’s important. We exhaust ourselves, trying to have it all and do it all. We try to be supermen and superwomen — super moms and dads, super friends, super spouses.
We’ve built up this glowing vision of a perfect, Dickensian Christmas: a smiling family bringing home and decorating a gorgeous tree that they found in the woods, partying with friends, baking cookies, caroling, opening wonderful presents in front of a cozy fire while the smell of roasting turkey wafts from the kitchen and a beautifully appointed table laden with homemade delectables awaits . . .
We refuse to recognize that our dream of perfection is impossible. When Bill, Vicki and I went to a tree farm, we froze our butts and returned with nothing. Then there was the tree that smelled like cat. A stressed friend became so frustrated when the tree kept falling over that he took it out and chopped it up.
Jana decided to promote cozy togetherness by gathering her three children around her to bake cookies. “All they did was bicker, whine and make messes. So much for that!” She sought to please by baking a variety of yummy treats only to discover that all they want is chocolate chips.
Sometimes I asked myself if I really wanted to do all this. Perhaps I should follow Thoreau’s advice to simplify, simplify, simplify instead of working so hard. I finally understood that I need to reserve tranquil times for myself. Right after Thanksgiving, I reread Dickens’ little gem to jump start my Christmas spirit and get in touch with what the season means to Bill and me.
No adaptation is as satisfying as Dickens’ unedited, wonderful words. rclarke@comcast.net