August 30: Ahab and the Carpenter, a Little Haunted, Game Plan

The Deck - First Night Watch

(Carpenter standing before vice-bench, and by the light of two lanterns busily filing the ivory joist for the leg, which joist is firmly fixed in the vice. Slabs of ivory, leather straps, pads, screws, and various tools of all sorts lying about the bench. Forward, the red flame of the forge is seen, where the blacksmith is at work.)

Drat the file, and drat the bone! That is hard which should be soft, and that is soft which should be hard. So we go, who file old jaws and shin bones. Let's try another. Aye, now, this works better (sneezes). Halloa, this bone dust is (sneezes)- why it's (sneezes)- yes it's (sneezes)- bless my soul, it won't let me speak! This is what an old fellow gets now for working in dead lumber. Saw a live tree, and you don't get this dust; amputate a live bone, and you don't get it (sneezes). Come, come, you old Smut, there, bear a hand, and let's have that ferrule and buckle-screw; I'll be ready for them presently. Lucky now (sneezes) there's no knee-joint to make; that might puzzle a little; but a mere shin-bone- why it's easy as making hop-poles; only I should like to put a good finish on. Time, time; if I but only had the time, I could turn him out as neat a leg now as ever (sneezes) scraped to a lady in a parlor. Those buckskin legs and calves of legs I've seen in shop windows wouldn't compare at all. They soak water, they do; and of course get rheumatic, and have to be doctored (sneezes) with washes and lotions, just like live legs. There; before I saw it off, I must call his old Mogulship, and see whether the length will be all right; too short, if anything, I guess. Ha! that's the heel; we are in luck; here he comes, or it's somebody else, that's certain.

AHAB (advancing) (During the ensuing scene, the carpenter continues sneezing at times)
Well, manmaker!

Just in time, sir. If the captain pleases, I will now mark the length. Let me measure, sir.

Measured for a leg! good. Well, it's not the first time. About it! There; keep thy finger on it. This is a cogent vice thou hast here, carpenter; let me feel its grip once. So, so; it does pinch some.

Oh, sir, it will break bones- beware, beware!

No fear; I like a good grip; I like to feel something in this slippery world that can hold, man. What's Prometheus about there?- the blacksmith, I mean- what's he about?

He must be forging the buckle-screw, sir, now.

Right. It's a partnership; he supplies the muscle part. He makes a fierce red flame there!

Aye, sir; he must have the white heat for his kind of fine work.

Um-m. So he must. I do deem it now a most meaning thing, that that old Greek, Prometheus, who made men, they say, should have been a blacksmith, and animated them with fire; for what's made in fire must properly belong to fire; and so hell's probable. How the soot flies! This must be the remainder the Greek made the Africans of. Carpenter, when he's through with that buckle, tell him to forge a pair of steel shoulder-blades; there's a pedlar aboard with a crushing pack.

Sir?

Hold; while Prometheus is about it, I'll order a complete man after a desirable pattern. Imprimis, fifty feet high in his socks; then, chest modelled after the Thames Tunnel then, legs with roots to 'em, to stay in one place; then, arms three feet through the wrist; no heart at all, brass forehead, and about a quarter of an acre of fine brains; and let me see- shall I order eyes to see outwards? No, but put a sky-light on top of his head to illuminate inwards. There, take the order, and away.

Now, what's he speaking about, and who's he speaking to, I should like know? Shall I keep standing here? (aside.)

'Tis but indifferent architecture to make a blind dome; here's one. No, no, no; I must have a lantern.

Ho, ho! That's it, hey? Here are two, sir; one will serve my turn.

What art thou thrusting that thief-catcher into my face for, man? Thrusted light is worse than presented pistols.

I thought, sir, that you spoke to carpenter.

Carpenter? why that's- but no;- a very tidy, and, I may say, an extremely gentlemanlike sort of business thou art in here, carpenter;- or would'st thou rather work in clay?

Sir?- Clay? clay, sir? That's mud; we leave clay to ditchers, sir.

The fellow's impious! What art thou sneezing about?

Bone is rather dusty, sir.

Take the hint, then; and when thou art dead, never bury thyself under living people's noses.

Sir?- oh! ah!- I guess so;- yes- dear!

Look ye, carpenter, I dare say thou callest thyself a right good workmanlike workman, eh? Well, then, will it speak thoroughly well for thy work, if, when I come to mount this leg thou makest, I shall nevertheless feel another leg in the same identical place with it; that is, carpenter, my old lost leg; the flesh and blood one, I mean. Canst thou not drive that old Adam away?

Truly, sir, I begin to understand somewhat now. Yes, I have heard something curious on that score; how that a dismasted man never entirely loses the feeling of his old spar, but it will be still pricking him at times. May I humbly ask if it be really so, sir?

It is, man. Look, put thy live leg here in the place where mine was; so, now, here is only one distinct leg to the eye, yet two to the soul. Where thou feelest tingling life; there, exactly there, there to a hair, do I. Is't a riddle?

I should humbly call it a poser, sir.

Hist, then. How dost thou know that some entire, living, thinking thing may not be invisibly and uninterpenetratingly standing precisely where thou now standest; aye, and standing there in thy spite? In thy most solitary hours, then, dost thou not fear eavesdroppers? Hold, don't speak! And if I still feel the smart of my crushed leg, though it be now so long dissolved; then, why mayst not thou, carpenter, feel the fiery pains of hell for ever, and without a body? Hah!

Good Lord! Truly, sir, if it comes to that, I must calculate over again; I think I didn't carry a small figure, sir.

Look ye, pudding-heads should never grant premises.- How long before the leg is done?

Perhaps an hour, sir.

Bungle away at it then, and bring it to me (turns to go). Oh, Life. Here I am, proud as Greek god, and yet standing debtor to this blockhead for a bone to stand on! Cursed be that mortal inter-indebtedness which will not do away with ledgers. I would be free as air; and I'm down in the whole world's books. I am so rich, I could have given bid for bid with the wealthiest Praetorians at the auction of the Roman empire (which was the world's); and yet I owe for the flesh in the tongue I brag with. By heavens! I'll get a crucible, and into it, and dissolve myself down to one small, compendious vertebra. So.

CARPENTER (resuming work).

Well, well, well! Stubb knows him best of all, and Stubb always says he's queer; says nothing but that one sufficient little word queer; he's queer, says Stubb; he's queer- queer, queer; and keeps dinning it into Mr. Starbuck all the time- queer- sir- queer, queer, very queer. And here's his leg. Yes, now that I think of it, here's his bed-fellow! has a stick of whale's jaw-bone for a wife! And this is his leg; he'll stand on this. What was that now about one leg standing in three places, and all three places standing in one hell- how was that? Oh! I don't wonder he looked so scornful at me! I'm a sort of strange-thoughted sometimes, they say; but that's only haphazard-like. Then, a short, little old body like me, should never undertake to wade out into deep water with tall, heron-built captains; the water chucks you under the chin pretty quick, and there's a great cry for life-boats. And here's the heron's leg! long and slim, sure enough! Now, for most folks one pair of legs lasts a lifetime, and that must be because they use them mercifully, as a tender-hearted old lady uses her roly-poly old coach-horses. But Ahab; oh he's a hard driver. Look, driven one leg to death, and spavined the other for life, and now wears out bone legs by the cord. Halloa, there, you Smut! bear a hand there with those screws, and let's finish it before the resurrection fellow comes a-calling with his horn for all legs, true or false, as brewery men go round collecting old beer barrels, to fill 'em up again. What a leg this is! It looks like a real live leg, filed down to nothing but the core; he'll be standing on this to-morrow; he'll be taking altitudes on it. Halloa! I almost forgot the little oval slate, smoothed ivory, where he figures up the latitude. So, so; chisel, file, and sand-paper, now!

Here I sit at the end of the day, reflecting on another chapter of Moby-Dick.  This one features a new character--the carpenter of the Pequod, who has been tasked by Ahab to carve a new leg for him out of whale bone.  This chapter reads like a scene from a play.  Two roles--Carpenter and Ahab.  One man is comic relief; the other, wrestling with phantoms from the past.  He feels them, like dead nerve endings still sparking in his skin.

I think we all are a little haunted in our lives.  By people.  By experience.  By loss.  By love.  We go through our days, hearing those ghosts in our ears, whispering.  Today, I went to a doctor's appointment, mostly to discuss my continuing problems with being dizzy and lightheaded.  It has been a continuing problem since my bout with vertigo in July.

My medical provider is a kind, compassionate person.  She started asking me questions, and I started talking about all kinds of phantoms--vertigo, depression, and fears.  Before I knew it, I had laid bare myself.  I felt like an open wound.  Totally exposed to a person who was simply there to help me feel better.  A carpenter, if you will, to make a new leg for me.

She smiled and nodded.  After she had listened, asked more questions, we came up with a game plan.  It involves taking blood pressures for a week and then having another appointment.  Right now, it's about finding out what is NOT bothering me.  Ruling out phantoms.  I'm relaxed after this conversation.  Less stressed.

One of the ghosts that has been banging around in my head, rattling chains, is my sister who died of lymphoma of the brain.  Since most of my problems seem to be focused inside my head, I've realized that I've been harboring this fear that I may . . . be . . . Well, I don't think I have to finish that thought.  You get the idea.

Ghosts have a way of showing up in the middle of the night when you're trying to sleep.  They aren't conducive to rest or relaxation.  They shiver their sheets, rattle their voices to remind you that you're mortal.  Poet Marie Howe says, "Poetry holds the knowledge that we are alive and that we're going to die."

Saint Marty is stuck in a poem right now, hovering between those two poles.

January 13: Harpooneer, Tom, Shrunken Heads

 I used to listen to a record when I was a kid.  It was filled with ghost stories, tales of monsters and murder.  Perfect for a nine-year-old kid.  It was narrated by none other than Alfred Hitchcock, and it was sold as an album for children.

One of the stories that I remember in particular was about a traveler who ended up staying in an abandoned house on a stormy night.  The traveler builds a fire in a hearth and bundles himself in a blanket, trying to go to sleep.  Pretty soon, he hears scratching and mewling.  In walks a small black cat that goes to the fire and warms itself.  The traveler thinks nothing of this, and tries to go back to sleep.

Pretty soon, more scratching and mewling.  A second cat comes in, almost twice as big as the first cat.  The second cat goes to the fire, looks at the first cat, nods at the traveler, and says to the first cat, "What are we going to do with him?"

The first cat answers, "We'll wait until Tom shows up."

The second cat nods, and both cats sit staring at the traveler.  Pretty soon, more scratching and mewling.  A third cat enters.  This cat is twice as big as the second cat.  It's the size of a puma.  The third cat goes to the fire, nods at the other two cats, and says, "What are we going to do with the stranger?"

The second cat says, "We're waiting for Tom to show up."

All three cats sit staring at the stranger, who is filled with terror.  Pretty soon, more scratching and mewling.  An enormous fourth cat enters, as big as a small cow.  The fourth cat goes to the fire, looks at the traveler and then at the other cats.  "What's going on with him?" the fourth cat nods at the horrified traveler.

"We're leaving it up to Tom," said the third cat, licking his whiskers.

The fourth cat nods agreeably.  All four cats sit staring at the traveler, who is cowering in his blanket.

The passage from Moby-Dick today reminds me of this little tale.  Ishmael wants to go to sleep, but the harpooneer that he is supposed to share a bed with has not arrived.  According to the landlord of the Spouter-Inn, the harpooneer is out on the streets, selling shrunken human heads:

I now took the measure of the bench, and found that it was a foot too short; but that could be mended with a chair. But it was a foot too narrow, and the other bench in the room was about four inches higher than the planed one- so there was no yoking them. I then placed the first bench lengthwise along the only clear space against the wall, leaving a little interval between, for my back to settle down in. But I soon found that there came such a draught of cold air over me from under the sill of the window, that this plan would never do at all, especially as another current from the rickety door met the one from the window, and both together formed a series of small whirlwinds in the immediate vicinity of the spot where I had thought to spend the night.

The devil fetch that harpooneer, thought I, but stop, couldn't I steal a march on him- bolt his door inside, and jump into his bed, not to be wakened by the most violent knockings? It seemed no bad idea but upon second thoughts I dismissed it. For who could tell but what the next morning, so soon as I popped out of the room, the harpooneer might be standing in the entry, all ready to knock me down!

Still looking round me again, and seeing no possible chance of spending a sufferable night unless in some other person's bed, I began to think that after all I might be cherishing unwarrantable prejudices against this unknown harpooneer. Thinks I, I'll wait awhile; he must be dropping in before long. I'll have a good look at him then, and perhaps we may become jolly good bedfellows after all- there's no telling.

But though the other boarders kept coming in by ones, twos, and threes, and going to bed, yet no sign of my harpooneer.

"Landlord! said I, "what sort of a chap is he- does he always keep such late hours?" It was now hard upon twelve o'clock.

The landlord chuckled again with his lean chuckle, and seemed to be mightily tickled at something beyond my comprehension. "No," he answered, "generally he's an early bird- airley to bed and airley to rise- yea, he's the bird what catches the worm. But to-night he went out a peddling, you see, and I don't see what on airth keeps him so late, unless, may be, he can't sell his head."

"Can't sell his head?- What sort of a bamboozingly story is this you are telling me?" getting into a towering rage. "Do you pretend to say, landlord, that this harpooneer is actually engaged this blessed Saturday night, or rather Sunday morning, in peddling his head around this town?"

"That's precisely it," said the landlord, "and I told him he couldn't sell it here, the market's overstocked."

"With what?" shouted I.

"With heads to be sure; ain't there too many heads in the world?"

"I tell you what it is, landlord," said I quite calmly, "you'd better stop spinning that yarn to me- I'm not green."

"May be not," taking out a stick and whittling a toothpick, "but I rayther guess you'll be done brown if that ere harpooneer hears you a slanderin' his head."

"I'll break it for him," said I, now flying into a passion again at this unaccountable farrago of the landlord's.

"It's broke a'ready," said he.

"Broke," said I- "broke, do you mean?"

"Sartain, and that's the very reason he can't sell it, I guess."

"Landlord," said I, going up to him as cool as Mt. Hecla in a snowstorm- "landlord, stop whittling. You and I must understand one another, and that too without delay. I come to your house and want a bed; you tell me you can only give me half a one; that the other half belongs to a certain harpooneer. And about this harpooneer, whom I have not yet seen, you persist in telling me the most mystifying and exasperating stories tending to beget in me an uncomfortable feeling towards the man whom you design for my bedfellow- a sort of connexion, landlord, which is an intimate and confidential one in the highest degree. I now demand of you to speak out and tell me who and what this harpooneer is, and whether I shall be in all respects safe to spend the night with him. And in the first place, you will be so good as to unsay that story about selling his head, which if true I take to be good evidence that this harpooneer is stark mad, and I've no idea of sleeping with a madman; and you, sir, you I mean, landlord, you, sir, by trying to induce me to do so knowingly would thereby render yourself liable to a criminal prosecution."

"Wall," said the landlord, fetching a long breath, "that's a purty long sarmon for a chap that rips a little now and then. But be easy, be easy, this here harpooneer I have been tellin' you of has just arrived from the south seas, where he bought up a lot of 'balmed New Zealand heads (great curios, you know), and he's sold all on 'em but one, and that one he's trying to sell to-night, cause to-morrow's Sunday, and it would not do to be sellin' human heads about the streets when folks is goin' to churches. He wanted to last Sunday, but I stopped him just as he was goin' out of the door with four heads strung on a string, for all the airth like a string of inions."

This account cleared up the otherwise unaccountable mystery, and showed that the landlord, after all, had had no idea of fooling me- but at the same time what could I think of a harpooneer who stayed out of a Saturday night clean into the holy Sabbath, engaged in such a cannibal business as selling the heads of dead idolators?

"Depend upon it, landlord, that harpooneer is a dangerous man."

"He pays reg'lar," was the rejoinder. "But come, it's a nice bed: Sal and me slept in that ere bed the night we were spliced. There's plenty of room for two to kick about in that bed; it's an almighty big bed that. Why, afore we give it up, Sal used to put our Sam and little Johnny in the foot of it. But I got a dreaming and sprawling about one night, and somehow, Sam got pitched on the floor, and came near breaking his arm. Arter that, Sal said it wouldn't do. Come along here, I'll give ye a glim in a jiffy;" and so saying he lighted a candle and held it towards me, offering to lead the way. But I stood irresolute; when looking at a clock in the corner, he exclaimed "I vum it's Sunday- you won't see that harpooneer to-night; he's come to anchor somewhere- come along then; do come; won't ye come?"

The harpooneer, about whom Ishmael is justifiably cautious, has grown by the end of this passage into something terrifying and dangerous.  A man trying to sell human heads to strangers on an early Sunday morning.  Ishmael is like the traveler from the Alfred Hitchcock record I used to listen to as a child.  He's waiting for Tom to show up.

I think we all do this a lot.  We build up things in our mind.  Worries that start out small become towers of terror.  I am having a routine colonoscopy on Monday.  It's that time of life for me.  Tomorrow, I start the whole cleanse thing.  Not looking forward to it.  And, now that I am this close to the actual procedure, I've been having thoughts of colon and rectal cancer.  Thinking about people I know who've been diagnosed.  Suddenly, I'm Ishmael waiting for the harpooneer.  The traveler waiting for Tom to show up.

Of course, I know that I am going to be fine, but the little obsessive part of my mind is running like a hamster in a wheel.  Until Monday, I have a feeling that I'm not going to rest easily.  That's the way most fears work.  They grow and grow in your mind until they are as big as Bigfoot.

I've been told that the opposite of faith isn't doubt.  It's fear.  I know this is true this weekend.

Back to my story from Alfred Hitchcock . . .

Pretty soon, the traveler hears more mewling and scratching.  In walks a cat as big as a horse.  It goes over to the fire, sits down, and nods at the terrified traveler.  "What are we going to do with him?" the horse-cat says.

The first cat purrs.  "We're waiting for Tom to show up."

All the cats nod and turn their glowing eyes to the traveler.

The traveler can't take it any more.  He leaps up, throws his blanket and the cats, and leaps over the fire toward the doorway.  Without looking back to see if the cats are following him, he screams, "Tell Tom I couldn't wait!!!!"  The traveler runs out into the rain and thunder and dark.

I know that fear of the unknown is a useless emotion.  It simply causes sleepless nights and upset stomachs.  However, it's difficult for me not to dread the possibility of Tom walking into the hospital room on Monday morning.

Saint Marty is thankful today for everything that distracts him today--scrambled eggs, blue sky, a good book, and, maybe some chocolate.

October 9: Ritalin, Madeleine L'Engle, "Mary, after the Baptism"

Well, my son punched a little girl on the playground yesterday, so he ended up sitting in the principal's office all day, doing his schoolwork.  This afternoon, he had an appointment with the psychiatrist who's been treating him for a couple of years.  The psychiatrist wants to put my six-year-old son on Ritalin.

That worries me.  Not because of any doubt in psychiatry or modern medicine.  I'm not one of those Tom Cruise types.  It's just that I love the person my son is.  He's funny, smart, energetic.  He makes me laugh.  I don't want to see that change.  However, I do want him to be able to control his impulses and focus more easily.

Basically, I want all good things to happen for my son.  That's what Madeleine L'Engle's poem for today is about:  the love of a parent for a child.  The hopes of a parent for a child.  The fears of a parent for a child.

 Saint Marty has more fears than hopes at the moment.

Mary, after the Baptism

by:  Madeleine L'Engle

Yes, of course.  On many days I doubted. 
My faith grew out of doubt.  The child was good
but other babies have been good.  He shouted
when he was hungry, like any child, for food.
One simply does not think of the Messiah
cutting teeth, eating, and eliminating.
He springs, full-grown, in the great Isaiah--
God, servant, king.  And I was waiting,
remembering in my heart the very things
that caused my doubt:  the angel's first appearing
to me and then to Joseph; shepherds, kings,
the flight to Egypt.  Remembering was fearing;
doubt helped.  I had to face it all as true
the day John baptized him.  Then he knew.

I'll take Ritalin for $200, Alex

September 24: His Work, His Voice, "Carol" Dip Monday

So, I had an interesting conversation in my Sunday School class yesterday morning.  We were discussing the valleys and peaks of our lives.  In particular, we were discussing how to maintain hope when your life is in the toilet, and how to recognize God's voice and blessings.  Most people, when they are in real trouble, will turn to prayer of some sort, whether it's to some kind of "higher power" or Jesus or Jehovah or Muhammad.  As the saying goes, there aren't any atheists in foxholes.  When the chips are down, we turn to God (in whatever form) to pick those chips up for us.

The topic came up about how we sometimes don't recognize God working in our lives or talking to us because we're too wrapped up in ourselves.  When I get up in the morning, I immediately start going through my list of what I have to do.  Work.  Teaching.  Papers and quizzes to correct.  Kids to get to dance and daycare.  My mind doesn't stop.  Then, of course, as the day goes on, all the other noise of the world crowds in, grabs my attention.  Rain and bad tires on my car and doctors appointments for children with ear infections.  Most of life is an unending parade of worries and distractions.

And in the middle of all that is God, talking to us, working for us.  We are just too preoccupied to take notice.  For example, in August one day, I was worried about money (probably the biggest noise in my head all day, every day).  I was looking at bills and paychecks, thinking, "This just isn't going to work."  I could come up with no solution to reconcile the shortage of cash.  I closed my eyes and said a little prayer, something like, "OK, God, I handing this one over to you.  Can't handle it.  I need a break."

Within a couple of minutes, my wife called and told me I'd received a letter in the mail from the city of Marquette, where I spend most of my days working/teaching.  I thought it was another reminder to pay a parking ticket that I've been ignoring for quite some time.  "No, no," my wife said.  "I opened it up, and there was a check inside for $250."

I sat there, stunned.  Finally, I said, "What's it for?  Is there a note or something?"

It turned out I was getting paid for a couple of poetry readings I did this summer as part of the U. P. Book Tour.  I couldn't believe it.  It was out of the blue.  I'd never been told I was going to get compensated.  In fact, the year before, I did quite a few readings for the Book Tour and never saw a dime.  I wasn't looking to be paid.  I wasn't expecting to be paid.

When I spoke with one of the organizers of the events, he said, "Well, when we paid all the bills, we had money left over from the grants we received.  All the authors got money."

The nonbeliever would call it a coincidence, good fortune, whatever.  I call it God's work or God's voice.  God made me stop, take a deep breath, and surrender.  Then God stepped in, rolled up His sleeves, and did a little miracle.

That's what I'm talking about.  Worries never accomplish anything, except maybe disrupting sleep and ruining dinners.  Worries are all about fear, and fear is the exact opposite of faith.  It's the worrying we all do, every day, that interferes with our ability to recognize God's work, to hear God's voice.

Today is Carol Dip Monday.  I'm going to ask a question and then turn to the great Christmas book of Dickens for an answer.  Perhaps, when I do this little exercise every Monday, God is at work, giving me an answer through the characters of Scrooge and Tiny Tim and Fred the nephew.  I like to think that's the case.  So, my question for today is,

Will I ever be hired as a full-time professor at the university?

And the answer from Charles Dickens (and maybe God) is:

Martha didn't like to see him disappointed, if it were only in joke; so she came out prematurely from behind the closet door, and ran into his arms, while the two young Cratchits hustled Tiny Tim, and bore him off into the wash-house, that he might hear the pudding singing in the copper.

Martha doesn't like to disappoint her father, Bob Cratchit, and God will not disappoint me.  No joking about it.

Saint Marty will be a full-time professor at the university, according to the Christmas Carol Magic 8 Ball.  And God.

Time to unplug and listen!

January 27: Fearing the World, Belle, Trust

"You fear the world too much," she answered, gently.  "All your other hopes have merged into the hope of being beyond the chance of its sordid reproach.  I have seen your nobler aspirations fall one by one, until the master-passion, Gain, engrosses you.  Have I not?"

This is Belle, Scrooge's one-time fiancee, explaining to a young Scrooge why she has decided to break off their engagement.  Scrooge has become the pupa of his future self.  He's not entirely the squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching,covetous , old sinner yet.  Belle, however, sees the direction Scrooge is headed, and she doesn't want to have anything to do with it.

I fear the world.  A lot.  I fear bills.  I fear job uncertainty.  I fear possible car repairs.  I fear possible flat tires.  I fear my laptop crashing.  I fear dropping George (my iPad) and breaking his screen.  I fear more mice getting into my house.  I fear my son being deaf (he failed a hearing test at school).  I fear a fire starting in my house because somebody didn't unplug the toaster.  I fear having a heart attack at a young age (my brother had a major heart attack before he was 50).  I fear diabetic retinopathy, going blind.

Basically, I'm just one big, neurotic bundle of fears.



What Scrooge missed out on

 Belle's little reprimand hits pretty close to home with me.  Living in fear, always preparing for the next disaster, is really not a great way to live.  In fact, it's not living at all.  That's what she's saying to the young Scrooge.  The way Scrooge combats his fears is by becoming rich and stingy.  I guess Scrooge thinks that a great deal of money equals security and safety.  Of course, because he subscribes to this belief, Scrooge misses out on a lot of things, not the least of which is a life with Belle and children of his own.

I could easily let fear run my life.  Sometimes, I do let fear run my life.  Ask my wife.  I need to think about Belle's little speech in instances when I feel fear taking the reins in my head.  I need to think of all the things I would have missed if I had let fear make my decisions.  I wouldn't be married.  I wouldn't have a beautiful daughter.  I wouldn't have a joyful son.  I wouldn't have published a book of poems.  Basically, I would just be a candidate for the show Hoarders.

I'm trying not to let Gain be my master-passion.  I'm trying not to let Fear be my life coach.  It ain't easy.  That's why I have a wife.  Children.  Friends.  Family.  To remind me about what's really important.

Saint Marty just needs to remember this:  the person who dies with the most stuff, still dies.