September 21: Compulsion, Profit, Poetry

"Spirit," said Scrooge submissively, "conduct me where you will.  I went forth last night on compulsion, and I learnt a lesson which is working now.  To-night, if you have aught to teach me, let me profit by it."

This version of Scrooge is quite humbled.  He's addressing the Ghost of Christmas Present and is obviously a very chastened man.  He has had the opportunity to view the mistakes he made in the past, and now he is ready to learn a few lessons from the next Christmas spirit.  Scrooge is no dummy.  He is trying to save himself from Marley's fate, and he knows the key to his salvation are these yuletide phantoms.

We all have made mistakes in our past, just like Scrooge.  I have made so many mistakes that I could start a separate blog completely devoted to them.  But my screw-ups are not the main issue.  The main issue is what I do in response to my screw-ups.  In response to his past, Scrooge became angry and bitter and mean.  While I can be all of those things, I prefer to learn from the mistakes I've made.  That's how you grow as a person.

Last night, I made a mistake.  I was tired and hungry when I got home.  My eleven-year-old daughter, who is in a state of constant adolescent hormonal imbalance, sat down on the couch to watch TV and do homework.  My daughter started struggling with her math problems.  I suggested she turn off the TV so she could concentrate better.  That was all it took to send my daughter into a fit of angry tears.

Now, you may have read the above paragraph and thought, "Saint Marty, you didn't do anything wrong."  I would agree with you, if the story ended as above.  However, after my daughter launched into her tantrum of weeping, I lost my temper and started saying things like, "You don't need to cry.  If you want the TV on, I don't care.  I was just trying to help you out.  You can sit up until midnight watching TV for all I care."  It escalated from there, until my daughter ended the episode by asking, "Why are you being so mean to me?"

I was a bad father last night.  I should have recognized my daughter's frustration.  I didn't.  I gave into my baser instincts--anger, sarcasm, and dismissal.  That unholy trinity has gotten in so much trouble in the past, I should have known better.  I need to learn from my mistakes, especially when it comes to my daughter.  Last night, she needed love, understanding, and compassion from me.  I think I was just afraid she was going to ask for my help with her math homework.

Saint Marty has learned his lesson.  Math and America's Funniest Home Videos don't mix.

If only it were this simple

August 21: The End of It, Profit, Kindness Virus

"Ha, ha!" laughed the same woman, when old Joe, producing a flannel bag with money in it, told out their several gains upon the ground.  "This is the end of it, you see!  He frightened every one away from him when he was alive, to profit us when he was dead!  Ha, ha, ha!"

Scrooge is watching the scavengers pick over his belongings after his death.  The undertaker, charwoman, and laundress have plundered Scrooge's corpse and house for the items they are fencing to old Joe.  The lesson is pretty clear:  you better treat people well when you're alive, or else you're screwed when you die.  That might not sound very eloquent, but it isn't a very eloquent situation.  Scrooge is dead, and these people are picking his bones clean, so to speak.

It's always good to treat the people in your life well.  Scrooge has no one.  He has alienated himself from everyone, including his only living relative, his nephew Fred.  He rebuffs all attempts of human connection at the beginning of the novel.  His only interest is in humanity's resources.  Translation:  money.  Thus, when he dies, the only thing the undertaker, charwoman, and laundress care about is Scrooge's money/possessions.

I always try to follow the golden rule.  I teach my children to follow the golden rule.  I want people to be nice to me.  I want them to bake me chocolate chip cookies and brownies.  I want them to buy me birthday and Christmas presents.  I want them to invite me over for dinner.  I want them to bring me sausage muffins for breakfast.  Therefore, I have to be nice, even when I don't feel like being nice.

That is my point here this morning.  I don't necessarily feel happy or generous, but I want to be treated kindly.  Kindness is a virus.  A very contagious virus.  If you sneeze your kindness onto somebody, kindness will eventually be sneezed back at you.

Saint Marty needs to go disinfect himself now.



Remember to wash your hands



July 27: Customers, So Hurried, Rummage Sale

...but the customers were all so hurried and so eager in the hopeful promise of the day, that they tumbled up against each other at the door, clashing their wicker baskets wildly, and left their purchases upon the counter, and came running back to fetch them, and committed hundreds of the like mistakes in the best humour possible...

This little excerpt describes a scene Scrooge and the Ghost of Christmas Present encounter in their wanderings about the streets of London.  Dickens seems to thrive on details of the bustle and crush of humanity at the holidays.  He loves descriptions of bakers and poulterers and butchers.  Vendors selling things like roasted chestnuts and fuits of all kinds.  Dickens' city comes off sounding like one huge farmer's market.

I don't mind farmer's markets.  I don't mind community events where local people are selling wares.  I'm not a huge fan of white elephant sales or garage sales or rummage sales.  I just can't get into buying somebody else's junk.  I do watch Antiques Roadshow, and I do know that a lot of the hundred-thousand-dollar items are purchased at yard sales.  However, I just can't bring myself to sift through tables and tables of cast-offs in hopes of finding a work by a nineteenth-century master of the Hudson River School of Painting.  That's just not me.

My wife is having a rummage sale tomorrow.  She and my daughter have been preparing for this event for months.  We're selling baby clothes and old toys and tee shirts and books.  My daughter is hawking bowls of shaved ice, strawberry and grape and cherry and mixed berry.  They are both very excited about it.  I, on the other hand, am not looking forward to garage sale groupies knocking on my front door at 6 a.m.  I can't stand pushy people, and, in my experience, garage sale groupies are some of the pushiest in the world.

Thus, I will be keeping my distance from my wife and daughter's sale (garage/rummage/yard--it's all the same thing).  My only hope is that we don't lose money and my daughter sells a few of her shaved ices.  We have probably spent around twenty or thirty dollars preparing for tomorrow morning, so any money beyond that is all profit.

Saint Marty will not be selling his Rembrandt, however.

This sign says it all!