It was a long night, if it were only a night; but Scrooge had his doubts of this, because the Christmas Holidays appeared to be condensed into the space of time they passed together. It was strange, too, that while Scrooge remained unaltered in his outward form, the Ghost grew older, clearly older. Scrooge had observed this change, but never spoke of it, until they left a children's Twelfth Night party, when looking at the Spirit as they stood together in an open place, he noticed that its hair was grey.
The Spirit in question is the Ghost of Christmas Present. In the time Scrooge shares with this specter, the Ghost transforms from a young, robust man into something akin to the stereotypical Victorian Santa Claus, white hair, white beard, and robe. Of course, Dickens is commenting on the fleeting quality of time in this passage. The present, you can almost hear Dickens saying, is gone faster than the Christmas holidays. Pay attention. Soon the present will be the past.
My daughter is going on a school field trip today. She's travelling to Wisconsin to see the musical
Mary Poppins. She'll be gone all day and won't be returning until early tomorrow morning. Of course, she's perfectly safe. I have no fear about that. It's just that she's getting to be so...so...teenagery. It makes me think about her as a baby, eleven years ago, so small and dependent on me for everything. Now, she just needs $100 in spending money, some friends, a chaperon, and a shopping mall, and she's good to go. I'm sure she won't even look back at me when she climbs on the bus.
This trip isn't her first taste of freedom. She's gone to summer camp for the last two summers. Last year, she went on a bus trip to see
Beauty and the Beast without me. She has no problem being independent. The problem is all mine. I feel like the Ghost of Christmas Present. Time is passing, and I'm the only one that's getting old. The bell is tolling. It's midnight, and my daughter is on her way to the ball at the castle. (OK, I know I'm mixing tales here, but you get the idea.)
I'm sorry if I'm sounding nostalgic or melodramatic or ridiculous. It's my job. I'm the father of an almost teenaged daughter. Pretty soon I'll be dragging out the shotguns when the boys start knocking on the door. I am far from being Jeff Foxworthy, but I'll be just this side of Jed Clampett with any guy who comes a courtin' my baby girl. I may even take up whittling.
Scrooge is too polite to mention the Spirit's obvious old age. I expect any person whom I meet today to follow Scrooge's example. I know I'm getting up there. I wasn't at Woodstock, but I
could have been in the mud in my diapers, listening to Jimi Hendrix play "The Star Spangled Banner." (Just for the record, the 1980s had the best music in the world. The fashion left a little to be desired, however.) This afternoon, I may put on my Tears for Fears cassette and dance around my house in my black Reebok high tops.
Saint Marty isn't old. He's vintage.
Confessions of Saint Marty
