At Home in Hespeler

Christie Blatchford’s Helpless begins with a story. On June 9, 2006 Kathe and Guenter Golke of Simcoe Ontario went for a drive. The 68 and 66 year old wound up in Caledonia, which had been in the news recently due to what they used to call in the movies an Indian incursion. The Natives of the 6-Nations reserve East of Brantford had taken over an housing development, known as the Douglas Creek Estates, due to a land claim dispute.

Driving through Caledonia the Golke’s slowed down to have a look at the Estate property. A woman on a motorcycle raced up to them:

“Is there a problem?” and then let fly a torrent of verbal abuse, accusing them of coming to “look at the bad Indians.”

They were soon surrounded by First Nations, attempting to stop their car. They spotted an OPP cruiser and went for help. Twenty or so First Nations followed, then surrounded and attacked their car. They jumped on the hood, grabbed for the steering wheel and attempted to open the car doors, while the Golke’s were parked beside the OPP car, talking to the officer.

It was one of three incidents that day, the one that was less newsworthy. A couple of senior citizens are attacked by a mob is much less interesting to big city editor than a policeman or an MSM cameraman assaulted. But it was the most telling: the First Nations had a complaint, so attacking a couple of innocent senior citizens is OK.

The surprising thing about Helpless: Caledonia’s Nightmare of Fear and Anarchy, and How the Law Failed All Of Us is how often you put the book down and seethe in quiet anger. Two governments and three OPP Chiefs, including Conservative MP Julian Fantino and his successor Chris Lewis, utterly and completely failed the people of Caledonia. However, it is original Commissioner Gwen Boniface and Inspector Ron George, director of the OPP Aboriginal Relations Team who takes the most blame for the force’s complete lack of action in Caledonia.

Ron George, it should be noted, is cousin of killed First Nations protester Dudley George. Yet without fear of conflict of interest, he was front and centre in the OPP’s decision making process.

The story of Caledonia is about the people who live there, and the people charged with protecting them not failing to do so, but refusing. Sixth line, on the south side of the Douglas Creek Estates, was populated by country homes, owned by non-natives. Although native occupiers of the Estates often criminally harassed the residents, the OPP refused to respond to calls on the sixth line for over three years.

The residents of sixth line were abandoned by those charged with keeping the law in Ontario, a state of Anarchy that they never asked for or did anything to deserve.

Christie Blatchford’s Helpless: Caledonia’s Nightmare of Fear and Anarchy, and How the Law Failed All Of Us is a quick, easy read. One of those books you start, curl up with, and find you’ve read half of it by dinner time. My only complaint is that the book is not broken into enough chapters. A chance to breath, and to let some of the anger that overtakes you breath, would help drive the point of the book home: “the failure of government to govern and to protect all it’s citizen’s equally.”

Books, Caledonia Caledonia, Chris Lewis, Christie Blatchford, Douglas Creek Estates, Dudley George, Guenter Golke, Gwen Boniface, Helpless, julian fantino, Kathe Golke, OPP, Ron George

I HEARD THE BELLS ON CHRISTMAS DAY
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I heard the bells on Christmas day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

I thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along th’ unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

And in despair I bowed my head
‘There is no peace on earth’, I said,
‘For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men’.

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
‘God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail
With peace on earth, good will to men’.

Till ringing, singing on its way
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime, a chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

1864

Christmas Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day

It’s Dec 24th, time for the annual posting of In The Workhouse Christmas Day.

In The Workhouse Christmas Day, by George R. Sims

It is Christmas Day in the Workhouse,
And the cold bare walls are bright
With garlands of green and holly,
And the place is a pleasant sight:
For with clear-washed hands and faces
In a long and hungry line
The paupers sit at the tables,
For this is the hour they dine.

And the guardians and their ladies,
Although the wind is east,
Have come in their furs and wrappers,
To watch their charges feast:
To smile and be condescending,
Put puddings on pauper plates,
To be hosts at the workhouse banquet
They’ve paid for – with the rates.

Oh, the paupers are meek and lowly
With their ‘Thank’ee kindly, mum’s’;
So long as they fill their stomachs
What matters it whence it comes?
But one of the old men mutters,
And pushes his plate aside:
‘Great God!’ he cries; ‘but it chokes me!
For this is the day she died.’

The guardians gazed in horror
The master’s face went white;
‘Did a pauper refuse his pudding?’
‘Could their ears believe aright?’
Then the ladies clutched their husbands,
Thinking the man might die
Struck by a bolt, or something,
By the outraged One on high.

But the pauper sat for a moment,
Then rose ‘mid a silence grim,
For the others has ceased to chatter,
And trembled every limb.
He looked at the guardian’s ladies,
Then. eyeing their lords, he said,
‘I eat not the food of villains
Whose hands are foul and red:

‘Whose victims cry for vengeance
From their dank, unhallowed graves.’
‘He’s drunk!’ said the workhouse master.
‘Or else he’s mad, and raves.’
‘Not drunk or mad,’ cried the pauper,
‘But only a hunted beast,
Who, torn by the hounds and mangled,
Declines the vulture’s feast.

I care not a curse for the guardians,
And I won’t be dragged away.
Just let me have the fit out,
It’s only Christmas Day
That the black past comes to goad me,
And prey my burning brain;
I’ll tell you the rest in a whisper, –
I swear I won’t shout again.

‘Keep your hands off me, curse you!
Hear me right out to the end.
You come here to see how the paupers
The season of Christmas spend.
You come here to watch us feeding,
As they watch the captured beast.
Hear why a penniless pauper
Spits on your paltry feast.

‘Do you think I will take your bounty,
And let you smile and think
You’re doing a noble action
With the parish’s meat and drink?
Where is my wife, you traitors –
The poor old wife you slew?
Yes, by the God above us
My Nance was killed by you!

‘Last winter my wife lay dying,
Starved in a filthy den;
I had never been to the parish, –
I came to the parish then.
I swallowed my pride in coming,
For, ere the ruin came,
I held up my head as a trader,
And I bore a spotless name.

‘I came to the parish, craving
Bread for a starving wife,
Bread for a woman who’d loved me
Through fifty years of my life;
And what do you think they told me,
Mocking my awful grief?
That “the House” was open to us,
But they wouldn’t give “out relief”.

I slunk to the filthy alley –
‘Twas a cold, raw Christmas eve –
And the bakers’ shops were open
Tempting a man to thieve;
But I clenched my fists together
Holding my head awry,
So I came home empty-handed,
And mournfully told her why.

Then I told her “the House” was open;
She had heard of the ways of that,
For her bloodless cheeks went crimson,
And up in her rags she sat,
Crying, “Bide the Christmas here, John,
We’ve never had one apart;
I think I can bear the hunger, –
The other would break my heart.”

‘All through that ever I watched her,
Holding her hand in mine,
Praying the Lord, and weeping
Till my lips were salt as brine.
I asked her once if she hungered
And as she answered “No,”
The moon shone in at the wondow
Set in a wreath of snow

‘Then the room was bathed in glory,
And I saw in my darling’s eyes
The far-away look of wonder
That comes when the spirit flies;
And her lips were parched and parted,
And her reason came and went,
For she raved of her home in Devon,
Where her happiest days were spent.

‘And the accents, long forgotten,
Came back to the tongue once more,
For she talked like the country lassie
I woo’d by the Devon shore.
Then she rose to her feet and trembled,
And fell on the rags and moaned,
And, “Give me a crust – I’m famished –
For the love of God!” she groaned.

I rushed from the room like a madman,
And flew to the workhouse gate,
Crying “Food for a dying woman!”
And came the answer, “Too late.”
They drove me away with curses;
Then I fought with a dog in the street,
And tore from the mongrel’s clutches
A crust he was trying to eat.

‘Back, through the filthy by-lanes!
Back, through the trampled slush!
Up to the crazy garret,
Wrapped in an awful hush.
My heart sank down at the threshold,
And I paused with a sudden thrill,
For there in the silv’ry moonlight
My Nancy lay, cold and still.

‘Up to the blackened ceiling
The sunken eyes were cast –
I knew on those lips all bloodless
My name had been the last;
She’d called for her absent husband –
O God! had I but known! –
Had called in vain and in anguish
Had died in that den – alone.

‘Yes, there in a land of plenty
Lay a loving woman dead,
Cruelly starved and murdered
For a loaf of parish bread.
At yonder gate, last Christmas
I craved for a human life.
You, who would feast us paupers,
What of my murdered wife!

‘There, get ye gone to your dinners;
Don’t mind me in the least;
Think of your happy paupers
Eating your Christmas feast;
And when you recount their blessings
In your smug parochial way,
Say what you did for me, too,
Only last Christmas Day

Merry Christmas Everybody

Christmas George R. Sims, In The Workhouse Christmas Day, It is Christmas Day in the Workhouse

What a truly beautiful song, although I’m damned if I know why it is.

Christmas Fairytale of New York, Kirsty McColl, Pogues

One day a friend of mine said to me, “The wife wants me to create a web site for the cat. What am I supposed to put for content on a cat’s website?”

My answer:

A Cat’s Christmas
By Button Noseworthy

“Button! Get out of that tree!”

That’s twice. And he’s walking this way. Chris. He’s not even my person, he’s Janet’s person, and Janet is mine. None the less, Chris is walking this way and the second time was louder than the first so I have to respond; I look at him like he’s grown an extra eye in the middle of his forehead.

“Button!”

That’s three and he’s almost at the tree. I jump down and run to the other side of the room. Stop. Lick my paw, just to show I didn’t get down because of any old person told me too. I got down because I had some dirt on my paw that had to be dealt with right away.

“Janet! Your stupid cat has been playing with the presents!”

Now this is a bit tricky, he wasn’t supposed to notice that. What do they expect though? Has he ever stuck a piece of thread in front of me that I don’t play with? They know my weaknesses. So now he wraps up presents and puts shiny ribbon around it, and I’m supposed to know it’s not for me? It’s probably better if I just leave, but with dignity. No running away, walk slow, tail in the air to let them know I’m appalled by the accusations being made against me. Some things must be done right; just as a ballerina must point her toes when doing a pirouette, a Cat must raise her tail when leaving a room amid accusations and slanders.

I walk slowly out of the room, stopping at my food dish. Empty! Who do these people think I am Gandhi? Not in this life, although maybe in my last life I was Gandhi or Mother Theresa or Elvis. How else do you explain that I am a Cat in this life? I give off an indignant meow to protest the service at this establishment, but the staff here could care less.

Chris goes running past with the present I had been playing with ten minutes ago, wrapping paper, ribbon and bow torn to shreds in his arm. He must be planning on re-wrapping that one; this could be fun. He’s taking it downstairs so I follow behind, stealthily so he doesn’t see me. He sits at a table and pulls out wrapping paper, new ribbon and a new bow. I want the ribbon, but timing is everything when you’re a Cat. I settle about two feet behind him and start licking my paws; it is most important to be cleaning, in case he notices me here. My attitude must be as if I am saying ‘I always come here to clean, and what are you doing here?’ Of course, we both know what he’s doing here; he’s re-wrapping Janet’s present and he’s just putting the tape on. That means the ribbon is next, so I move directly under his chair. He wraps it around once, then crosses the ribbon and wraps the other direction. Just as he’s about to tie it, I pounce. He never saw me of course, until I was on the present and grabbing at the ribbon. Grabbing and chewing furiously I completely ruin another wrap job for him before running back up stairs. He throws the roll of ribbon at me and yells “Button! You stupid cat!” The ribbon misses, but it’s close enough that I pounce on the end and roll downstairs, all the while fighting off the offending ribbon. Once at the bottom of the stairs I jump back up on the stairs, being sure to go around the balustrade at the bottom. Success! I have completely un-wrapped the roll of ribbon and it winds up and down the stairs looking like the stairs had been decorated for Christmas by a dog.

Chris’s yelling brings Janet to see what is all the fuss about, and finds that the fuss is her Cat is being cute and her person is allergic to cute. At least that’s how I explained it, but these simpletons can’t, or won’t speak Cat, thus I come off sounding much worse than I was. She’s sympathetic to me anyway, and says, “She’s just playing Chris.” She’s technically right of course but she’s made a minor error of distinction: She thinks I was playing with the ribbon, but I was, of course, toying with her person. I don’t bother sticking around to correct her impression and I’m certainly not helping to clean up the mess I’ve created, so I walk upstairs and take a comfortable spot under the tree for a nap.

I love Christmas!
**************
It’s Christmas Eve and the house is silent. What’s the poem say, “not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse”? I can personally attest to the fact there are no mice in this house, stirring or otherwise. The people are upstairs sleeping, visions of sugarplums no doubt dancing in their heads; I never could figure out what a sugarplum is or why it would be dancing. No dancing down here though, everything is quiet. Unlike other nights, however, it won’t stay quiet for long.

I do a quick circle of the main floor to make sure everything is in order. The outdoor lights are on so that Santa can find the house and the Christmas tree is left lit so Santa can find it in the dark easy enough, good. The stockings are hung by the chimney; as usual, however, there are only two stockings. But what about that ball that fell off the tree. Better see if I can fix that. Unfortunately, every time I try and lift the ornament it rolls away from me. Soon I am chasing it around the living room, batting at it with my paws and pouncing on it, batting and pouncing.
I don’t hear him come in, the first I realize I’m not alone in the room is when I hear him Laugh. “Oh, ho ho ho. Button, you are such fun,” says Santa. “I am glad to see you again.” By way of greeting I rub my head against his big black boot, and he reaches down and strokes me behind the ear. He immediately sets to his work, and before you know it Chris and Janet’s stockings are stuffed full. Silent as a cat, Santa walks to the tree and starts piling presents under it. On his way back to the chimney, he notices the milk, cookies and carrots that Janet left out.

“What’s this then?” he says, as he lifts a cookie to eat. A minute later the cookies are eaten and the glass of milk is half-empty. “I bet you wouldn’t mind a bit of this Button.” He pulls over the plate that only a minute before had held three big cookies and pours a bit of milk on to it. I quickly run to the plate and lap up the milk as fast as I can, purring my pleasure at developments. Santa laughs and re-fills the plate before leaving. “And don’t you worry Button, I didn’t forget you live here.”

I look up from my milk wondering what that means, but he is gone. I can hear him on the roof feeding the reindeer Janet’s carrots, and then he is off. The excitement is over and I go upstairs and make myself comfortable at the foot of the bed. Sleep, however, comes difficult as Santa’s parting words to me run through my head and I try to make sense of what they mean.
**********
Chris is the first one up, and he wakes Janet immediately. “Merry Christmas honey,” he says and gives her a kiss.

“Merry Christmas” she says back. I walk between them, purring and rubbing my head on the bottom of Janet’s hand. “And Merry Christmas to you too Button” she says in her cute baby talk voice. The women is an accountant, you’d think she could talk to a cat without reducing herself to inanities. She can’t, however, and I have to take them as I find them. I purr an acknowledgement of the day and let her pet me for a minute.

We gradually make our way downstairs, and they head immediately for the stockings. I think I detect relief from Chris, no doubt he was expecting a potato or a lump of coal. He avoided that fate, however deserved I think it would have been, and happily digs into his treasure. Janet comes over a minute later with coffee for two and settles into her prize.

Once the stockings are exhausted and the coffee done, we go to the tree. Janet sits beside the tree and digs out a present for herself and one for Chris. I don’t want to miss any of the fun, so I settle myself on Janet’s lap, at least until there is some free wrapping paper I can play with. Soon, they are opening with vigour and I am playing merrily with a sheet of wrapping paper that has ribbon taped to it. It is then that I hear Janet say, “here’s something for Button. Chris, did you buy this for Button?”

“Yea right,” says Chris, “like I would actually buy the cat a Christmas present.”

“Then where did it come from?” says Janet “I didn’t buy it.” Santa’s parting words last night come back to me and I jump on to Janet’s lap. It is a plastic stocking with a toy mouse, a package of soft dry food, and a catnip ball, whatever that is. I don’t care what it is, I am the happiest Cat in town and I dive for my toys as soon as Janet gets them out of the stocking.

I leap on the mouse and start batting it around the room. Pouncing, jumping and whacking at it like I am playing a game. I chase it out of the room, and then back into the room. It bumps into the catnip ball and I pounce on the ball. Wait a minute, what’s that smell? Something smells incredible, a smell unlike anything I have ever smelt before. It’s definitely coming from the ball, and I grab the ball in my mouth to have a taste. Wow! This must be the catnip. This is incredible, and I now chase the ball all around the room, grabbing it my mouth every chance I get.

Soon I am no longer Button the Cat. I am Queen Button the Lion. I climb to the top of the Christmas tree and wait for prey. It is not long before a warthog comes sauntering along. I wait patient and silent until he is in just the right spot. Claws out, teeth ready, I seize upon the warthog. Not a warthog! Chris!! Surprisingly, he acts like a wounded warthog and I find myself sliding across the floor of the room like a bowling ball. Good thing it’s a wood floor, carpet would burn. I jump to my feet and race into the kitchen where Janet is eating breakfast at the table. I jump up on to the table and slide across it, landing on the floor on the other side of the table. Now I could use some carpet.

I don’t know what’s going on, but I feel great. I run into the living room grab my ball and run upstairs, only falling twice, to chew on some more catnip. I leap up on the bed and … miss? I hit the side of the bed with some authority, and decide the floor is a good place for a nap, thank you very much.

***********
I slowly make my way down the stairs. It is dark and quiet. Christmas is over for another year and Chris and Janet are sitting on the couch drinking a glass of wine. I see space between them, not much just an inch or two, but it’s enough. I crawl between them and snuggle in, purring like an idling Honda. Chris reaches down and starts stroking my back, I let him, but only because it’s Christmas. Janet also starts petting me too, scratching under my chin. The tree still smells like a tree, giving the room a pine forest aroma. There is a fire on the fireplace that Santa came down last night. Somewhere in the background Christmas carols play, but quietly, nicely. This is nice, the Cat’s meow in fact.

I love Christmas!

A Cat's Christmas, Christmas A Cat's Christmas, Christmas, Story

Bonus: The 12 Days of Christmas with John Denver (Poor Fozzy)

Christmas, YouTube 12 days of christmas, john denver, Muppetsringing of the bells

This is just one of the funniest things I have ever seen:

Christmas Indian Jingle Bells, Jingle Jingle

Respect can be a hard commodity to acquire. Take Peter Criss: my local paper, in noting his 65th birthday today, refer to him as a percussionist. That makes him sound like the guy who crashes cymbals at the end of the 1812 overture.

Criss was, for the uninitiated, the drummer for Kiss during their best years. One of the hardest working bands ever, Criss drummed in full makeup, and sang. His poignantly tender voice makes Beth the heartfelt tribute it is rather than the syrupy pap it could be.

But prior to Beth, Criss gave his unique vocals to Black Diamond, a highlight of pre-Beth Kiss shows. He had four solo albums and, lets face it, backstopped one of the best rhythm sections in rock and roll with one of the worst bassists.

Personally, Criss has been married three times, including 15 years to a former Playboy Playmate and Coppertone Model. He has been married to his current wife, Gigi Criss, since 1998.

Happy 65th birthday Peter Criss, you’ve earned it.

Birthday Wishes Kiss, Peter Criss

Christmas

One of my favourite Christmas songs, and definitely my favourite by Canadians: Murray McLauchlan, Tom Cochrane and Paul Hyde.

Christmas Let the Good Guys Win, Murray McLauglan, Paul Hyde, Tom Cochrane

I am getting barraged with spam comments. For the next little while, commenting will be disabled. I simply do not have the time or patience to wade through all the crap, so I won’t.

On another note, if you’re in the Waterloo area today, stop by the Lancaster Tavern for the Tree of Angels all ages concert. 9 bands playing between 2 and 9:30. $10 at the door and all proceeds go toward buying gifts for area children who otherwise won’t get any.

My band, Modest Doubt, will be opening the festivities at 2:00.

Uncategorized

All the fluffy news about those nutty celebrities

Hottie Scarlett Johannson has split from hunky Ryan Reynolds after two years of wedded bliss:

After long and careful consideration on both our parts, we’ve decided to end our marriage.

Wouldn’t it have been better if they had given “long and careful consideration,” before they got married? And wouldn’t it have been more honest if the announcement had said, “We’ve both decided we can’t continue to live with someone prettier than me.” ?

Brother and Sister in TV life, ex-husband and wife off TV. In a marriage that was so creepy for no good reason, Dexter siblings Michael C. Hall and Jennifer Carpenter have split.

They have been, reports indicate, “separated for some time.”

Having missed the last few weeks, here is some stories worth noting:

• Miley Cyrus caught on video smoking from a bong: Hammered Montana: Non-Stop Dank Party
• Wesley Snipes surrenders to authorities to begin his three year prison term for income tax evasion: how the world is better after this Federal Snipe hunt I‘m still not sure.
• Willie Nelson pot bust in Texas: who ever imagined if you cross Hannah Montana with Wesley Snipes, you’d get Willie Nelson?

We used to have a saying in our youthful, less delicate days of yore: wouldn’t f#@& her with your …

From the “perhaps we can just forgo the whole horseman drama and go straight to separating the sinners and the faithful,” department:

If Mariah Carey is pregnant is a sign of the apocalypse, what is Mariah Carey is expecting twins a sign of? Surely not just that the IQ of the Carey/Cannon household will soon approach triple digits?

And hey, who’s that guy with the beard and sandals?

The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame has announced it’s 2011 inductees…

Ladies and Gentlemen, the cream of rock and roll music, class of 2011:

• Neil Diamond
• Tom Waits
• Alice Cooper
• Darlene Love
• Dr. John

Leon Russell will also be given the award formerly known as the sideman (now called, boringly, the award for musical excellence).

Alice Cooper is a definite, Dr. John and Tom Waits OK, but in the most liberal definitions of rock and roll, how does Neil Diamond get inducted? And who is Darlene Love? If a music geek like me has never heard of her, should she really be in a hall of fame?

Blake Edwards (1922-2010) – Highlights’ of a life well lived:

Blake Edwards was married to Julie Andrews and was played by John Lithgow on film. He script wrote on Orson Welles infamous The War of the Worlds and created the Peter Gunn series. He had his hand in Victor Victoria, The Party and The Day of Wine and Roses. He is responsible for The Pink Panther series of movies.

For all the above, and so much more that Blake Edwards accomplished, there is still one achievement that, to my mind, is the feather in Edwards career cap. Edwards directed Breakfast at Tiffany’s, one of the best movies ever.

Edwards died this week, with his wife and children by his side, of complications of pneumonia in Santa Monica. He was 88.

Fluffernutter Alice Cooper, Blake Edwards, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Darlene Love, Dexter, Dr. John, Hannah Montana, Jennifer Carpenter, Julie Andrews, Leon Russell, Mariah Carey, Michael C. Hall, Miley Cyrus, Neil Diamond, Nick Canon, Orson Welles, Pamela Anderson, Peter Gunn, Playboy, Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, Ryan Reynolds, Scarlett Johannson, The Day of Wine and Roses, The Party, The War of the Worlds, Tom Waits, Victor Victoria, Wesley Snipes, Willie Nelson

Christmas dog, dog in a tie, sheltie, sheltie in a tie

Stave 1: Marley’s Ghost

Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it: and Scrooge’s name was good upon ‘Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail.

Mind! I don’t mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-nail. I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the Country’s done for. You will therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically, that Marley was as dead as a door-nail.

Scrooge knew he was dead? Of course he did. How could it be otherwise? Scrooge and he were partners for I don’t know how many years. Scrooge was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend and sole mourner. And even Scrooge was not so dreadfully cut up by the sad event, but that he was an excellent man of business on the very day of the funeral, and solemnised it with an undoubted bargain.

The mention of Marley’s funeral brings me back to the point I started from. There is no doubt that Marley was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate. If we were not perfectly convinced that Hamlet’s Father died before the play began, there would be nothing more remarkable in his taking a stroll at night, in an easterly wind, upon his own ramparts, than there would be in any other middle-aged gentleman rashly turning out after dark in a breezy spot — say Saint Paul’s Churchyard for instance — literally to astonish his son’s weak mind.

Scrooge never painted out Old Marley’s name. There it stood, years afterwards, above the warehouse door: Scrooge and Marley. The firm was known as Scrooge and Marley. Sometimes people new to the business called Scrooge Scrooge, and sometimes Marley, but he answered to both names: it was all the same to him.

Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grind- stone, Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his old features, nipped his pointed nose, shriveled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, his thin lips blue and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice. A frosty rime was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and his wiry chin. He carried his own low temperature always about with him; he iced his office in the dogdays; and didn’t thaw it one degree at Christmas.

External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty. Foul weather didn’t know where to have him. The heaviest rain, and snow, and hail, and sleet, could boast of the advantage over him in only one respect. They often “came down” handsomely, and Scrooge never did.

Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, with gladsome looks, “My dear Scrooge, how are you? When will you come to see me?” No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle, no children asked him what it was o’clock, no man or woman ever once in all his life inquired the way to such and such a place, of Scrooge. Even the blind men’s dogs appeared to know him; and when they saw him coming on, would tug their owners into doorways and up courts; and then would wag their tails as though they said, “No eye at all is better than an evil eye, dark master!”

But what did Scrooge care? It was the very thing he liked. To edge his way along the crowded paths of life, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance, was what the knowing ones call “nuts” to Scrooge…

A Christmas Carol, Christmas, Dickens Bob Cratchet, Charles Dickens, Christmas Carol, Marley, Scrooge

The Bloom County gang in just the best TV special ever:

Christmas, YouTube Bill and Opus, Bloom County