Apropos of nothing at all, I always thought Scrooge was a grossly misunderstood character. I also thought he was a skinflint and suffered from a condition that, today, would anchor a whole chapter in the DSM-5, Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. Given that every other tic and quirk imaginable has been distilled to and labelled a psychiatric malady, I’m sure Scrooge’s parsimony would qualify. He clearly had an unhealthy relationship with money, being unable to even spend it on himself.
Conveniently, Scrooge and Christmas are forever linked. I’m certain I’m not the only person who feels the unsettling rumblings of latent Scroogeish tendencies this time of year. We’re endlessly bombarded with pitches to buy, to give, to indulge, to make merry.
I mildly envy those people who take a pass on the whole Christmas gift-giving thing. I don’t mean the people who are too poor to participate in the annual consumer extravaganza or those non-Christians who still view it as a religious holiday incompatible with their own creationist myths. I mean the people who have decided it’s a decadent excess fest and they won’t have anything to do with it on Higher Moral Principles. The Buy-Nothings. The Voluntary Simplists. The Anti-Consumers who believe all this unnecessary seasonal buying frenzy is a big business conspiracy that will eventually destroy the planet.
Of course, I think they’re nuts, too. Likely deeply psychologically scarred from the time many years ago when the bicycle they wanted to find on Christmas morning more than anything else in the whole wide world turned out to be an encyclopedia or pair of new pajamas under the tree. I imagine they’re insufferable hypocrites who browbeat their friends with a multiplicity of causes du jour and exhibit a judgmental disdain for any new purchase those friends have been gauche enough to acquire.
But right about now, I secretly envy them. Somehow they’ve overcome that mutant twist of human DNA that makes us want to express feelings we may not be willing to admit we have by giving someone something we’d really rather keep for ourselves or not buy in the first place. They skate through this seasonal disorder without a care in the world except the nagging doubt that all of their friends think they’re crazy old Scrooges.
Like most people I know, I was an irredeemable greedhead as a kid. I still read magazines from back to front instead of front to back. I imagine it’s because all the really cool catalogues that came to our house in the run-up to Christmas had the toys in the back and I never saw the point of those other, wasted pages. Women’s clothing; don’t care. Men’s clothing; don’t care. Household goods; don’t care. Might as well start at the back, that’s where the good stuff is.
During the months of November and December I would memorize the page numbers, descriptions, price and stock ID numbers of the toys I wanted, and we’re talking about a feat here that would put Mr. Memory to shame. I didn’t write Santa letters; I wrote epistles. I think I might have even threatened to forget leaving milk and cookies out if the old boy didn’t come through.
I marvel at what was surely a tsunami of nonsense my parents put up with in trying to juggle and balance the screaming demands of four self-centred children with the reality of a one-income household. For this was truly a golden era of childcentric holidays. Sure, in some ways things were simpler. I mean, bikes were bikes, two tires, one speed. Electronic toys didn’t exist. The only things that needed power were trains and those nerdy chemistry sets guys like Theodore Kaczynski got.
But there were more kinds of dolls and toy pistols and board games than there are Pokeman characters and woe was seriously visited on the parent who screwed up and couldn’t find the right one, at least after their kid was old enough to stop believing that “Santa must have run out, honey,” crap.
But the main reasons I envy the bah humbug crowd is because a) I’m a terrible shopper, b) most of the people I’d feel compelled to buy a present for already have whatever they need and in some cases want, exotic cars notwithstanding, c) I’m a terrible shopper—I know, I’m repeating myself; but I’m bad enough at it to mention it twice—and, d) I’m conflicted because there are now grandchildren in my life who I would happily indulge in the most fatuous whimsy that sparked their little imaginations.
Fortunately, age has whittled down the list of people for whom I might feel compelled to buy a Christmas present. My siblings and I have agreed it’s silly to buy each other anything at this point in life although, come to think of it, they agreed on that when I moved to Canada 45 years ago.
My Wonderful Wife and I have reached a detente about presents, for the most part. We buy what we need when we need it and pretend it’s a Christmas/birthday/anniversary present. Currently we’ve identified purchases that’ll account for those holidays well into the next decade. But neither of us are keeping score.
Online shopping has alleviated much of the paralysis I experience in retail settings. Too many people, too many choices, not enough differentiation, rarely exactly what I’m looking for. I feel less guilt about it because of the postal strike, which is absurd since I wouldn’t be mailing any of those gifts anyway. I rationalize, therefore I am.
A strong desire to support local businesses has helped as well, since the choices locally aren’t as daunting as they were when I lived in a big city. I tithe my thanks to Armchair Books, the gift shops at the Squamish Lil’wat Cultural Centre and Audain, all the clothing and gear stores around town and, of course, various liquor outlets.
And with so much need, the easiest gift of all is charitable contributions. So much help needed and so few resources. Give ‘til it hurts and ironically you’ll feel better for it.
But as a free gift for anyone who still likes to have stories told to them—and who doesn’t—there will, once again, be a free holiday reading of Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol at the cosy fireplace room at the library on Friday, Dec. 20 at 7 p.m.
I won’t reveal who’s reading Scrooge except to say it isn’t the mayor... again. Bad optics this year. But the usual suspects and a new face will be there, and Alison Hunter will fill the room with suitably festive, soothing harp music before and after. All you have to do is show up.
If you want to come, register with the library so they can plan a seat for you: [email protected], and if you have something to donate to the food bank, there is always a need.
