"A Christmas Carol" with the Garcia Family

"The owner of one scant young nose, gnawed and mumbled by the hungry cold as bones are gnawed by dogs, stooped down at Scrooge's keyhole to regale him with a Christmas carol..."

Saturday after Thanksgiving the owner of this Dickensian nose arrived at the home on the south shore of Long Island to regale their family with my rendition of “A Christmas Carol.” A certain melancholy sprit hung over me. Ringing the bell, garment bag in hand I waited wondering about this engagement. Peering through the outer door window, I found no knocker transforming into the visage of Jacob Marley. Inside the foyer guarding a twisting stairway stood a grand suit of armor. A diminutive pug greeted me with a Scrooge-snarl. Then, a stripling bespectacled lad with curly hair appeared. He gripped the doorknob, and looked upon me as Dickens wrote his “eyes were wide open.” Seeing me outside the young fellow remained “perfectly motionless.” Alex, Jr, needed needed his father to break the spell I apparently cast, to let his storyteller in. ‘Here he is!' Exclaimed the lad. 'The Storyteller! He’s here!’ A family of about a dozen jumped up to shake my hand giving me their names and a warm welcome.

Alex, a lad blessed with an evolved form of autism, got overwhelmed discovering the “Sleepy Hollow” storyteller on his door step. His father, ushered me to a room once used as a reception for the village doctor. I draped my frock over a music stand with “Quartet for Tuba.” Then, I donned my festive 1840’s era “gay apparel.”

I stepped into a living room artfully festooned with embroidered stockings, nut-crackers, and towering unnatural Christmas tree replete with vintage ornaments, white lights, crowned with reindeer-born Santa. To be sure, you’d see every elegant decoration, the tannenbaum rotated.

I opened with courtly bow. The family applauded. I responded with a goofy appreciative smile. Then, I launched my performance. Giving background I bridged our 2016 celebration on Long Island to 1843 London. That’s when Dickens published his soon to be classic tale of humbug to redemption. Many at the time, here in the states too, agreed when old Scrooge scoffed; “Out upon Merry Christmas.”

Alex, seated within arms length, waved for attention. Discretely, his father stepped over to whisper. ‘Tis time to listen my dear boy!’ Good ghostly spirits swept in to muse me. Dickens’ classic, once described by a dear friend as, “the most perfect tale of hope and redemption,” poured out from me. I found myself shape-shifting for the family. I embodied the incorrigible Scrooge, alacritous Cratchit, indefatigable Fred, the Portlies, wispy and basso. I sang as the plaintive urchin at key hole, then transformed into the spirit-rattling Marley. Appearing next; the ethereal Ghost of Past, a frail Fanny, the ebullient Fezziwig, joined in calf-glowing dance by his shrill wife and their adorable daughters. I illumined the mournful Belle, showed avarice-lined youngish Scrooge heart-broken. Then, on to jolly as a grandiloquent Ghost of Christmas Present (my favorite!), who quelled the bumping merchants. I became Cratchits; Martha, Peter, and “brave with ribbons” Mrs, Cratchit. My Muse then let me bless all as beatific Tiny Tim.

We traveled to the miner’s shack, made Virginia Wolfe proud flying “to the lighthouse” to give the two words of comfort. “Merry Christmas.” Off into a haughty Mrs. Fred, who saw the braying stubborn ass in Scrooge. I warned all to take care of wolfish Want and shallow Ignorance. I shifted into an unearthly Ghost of Christmas Future. Stealing a page from Robin Williams and Monty Python, I transmute into mocking men of business and Scrooges scavengers. Epiphany! Even Scrooge transforms! If a squeezing, wrenching, grasping covetous sinner is worthy of redemption, there’s hope for every one of us. Finally, I conclude as I always do praising my audience for listening to this tale. The act of “keeps Christmas well.”

Oh, the Garcia’s applauded loud and long enough to have to prevent the tear on my cheek was just “a pimple.”

Then, young Alex had questions as did the whole family. Plied with a glass of wine of two, I told how why I love this tale above even the Headless Horseman. (Tis hauntingly hopeful!) I shared my own story of becoming a storyteller thanks to my little brother James begging for a story, and to examples set by the spontaneous Brother Blue and the studied Jay O’Callahan.

Mentioning of Washington Irving’s transforming dour old Sinter Klaas into jolly olde Saint Nick, prompted me to claim I could recite “A Visit From Saint Nick.” Completely candid Alex noted. “You don’t have to Jonathan! We have the book! I persuaded him to read along while I retold the poem. He tracked me scrupulous care! When I said “settled our heads” Alex pointed out. “It’s brains. Settled our brains. When I said and then “in an instant” Alex corrected. “Moment” Every one laughed. I gave him a few solos. He got to whistle and shout the reindeer names. First, in his soft nasally voice, then after encouragement to ‘talk like Jonathan’ he crooned Nooow, Dasssh-er, on Dan-ceeer, Nooow Pran-Cer And… Vixen!! I laughed when I heard him in spite of myself!

I learned the family was quite musical, their three millennial daughters played French Horn, Euphonium and Tuba. Uncle George loved history, especially the heart altering crucible of war to peace. Long time, they’d been fans. My presence not only surprised young Alex. The fact (no brag) my appearance and performance touched an entire family, moved me to tears, I hid while changing back in the music stand room.

...and it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge.

May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God bless Us, Every One!

Now, at last I understand why the Spirits had me travel close to two hours on a holiday weekend. They wanted to redeem this November gone melancholy man into one who keeps Christmas, and a sweet autistic boy, well. I hope, I’ve kept your interest here as well! Let me know. Merry Christmas.