A Yuletide Yarn, 5: The Ghost of Christmas Past

Scrooge clapped his hands. “Excellent!” He pulled the repeater from his waistcoat pocket, checked the time, then grabbed his hat. “We should depart! Our first stop awaits! Follow me!”

“Our first stop? Where are we going?” Oliver asked, then immediately followed up with, “I’m not dressed for going out.”

“As during my own adventure, you will be subject to neither wind nor snow,” Scrooge replied, walking toward the stairs. “Unlike my own adventure, however, you do not have to cling to me while we travel. You need but keep up with me to remain in my sphere of influence. Come!”

Oliver followed him, and they started down the first flight of stairs. He couldn’t help but step softly, worried that he would awaken the twins on his way out. Scrooge chuckled again, and Oliver was impressed by how easily amused the ghost was. “No one will see or hear you until we part way, save the spirits we seek. If it be your wish to tread lightly, please do so. But know that it is not necessary.” As if to prove the point, Scrooge climbed on the bannister and rode it down to the first floor, a raucous “WHEEEE!” springing forth from his mouth as he did so. Oliver cringed at the racket, but no creature stirred as Scrooge disembarked from the railing. “As you see, unseen and unheard!” he cried up to Oliver from the foyer. “Hurry now!”

Oliver made his way quickly down the stairs using the conventional stepping method. He caught up with Scrooge just as Scrooge opened the front door…

…onto a brisk, clear mid-afternoon. The air was obviously chilly as the few people that were out and about were bundled quite warmly. Oliver, feeling not in the least bit cold, followed Scrooge to the end of the walk, then up the sidewalk where it turned out of the neighborhood. Everything looked essentially as it always had, although Oliver did notice some subtle differences — the fashion sense was late 80’s-style, as were the makes and models of cars he saw driving or parked along the streets.

“Alright, we’re in the past somewhere, but I’ll ask again — where are we going?” Oliver said as he took in the strangeness of being surrounded by London that was almost but not quite familiar to him.

“Don’t you know? Think about your past.”

“My past?”

“Yes, Oliver. As I said,” Scrooge replied, crossing his arms behind him as he strolled, “I need your help. The purview of Christmas Past is always the traveller’s past, in this case, yours.”

“So we’re in… on…?” Oliver looked questioningly at Scrooge, who shrugged in reply. “We’re… at… a Christmas day from my early childhood. Let’s see… it would have been one where we were staying at the Torrington house… Hmm…” He was struggling to remember. 

Scrooge’s eyes wrinkled as he smiled broadly. “I’ll give you a hint. We appear to be heading toward a garden.”

“That’s not much of a hint. There are lots of gardens around this part of London.”

“Yes, but this garden is still green, even on Christmas Day!”

That hint was enough to help Oliver recall a vague memory. As they turned one more corner, his recollection and vision coalesced at the same time. He saw himself, aged about five or so, playing in a large, unseasonably green garden behind the house of some friends of his parents. The garden was shared with several other houses, surrounded on all sides save the street side from which Scrooge and he had approached it. He watched himself climbing a tree and remembered what was going to happen next. He rushed to the edge of the garden just in time to see himself lose his small-handed grip on the limb to which he clung. He fell, landing flat on his back, knocking the wind out of his small frame. As his former self’s chest struggled to heave with the effort of silent cries, a lady rushed to his side from the house opposite his parent’s friend’s. 

Oliver had a very clear recollection of her being young and quite tall; as such, he was surprised to see that she was old and short. Her hair, though, was consistent: long and so light that he thought it glowed. She was dressed only in a drab cottony nightgown and an oversized coppery-colored beanie, but she made them both seem majestic as she tenderly ministered to young Oliver, rubbing his back and helping him to his feet as he caught his breath and began to calm down.

“Thank you,” young Oliver said to the nice lady.

“You’re quite welcome, Oliver. Try to be careful when climbing strange trees.” She gave him a playful tousle on the head then made her way slowly back to her house. Young Oliver couldn’t have seen her face after she’d turned away from him, but older Oliver did, and he was surprised to see how forlorn she looked as she re-entered her house. He stared after her for a few moments, noticing her cross to a room with a bay window overlooking the garden. She sat on what must’ve been a window bench there, staring after young Oliver as he went back inside. When he had disappeared behind the back door, the old woman’s gaze wandered around the garden, until it came to rest on older Oliver. She stared at him, obviously confused, then surprised. She rose quickly from the window seat and disappeared from view, but didn’t reemerge. Oliver waited, staring at the back door and window for a full minute before Scrooge politely cleared his throat.

“Did you learn anything?” Scrooge inquired.

“Maybe, I’m not sure. That old woman… who was she?’

Scrooge shrugged again, then said, “Have another look for her.”

Oliver turned back to the garden and noticed the sky had become darker, cloudier. The ground was suddenly covered in a rare, thin layer of snow. Without preamble, Scrooge said “Perhaps on another Christmas of significance?” He pointed toward the back window. Oliver walked timidly into the garden, which, while still green, looked far closer to succumbing to the turning of the seasons than it had a moment ago. 

He peered into the bay window overlooking the garden and caught a glimpse of the old woman. She was holding something in her hands, staring down at it intently. It must have been a picture of some sort, because a moment later she turned and secured it to the wall. Oliver noticed that the entire wall was covered with pictures of various sizes and shapes. Oliver walked up the three steps that led to her back door and hesitated, unsure of whether or not he would be able to interact with the past at all. Finally, he gently rapped his knuckles on the door.

It was opened a moment later by the same lady he’d seen a minute and twenty-five years ago. This time, she appeared to be middle aged, as if time couldn’t make up its mind on how it should be affecting her. She still wore the simple cotton nightgown and strange beanie, and smiled sadly at Oliver.

“Come in, Oliver. I’ve been expecting you all day.”

He made his way past her and into the house. “Is it Christmas day, still?” Oliver asked.

“It’s always Christmas Day… isn’t it Eleazar?” She wasn’t facing Oliver as she replied, but was instead staring down the steps to where Scrooge stood. Oliver glanced back to Scrooge, who had taken his hat off and held it in his hands before him. The woman finally stepped back, gesturing Scrooge inside as well. Scrooge came tentatively up the steps, bowing formally to the woman as he came into the house. She walked past both of them and back into what must have been the room with the bay window. Oliver and Scrooge followed her.

Oliver knew from his look through the window that there were pictures covering the wall, but he wasn’t prepared for what actually greeted him. Every space on every wall was covered with a picture of some kind. Many were photographs, but just as many were painting or sketches. They were all of people, almost all of which were in fellowship of some kind. As he looked over them, they seemed to change aspect, as if they had lenticular surfaces. The overall effect was that the walls all seemed to be constantly shifting on the edges of his vision.

Oliver noticed Scrooge admire one picture in particular. Scrooge reached out slowly, allowing his fingers to glide along the edge of the frame, and smiled. “Fran… the day she came and picked me up from school.”

The woman touched Scrooge lightly on the shoulder. “It was a good Christmas.”

“It was,” Scrooge replied, passing his hand over his eyes, and smiling. 

The woman took the opportunity to turn to Oliver. “Have you found yours yet?”

Oliver looked to where the woman had placed the picture he’d seen her staring at earlier. He didn’t recognize any of the people in any of the pictures in that general area, so finally responded, “No, I haven’t. Where is it?”

“It’s here,” she said, pointing off to the right of where Oliver was originally looking. The picture that he found there was of his family in front of the Christmas tree, the twins excited about opening their presents, but Oliver sitting by himself, holding one small, unopened box.

“That was not a good Christmas for me. That gift,” he said, pointing to where he sat slightly away from everyone else, “was from Dottie. It was a small, framed picture of us. On the back of the picture was a poem she had written to me.”

“Though we are apart

I will always be with you

As you are with me”

“She was already gone by then, and I didn’t see her again… until… ” he trailed off, recalling the surreal encounter with Dottie in the middle of what had already been a momentous day.

“And do you know what she went through that Christmas, Oliver?” the lady asked him, heading toward where she had hung the earlier picture. She pointed to the picture, and Oliver looked.

He saw a picture of Dottie just as he remembered her. She, too, looked sad, but far braver than he did. She and her father were standing next to a bed. In the bed was a woman he only barely recognized as Dottie’s mother. Her skin was pale to the point of translucence, except for her eyes, which were dark and sunken into her face. Despite their obvious pain, they were all smiling, as if they realized that these were some of the last moments they would enjoy together on this side of the veil. As he looked, he saw an animated tear trickle from the corner of Dottie’s eye, down her cheek, to disappear somewhere under her chin.

“That tear was for you, Oliver,” the woman told him.

“As sad as she was, no grief at that moment was greater than her separation from you,” chimed in Scrooge.

Oliver turned back to stare at both of them. They stood, side by side, looking expectantly at him.

“I… had no idea… of what a self-centered jerk I was during that time. I could have been a better person.”

“That is a lesson most of us must continually learn, my boy,” said Scrooge in reply. He turned then to the woman, and in a contrite voice, said, “By that token, I must apologize for the way our original meeting ended. You taught me truths that I had forgotten, and, as painful as some of them were, I did not repay your kindness in like. As hard as I have tried to fulfill the sanction of the Spirits of Christmas, I find that I am not fit to have capped your light, and humbly request that you allow me to let it shine forth once again so that others may benefit from your tutelage.”

“Besides,” Oliver added, “you don’t seem like yourself. Both times I’ve seen you, you’ve looked… sad. Do you… maybe… miss being the Spirit of Christmas Past?”

She smiled at Oliver, then, and turning to Scrooge, nodded slightly. Scrooge slowly removed her beanie. As he did, a light began to arise from the crown of her head. It became so intense that Oliver had to shield his eyes, throwing his arm across them and squeezing them tightly shut. When he was finally able to open them again, he could see that the woman’s static form had been replaced by one continually shifting. As Dicken’s wrote:

“…being now a thing with one arm, now with one leg, now with twenty legs, now a pair of legs without a head, now a head without a body…”

Except for the illumination where the cap had been, shining like a flame with the light of truth. A voice came from the light, saying:

“Thank you, Eleazar, for your stewardship of my mantle. I take it up again freely, and bid you farewell.”

With that, another sudden flash of light filled the room, this one so abrupt that Oliver couldn’t help but be dazzled. When his vision cleared, he realized that they had moved in both time and space. It was evening, and snow was gently falling, although none was sticking to the ground this time. He and Scrooge were both standing in the corner of a busy foot-traffic thoroughfare that he recognized. Spinning around and looking up to verify, he turned slowly back to Scrooge for additional confirmation.

“Our next stop… is Simpson’s Tavern?!”

A Yuletide Yarn, 4: Scrooge's Ghost

Please note here that nothing else unusual happened before Oliver went to bed, aside from the fact that Victoria and Daphne had taken a marginal interest in the discovered book at last. The family was in the library, where Oliver’s father was digging through digitized copies of hand-written records he’d found on Oliver’s mother’s family. The twins complimented Oliver on his sitting prowess, as neither of them had ever managed to crack a stone simply by touching their bottom to it. Oliver was inclined to take the ribbing as good-natured. He was still coming off the surreal high from the run-in with Dottie. His family was a bit surprised to hear that she’d moved back to London and immediately began prying into his future plans. That annoyance dumped the “sur” from his “reality” with full force. He immediately responded with something completely non-committal and then claimed he was tired and was going to get ready for bed. It was slightly early, but his sleep schedule was messed up in any case thanks to losing five hours over the Atlantic. He took a melatonin tablet, then a shower, then went to bed. He’d had nothing mind-altering in any way, which makes what happened next even more inexplicable.

His bedroom was one of two on the third floor of the house. The third floor also had a common room separating the two bedrooms, but it was seldom used. The best thing about the third floor was that it afforded him the luxury of not having to share any personal space with his sisters. If fact, it had been they that suggested it years ago, when boys were still conceptually and literally icky. It had never bothered him, as he found the floor soothingly quiet, and never had trouble sleeping there.

Tonight, however, he tossed and turned, never feeling like he descended beyond a light doze before twitching or snorting himself to wakefulness again. Therefore, he wasn’t very asleep when, just after the stroke of midnight, he thought he heard a knocking on the door across the landing. He sat up, waiting to be sure. A moment later, he heard the knocking again, followed by the creaking open of the other bedroom’s door and a muffled “Oliver?” He didn’t recognize the voice.

Oliver got out of bed, pulling on the bathrobe hanging on the bedpost. He cracked his own door open, peeking through to get a glimpse of what was going on. He was greeted with a sight most unexpected. A man, dressed in some kind of Victorian gentleman’s costume, was leaning through the half-open door opposite him. He heard the man quietly ask “Oliver?” again as he took a timid step into the empty bedroom.

“Don’t move! I’m calling the police!” Oliver yelled at him from across the common room.

“Oh!” the man opposite him yelped, jumping slightly at Oliver’s exclamation. “There you are. You startled me!”

“Sorry,” Oliver said reflexively, then realized that in this situation, the apology was probably unnecessary. “Wait, uh… You just stay right where you are.” He began edging slowly back toward his nightstand where he kept his phone.

“Of course, pardon me, but I implore you to delay alerting the authorities. You see, I need your help. Oh, where are my manners, I should introduce myself,” the man said, taking the black top hat from his head and bowing very slightly. “My name is Scroggie, Eleazar Scroggie. Most people know me by the name Dickens gave me — Scrooge.”

This nutter is worse than I thought! How did he get into the house?! Oliver thought immediately as he backed away more hurriedly, never taking his eyes from the old man. 

The man held his hands up so that Oliver could clearly see them. “I assure you, I’m neither crazy nor criminal, neither screwball nor swindler. I am as harmless as a babe, as Wordsworth said. Please, feel free to get your cellular device, but will you at least sit and indulge me for a moment while I explain who I am and what brings me here? If afterward you are not convinced, I will submit to whatever justice and security you deem necessary.” He gestured toward the chairs in the common room.

The man certainly looked the part of Scrooge. He was dressed in an elegant, well tailored, black frock coat with a matching maroon waistcoat. His dress shirt with high starched collar was as white as the hair that neatly crowned his head. The red ascot encircling his neck would be proof against all but the chillest of winter winds. He wore his sideburns long and slightly bushy, and that style helped offset his sharp, hawkish features. His face was delicately lined, but the angles of the lines implied most of them resulted from ready smiles and laughter instead of age. Oliver didn’t feel particularly scared of the old man for some reason, but quickly retrieved his phone anyway. He cautiously re-entered the common room. The man calling himself Scrooge took the seat nearest the other bedroom, leaving the seat closest to Oliver free. There were only a few feet and a small table in between the seats. Oliver wasn’t sure why, but he swallowed his misgivings and took the other seat. The old man smiled at him and set his top hat on the table between them.

“Thank you, Oliver. I —” 

“How do you know my name?” Oliver interrupted. He felt like he didn’t have to observe the normal level of politeness given the circumstances.

The old man smiled. “I’ve known you most of your life, Oliver. I’ve visited you many times, unseen.”

“Do you have any idea of how creepy that sounds?” Oliver replied, shuddering at the thought.

“Yes,” the man replied surprisingly. “I will ask for your indulgence now while I relate to you my brief tale. By the end, you will understand why what I just said is not, in fact, creepy."

Oliver nodded, but narrowed his eyes, silently reserving the right to interrupt whenever he felt like it.

The old man nodded once at him, leaning back in the chair. “I know that you read A Christmas Carol with some frequency. I also know that by now, you suspect that it was based on a true story instead of being a work of pure fiction. Allow me to confirm that suspicion as a fact. A Christmas Carol was based on a true story — my story, but also the story of your ancestors: your great-great-great-great grandfather, Tim Crocket, and his father, my former employee and partner, Bob.”

Oliver gaped at the old man. Actually gaped at him, slack-jawed, bulging eyes, perhaps a bit of drool forming at the corner of his mouth. The old man chuckled at him again. “You may recall near the end of that story, I uttered the following lines: ’I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future! The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me!’ Does that sound familiar?”

Oliver nodded. He recognized the lines as ones that Scrooge spoke when he awakened from the visitation of the Spirit of Christmas Yet to Come.

“I lived out those words, my boy. I kept the Spirits of Christmas alive in me all through the year and the rest of my mortal life, even when Tim was taken from us too soon.” Here, the old man paused a moment, lost in his own thoughts, before continuing. “At the end of my life, I was content. I had lived more in my final few years than most people live altogether. My nephew Fred and Bob’s family were well provided for, and I knew I would rest in peace. Only,” the man paused again, shifting uneasily in his chair, “I didn’t. You see, one moment I was closing my eyes to shove off the mortal coil, and the next I was here, in this form.” Saying this, the old man seemed to fade slightly, becoming dimmer, the color washing out of him, like an oil painting kept too long in direct sunlight. Oliver could swear that he could even see through him to the back of the chair, as if he were translucent.

“What I didn’t realize when I spoke those words was that the Powers That Be considered them a binding oath. I became the Spirits of Christmas Past, Present, and Yet To Come.”

“The problem is, I’m not very good at actually being the Spirits of Christmas. I suspect that those  original Spirits are part of Creation itself, that human spirits aren’t meant to carry those mantles. You may have noticed that Christmas has changed dramatically since I was alive. I need your help to alter the course of Christmas again, to restore it to its former and future glory.” As he spoke the last, Oliver saw that he resume his normal, solid, Victorian, form.

“My help?” Oliver was somewhere between speechless and incredulous. “How can I possibly help?

Scrooge drew himself up, standing tall and erect as he said, “I have been led here tonight by the Powers That Be with what has been made known to me to be a chance to set things right again, to restore the proper Spirits of Christmas to their rightful places. I cannot do it alone, as I cannot see them or commune with them in their current forms. You, however, can and will recognize them if we do, indeed, encounter them. It’s possible that you already know them.”

I might know them? How is that possible? Oliver thought. He’d moved on from speechless and incredulous to a full-on flabbergasted state.

“Will you help me, Oliver? As in the story, I will be able to convey us to places unseen and unheard by mortal eyes and ears. But I cannot succeed alone. For the sake of Christmases Past, Present, and Future, will you help me?”

Oliver tried desperately to be thoughtful and rational about the decision, but ultimately his heart overrode his mind. At the very core of his being, the base of his soul, he understood that there was only one possible answer to Scrooge’s question.

“Yes.”

A Yuletide Yarn, 3: The Christmas Blues

If you are the kind of person that would find it unbelievable that something as interesting and compelling as finding a possible first edition of a 170-year-old book worth £30,000 could be summarily dismissed by not only one but two people simultaneously, then you probably haven’t met Oliver’s sisters. Daphne and Victoria Thompson, the twin red-headed apples of their mother’s eyes, were two of the reasons that Oliver didn’t come home for Christmas very often. It’s not that they were mean at all or purposefully inconsiderate, but they represented all of the things that Oliver had come to dislike about the holiday season. Their Christmas spirit was completely commercialized, consumed by consumerism, going so far as to revel in the way the season started before Halloween. They always asked you what you wanted for a gift, hounded you for the information, in fact, then decided that what you wanted wasn’t up to their standards and got you something completely different. Their standard, by the way, tended toward the ostentatious, which was nice on some levels, because if you weren’t going to get what you wanted, at least you were going to get something completely over the top and occasionally nice. There was a bit of quid-pro-quo with them, though — if they were going to go to the trouble of getting you something that they liked, you had better be sure to get them something that they liked in return.

These thoughts passed through his mind as Oliver slowly followed his parents to the foyer, their investigations temporarily suspended if not forgotten. He cringed inwardly, realizing that he was going to disappoint his sisters at the least. His luggage had been lost somewhere between JFK and Heathrow, and all of the presents he’d procured were inside it. As inconvenient as this was for him, it would be practically devastating for Daphne and Victoria.

Sidling into the foyer, Oliver saw that his parents were already taking bags and boxes from the twins. He tried to remain unnoticed, but unfortunately for him, his stealth was nothing compared to the twins’ perceptions.

“Ollie,” Victoria said as she unwrapped the scarf from her neck. It took a while, as the scarf was quite long, and Victoria was quite short. “There’s loads more in the car. Do you mind getting them?”

“Sure Vickie,” Oliver mumbled, stepping around the group and pulling on his coat. He almost, but not quite, stomped down the short walk to where Victoria’s car was parked. The setting of the sun was bringing on a rising chill in the air, although the breeze that accompanied it was still gentle. It might turn out to be a pleasantly cool evening, but the thought gave Oliver little comfort as he opened the driver’s side door.

“Good to see you too Vickie. Yes, it has been a long time, hasn’t it? Aw, thanks! I don’t feel like I look fitter than ever…” Oliver mumbled to himself as he popped the boot open. There were two large containers full of more gifts than Oliver had purchased in his life, sum total. He hefted one container out, careful not to jostle its contents too much, and turned to take it back into the house. As he did, his eyes were assaulted by a garish combination of blinking lights of every shade on the spectrum. Victoria and Daphne must have seen to it that the exterior of the house was “properly decorated,” and the lights had turned on just as he was going back up the walk. He felt his eyes watering from both the burning of his retinas as well as the crushing of the last remnant of his Christmas spirit. It was one thing to have a tasteful display of white lights outlining your house, but what Vickie and Daphne had done was… loathsome.

Hunching his shoulders against the display, he re-entered the house. The foyer was empty at this point, everyone else having migrated to the living room to arrange the stuff that the twins had already brought in. Oliver put the container down on the foyer floor then repeated the trip to the car and back, shielding his eyes this time as he returned with the second container. He took the containers one at a time into the living room where everyone was already admiring the tree and presents.

“Thanks, Ollie,” said Daphne, almost paying attention to him as she opened the containers and started pulling individually wrapped items out, transferring them to their proper places beneath the tree. Oliver noticed that his father has surreptitiously slipped away, probably finding his way back to the library to gawk at the book a bit more before dinner.

“Well now, that is just lovely!” Victoria said as she stepped back from the tree to give Daphne room to maneuver. “Everything is set just right, only…” she paused, leaning slightly toward the left, then the right, then stooping down a bit, before continuing, “Ollie, I don’t see anything from you under here…?”

“Oh Vickie, don’t start in on Oliver. His luggage was misplaced on his flight over here. All he has is what was in his backpack,” his mother said, seeming almost embarrassed at both the fact that she’d almost forgotten Oliver was there and that Oliver hadn’t managed to plan far enough ahead to have backup presents for just such an eventuality as lost luggage.

Victoria rolled her eyes. Actually rolled her eyes. Oliver wish he understood why his mother doted on her so much. He was fairly certain that that was the main reason she was as she was. Oliver suppressed a sigh, then said, “Did Mom and Dad tell you about the first edition A Christmas Carol that we found in the stone bench this evening?”

Victoria looked puzzled as Daphne stood up beside her. “A Christmas Carol, you mean the book? And which stone bench?”

“Yes, the book,” Oliver replied, glad to see the subject steering away from presents for the moment. “The stone bench out back. It turns out it was a time capsule!”

“Oh, how interesting,” Daphne said, with a tone that conveyed Oh, who cares about some moldy old book you found in the back yard? Oliver suspected that she was finally realizing that she was not going to be receiving anything gift-wrapped from the USA on Christmas morning. “It’s Christmas, Ollie. We really want our last Christmas in this house to be a proper one. How are we going to manage that when you can’t participate in the joy of giving?” She said it so sincerely that for a moment Oliver almost believed that she was genuinely concerned with his well-being, and that he might feel badly if he couldn’t give gifts to everyone in the morning.

Then the reality of the statement hit him, and he wondered why he had bothered to fly across the second largest body of water on the planet to spend time with these people. “That’s a fair point, Daphne. Luckily, I was just heading out to do some last minute shopping. Hopefully Harrod’s is still open.” 

“Oh good grief, Ollie, I was just teasing!” Daphne said as Oliver’s face fell even further. She came over to him and hugged him, joined a moment later by Victoria. “We’re glad you’re here, you know. The stuff doesn’t matter.”

“…well, not much, anyway…” said Victoria. She gave Oliver an extra squeeze as she said it, although he wasn’t sure if it was for jest or emphasis.

Oliver didn’t trust himself to say anything, so he simply hugged them in return. After a few moments, the twins simultaneously broke the embrace, and Oliver found that he felt slightly better.

“I really do want to get out for a bit. Vickie, can I borrow your car?”

Vickie looked slightly abashed, and Oliver took a small amount of sadistic pleasure in that fact. She dug through her purse for a moment, then handed her keys to Oliver. “For the records, Harrod’s is still open. But it’s a mad house. I wish you luck if you decide to stop by there,” she said, giving him a wink. It was hard to stay upset with the twins for very long. They had the rather annoying habit of doing something endearing just when you really wanted to dislike them.

 “Alright, I’d better get to it if I’m to have any chance at all. I’ll try to be back for dinner, but if I’m not, you go ahead without me.” A moment later, he was driving Victoria’s car through Soho towards Harrod’s.

---

The best thing about Harrod’s is its diversity. In almost no time, Oliver had found two very elegant hand-crafted Faberge-style Christmas ornaments for Victoria and Daphne at one place and a book on lapidary art and methods for his mother at another. His father’s gift was the biggest challenge. He’d finally managed to find a Meerschaum pipe carved with the likeness of Buddha on the side in a small corner of the men’s section of a jeweler’s shop. Strangely, it had caught his ear before his eye as he’d walked by it. For a moment, he thought someone had called his name. When he glanced in that direction, he could have sworn he had seen the face of an old man on the pipe, and that the face had actually moved when he heard his name called. On his double-take, however, he recognized the Buddha image for what it was, and discounted the calling of his name as a trick from the combination of large amounts of ambient music, cash registers, and conversations.

As he was finishing up the purchase of the pipe, he heard his name being called again. This time, he was certain it was someone purposefully trying to address him, and the voice itself sounded familiar as well. He turned around, searching for the source of the voice.

“Oliver! Oliver Thompson!”

A friendly looking lady was smiling and waving to him from just outside the shop. Her hands were full of small bags that jounced around merrily as she tried to get Oliver’s attention. Oliver smiled, realizing who it was. He made his way quickly out of the store, calling her by name as he emerged. “Dottie? Is that you?”

Dottie laughed as she nodded vigorously at him. “Oh do come here, then,” she said, holding her arms open. Oliver warmly embraced her, and a flood of memories almost overwhelmed him. Dottie Keating was the woman he was madly in love with all through secondary school. They had tried dating in their final year, but had broken it off when her family had moved to Scarborough and she’d decided to go with them instead of staying in London to attend university. He’d tried to convince her that he could attend any university she was willing to go to, but she had refused to hear of it. Her mother was sick, and she needed to be able to focus on her and her father’s care. She had wanted to “remain friends,” but Oliver’s heart had broken too miserably to allow for that. It was one of the reasons he’d chosen to attend Yale in the United States — a fresh start with nothing to remind him of what might’ve been.

“Wow, Ollie! You’ve not changed a bit, have you?” Dottie said, holding him out at arm’s length appraisingly. “What are you doing here? I thought you lived in the States now?”

“I do,” Oliver replied, sure he was grinning like a maniac but not being able to do anything about it. “Mom insisted on a full family Christmas at the old house. I made the trip, but something happened with my baggage, so I’m scrambling to find last-minute gifts.” He held up his packages as if Dottie needed proof. “What are you doing here?”

“Also last-minute shopping. Did you know I moved back to the city?”

“I didn’t know that, no. When did that happen?”

“The beginning of the year. Dad passed away just over two years ago now, and I finally sold the Scarborough house and came back here. All my best memories are here, after all, and I needed a comforting new start.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your Dad, Dottie. So, uh…” Oliver’s scattered thoughts were fighting for control of his language faculties. “Um, what new start happened for you?” he finally managed to get out. He was still smiling maniacally, but was also sweating slightly with the efforts of making cogent speech.

“I’ve re-enrolled in university! I’m in the anthropology department at UCL.”

“Wait, you’re at UCL?  Isn’t the anthropology department just around the block from the Torrington Place house?”

“Yes, yes it is,” Dottie said. Was she blushing slightly? “Anyway, I thought that was you in the shop and couldn’t resist the chance to surprise you. Are you going to be in town long?”

“Through the New Year, probably.”

“Great! I’d love to catch up a little more if you’ve got a chance. Can I get your number?” Dottie asked, although she didn’t make a move to get her cell phone out.

“Yeah, of course. That’d be fantastic!” Oliver said, and meant it. He gave her his number, and she sent him a text message to confirm that she’d entered it correctly.

“Alright, I don’t want to keep you. Please tell your family I said hello,” Dottie said, glancing at the time on her phone’s display. “And Oliver, I hope you have a very Merry Christmas.” She opened her arms again. Oliver didn’t remember Dottie being this big a hugger in school, but wasn’t objecting.

He hugged her goodbye, saying, “You too, Dottie. Merry Christmas to you too. Call me soon, I’ll treat you to a proper afternoon tea or something.”

Dottie laughed at that, saying “High tea? On a first date? Let’s try coffee first.” She released him and started walking towards another store. He walked in the opposite direction, toward the carpark. He couldn’t shake the surreality of the entire interaction. It stayed with him through the rest of the evening’s activities, including when he placed the gifts under the tree. It must have been the surreality that caused him to think, once again, that the Meerschaum pipe was calling his name as he left the living room and turned out the lights.

A Yuletide Yarn, 2: The Family Tree

“Remarkable!” Oliver’s father said for perhaps the fifth time since being handed the book. At this point, he was sitting in front of the computer, searching the Internet about first edition copies of A Christmas Carol. He had already made plans to take it round to Collinge & Clarke’s after the holidays to see what they had to say about it. “Did you know that, if this book is authentic, it might sell for as much as thirty thousand pounds?”

Oliver’s mother snorted. “You’re having a laugh,” she said, then caught the serious yet excited look on Oliver’s father’s face. “Well, that would be something, wouldn’t it? It would be the most expensive book in our collection.”

“By far, Lucie,” replied Oliver’s father. “And you just found it under the bench in the back yard?”

“In the bench, Jack. The bench was some kind of time capsule. Oh, speaking of… Oliver, what were the names on the lid?”

Oliver didn’t answer, as he was only vaguely paying attention to the conversation his parents were having. He had opened the other book, which appeared to be a personal journal maintained by Timothy Crocket. Unfortunately, Timothy had not been much of a writer; his penmanship made most of the entries almost completely illegible. Maybe he was a doctor, Oliver mused to himself.

At one point, near the end of the entries, the handwriting changed completely. Timothy must have switched to dictation, as the new script was completely readable. Those entries shed a bit of light onto the lives of Timothy and his family. Robert Crocket and Elmer Scroggie were partners in an accounting firm in the business district near the Royal Courts of Justice. Timothy didn’t seem involved directly in the business, unless the firm had a charitable arm. What mostly occupied Timothy’s time, according to the journal, were philanthropic works. The entries ended with a sparse family tree, hand drawn in the style of the earlier author. Oliver squinted his eyes at the boxes, trying to make out the names there. The name at the center of the tree started with a “T,” that much was clear. There were a couple of boxes off to both the right and left, with a pair of boxes above, another box just next to it but connected with a differently shaped line, and two more boxes connected beneath it.

“OLIVER!” his mother yelled, causing him to almost drop the journal.

“I’m right here, Mom. You don’t have to scream at me!”

“Well, apparently I do, else I wouldn’t have done it. Now that I’ve got your attention,” she continued, her voice at its normal decibel level, “what were the names on the lid of that time capsule?”

“Crocket, mainly. Timothy, his father Robert, and his father’s business partner, Mr. Scroggie. Look here,” Oliver said, showing her the end of the journal. She took the book from his hands, walking across the room to where his father still alternated between lovingly caressing A Christmas Carol, typing happily on the computer, and saying ‘remarkable’ at one or the other.

“Jack, you should have a look at this as well,” Oliver’s mother said, handing the journal over to him. “It’s a family tree, and a good early Christmas for you, you genealogy nut!”

“It’s Christmas Eve, so not that early,” Oliver’s father replied, winking and accepting the journal as he pointed out the window to where the last of the day’s light was falling off the edge of the world. It was the most sunlight they’d seen all day. The snow clouds had been thick and heavy, although not much snow had actually fallen. It was a proper British Christmas Eve, after all. The snow was supposed to wait until after sundown to begin in earnest.

“Well now, this is interesting! These names here,” he said, pointing to the siblings of Timothy displayed on the family tree, “can you read them? Do they mean anything to either of you?”

Oliver bent over the page again, jostling for good positioning with his mother. After a few more moment of squinting, he realized who they were. “They’re the names of all the Cratchit’s. Those are Tiny Tim’s brothers and sisters.”

Oliver’s father raised his eyebrows at the statement, both in confusion and surprise, looking again at the names displayed in the journal. “From A Christmas Carol? Are you sure?”

“Yes, I re-read the story pretty much every year at this point. In the story, Tiny Tim’s got two older siblings, Martha and Peter,” he said, pointing to the names to the left of Timothy’s. The names printed there were certainly short enough, and if you looked at them just right, they might start with “M” and “P.” “He also had another brother and sister whose names are never mentioned in the story. According to this tree, it looks like their names might’ve been Benjamin and Alice, maybe? And these dates,” Oliver continued pointing to some numbers just beneath the names, “both say 1831. They might have been twins.”

“It does seem… peculiar, ” Oliver’s father said, shaking his head, “but I think A Christmas Carol is too fantastic to be anything but a work of fiction. And besides, this house has always been in your family, hasn’t it Luce?”

Oliver’s mother nodded in reply. “As far as I know, yes.”

A thought came to Oliver’s mind. “Dad, how far back has your research on Mom’s side of the family gone?”

Oliver’s father turned back to the computer. He spent a few moments tapping the keys, looking at the screen, tapping more keys, and finally said, “The oldest ancestors I’ve uncovered are Michael and Harriet Bramer, your mother’s great-great-great-grandparents.”

“Do you have any birthdates for them?”

“1832 for Harriet, but nothing for Michael yet.”

“That would have been the generation that built this house then. The time capsule had that part right. This house was originally constructed around 1850,” Oliver’s mother offered.

Oliver picked up the journal again, trying to make out the other names connected directly adjacent to Timothy’s and beneath it. He figured the two underneath were Timothy’s children, and the one adjacent was probably his wife. The wife’s name was pretty smudged, and it might’ve been wishful thinking that made it look like it began with an “H.” The other two names, the names of the children, were slightly clearer. They definitely both began with an “A,” and looked like they might’ve been Arthur and Anna.

“Dad, what children do you have for Michael and Harriet?”

“Let’s see… Emerson, Lucille—” 

“My namesake, no doubt!” Oliver’s mother chimed in.

Oliver’s father smiled. “Then Arthur, and—”

“Anna!” Oliver finished, interrupting his father excitedly. “Which of those kids are we descended from?”

“Anna, born 1850,” Oliver’s father replied, his hand slowly rising from the keyboard to adjust the glasses on his face. “How did you know her name? Did I tell you, or…”

Oliver reversed the book so that his father could see it clearly, pointing to the box underneath Timothy’s. The name in the box was Anna Crocket, born 1850. Oliver’s father turned back to the computer, then said, “In my research, her maiden name was Bramer — Anna Bramer. I haven’t even heard of Crocket in this area before this evening.”

Before they could say anything else, a clattering sound echoed from the entryway through the house to where they sat in the small library. Voices could be heard, muffled but growing in volume and definitely lacking in holiday cheer. A moment later, the sound of the door crashing open was drowned out by a simultaneously high-pitched, discordant, yet endearing voice yelling from that general direction.

“We’re here! Someone come help us with these damn presents, you ungrateful wankers!”

Oliver’s sisters, Daphne and Victoria, had finally arrived.

A Yuletide Yarn, 1: The Time Capsule

“Mom, what’s happened to the rock?”

Oliver was standing over a largish stone that had just given way beneath him as he tried to sit on it. He had brushed the light dusting of snow off of it without incident, but as soon as he’d eased his slightly larger than average girth onto it, he’d heard a severe crack and felt the stone almost tumble over beneath him.

The stone had always served as the singular bench in the small, private garden behind his family’s ancestral home in the posher part of Camden, London. The home itself was ridiculously large, with six bedrooms, standing separate but at the end of a large terrace house just off of Torrington Place. None of the family lived there at this point, opting instead to let it out to high-end visitors to the area. Maintaining it was getting to be more of a hassle than it was worth, however, and Oliver’s parents were considering selling it so they could retire earlier. Before they did, however, they requested that the entire family gather for one more Christmas together there, which seemed a bit odd to Oliver. They hadn’t really spent many Christmases there in his youth. Still, he had a tendency toward the sentimental, and his nostalgia for all things English was strong this year. He hadn’t been back to London in quite some time, so he was glad that his mother had insisted on the visit.

“I don’t know dear,” came the reply from the other end of the garden. Oliver’s glanced at his mother as she stopped whatever she was doing and approached the stone bench from the other side. She looked at it, then back at Oliver, then back at the stone again, smiling. “You’ve cracked it, obviously."

“No I haven’t!” Oliver exclaimed. His mother eyed his midsection critically. “I’ll admit that I’ve put on a few pounds since I left for college, but I’m certainly not heavy enough to crack a solid stone.”

His mother sighed. “That you aren't. Let’s have a closer look, shall we?” She bent over the stone, brushing away the remainder of the snow. “Hmm, that’s odd,” she said, running her fingers gently along the crack that had formed at the edge of the stone. “This stone isn’t as solid as we've always assumed. I think you’ve broken the seal on a stone container of some kind. This must be the lid!”

Oliver bent down over the stone as well, trying to get a closer look. Sure enough, what he’d originally taken as a crack in the stone was actually too straight to be an accident. He looked at his mother, and she smiled mischievously at him. “Help me with this,” she commanded as she began pulling the lid toward her in an effort to fully dislodge it.

Oliver moved to the side of the stone next to his mother, wriggled his fingers as far into the small opening as he could manage, planted his feet on the base of the stone, and began to pull. It took several moments of their combined effort to affect the lid, but they managed to swivel it enough to cause the lid’s own weight to pull it off of the top of the stone. The heavy lid slid down the stone’s side, landing awkwardly on its edge. It teetered there a moment, then began a slow tumble over. Oliver and his mother managed to jump back just as the lid fell flat, bottom side up, next to the stone. There were words engraved on the now-exposed bottom of the lid.

TIME CAPSULE

Interred December 1850 by Timothy Crocket

In honor of his father Robert and “Grandfather” Scroggie

To be opened in 1950

Oliver read the words slowly, trying to remember from which branch of the family tree these names might dangle. He wasn’t the ancestry buff that his father was, but felt slightly ashamed at not remembering any Timothy or Robert from that time period in their family.

His mother saved him a bit of embarrassment. “I don’t remember any of those names ever being mentioned as a part of our lineage. Regardless, if this is a time capsule, it’s a strange one. I thought they were always built into cornerstones…” She trailed off as she began looking through the contents of the time capsule. Oliver joined her, curious about what it contained.

Whatever “Timothy” had originally done to preserve the items in the capsule had performed nearly miraculously. It was all in a passable state of repair, and much of it looked interesting. There were a couple of ancient newspapers, a few ticket stubs, a collection of small, handmade toys, and two books. One of the books, bound in brownish red cloth, read “A Christmas Carol,” and contained the following inscription:

Tim, your story has changed the way I think about Christmas and society en toto. Despite my best efforts, I cannot find the proper expression of gratification for your generosity in sharing it with me, and thereby with everyone who reads what I’ve subsequently written. I, and the world, are forever in your debt. As you will see, I have taken a few liberties with your tale; I hope you approve! - C.D.

“Uh… Mom…” Oliver began, but couldn’t form a thought coherent enough to transform into anything resembling speech. As he gurgled softly, his mother tried to pry the book from his viselike grip. Failing that, she leaned over to read the inscription for herself.

“You don’t think… No, it can’t be. Oliver, let go!” his mother almost yelled at him. Her raised voice shocked him out of his stupor, and he managed to loosen his finger joints just enough for her to slip the book out of his grasp undamaged. She turned another page, and after examining it for a moment, said, “1843. I’d have to check to be sure, but that seems like the right timeframe to be a first edition. I’ll bet your father—”

“Mom!” Oliver choked on the exclamation, his thoughts finally coming together. “Timothy… Robert Crockett… Scroggie — they’re Tiny Tim, Bob Cratchit, and Scrooge! A Christmas Carol wasn’t purely a work of fiction! It was based on a true story, the story of the people that built our house!” He said it with such force, such conviction, that his mother took an involuntary step backward. She raised her hands to him placatingly.

“Let’s not jump to any hasty conclusions, Oliver. I’ll wager your father will know more about this. Grab the other things in there and let’s go back into the house.” Without waiting to see if he complied, Oliver’s mother turned on the spot and walked back into the house, her gaze never leaving the book as she turned it over and over in her hands. Oliver dutifully grabbed the other items, fumbling them a bit, but eventually steadying them enough to follow her inside.

Christmas Story 2016 EXPLAINED!

As I was considering what the 2017 Christmas Story should be about, I spent a few minutes looking back at the 2016 story. Last year, I broke the story into 8 different parts, which hopefully made it more consumable. Then I realized something -- I never provided the context for any of the encounters in the story, which probably left most of you scratching your heads.

Do NOT let me do that anymore! If it looks like I'm missing an entry in this blog, it's probably because I AM. :-D

The LONG overdue context for the encounters from last year's Christmas story are linked below.

First stop, the old crone in the shack: the old lady was a representation of Befana, a figure in Italian folklore. She is supposed to appear witchy, but she's a kindly old witch, and distributes gifts fairly, each according to their merit.

Second stop, the steamboat captain: the steamboat captain was a representation of Sinterklaas. I picked on something that I never would have guessed -- that Sinterklaas rides a steamboat between Spain and the Netherlands.

Third stop, the strangely dressed giant: the giant was a representation of Olentzero, a figure in Basque folklore. I was particularly taken with the descriptions of his style of dress combined with the fact that he was a giant.

Last stop, the three identical short folks: these guys are elves, plain and simple. I had considered having reindeer wandering around the yard, but decided that that would make it a punch on the face instead of a touch to the nose.

And if you read through part 7, you know who Maryam is. :-)

So, there you have it -- four Christmas folklores rolled into a single story. I was thoroughly entertained reading up on the different traditions from different places, especially the ones I'd never heard of (Befana and Olentzero). Hopefully, now that you've got more context, you'll enjoy last year's story as well!

The *real* question is: should I even bother writing a story this year? :-D

NaNoWriMo 2017

Well, I did it.

This badge is way cooler than last year's!

Another November has past, and another 50,000+ words were written in a NaNoWriMo sprint. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, have a look at a couple of links:

• NaNoWriMo: The writing competition with yourself, and a community of fun!
• My 2016 result: Thoughts from my participation in last year's competition.

For those of you that didn't click the second link, last year's efforts were "complete" after 23 days. This year's efforts were more "sane," in that I used almost all of the allotted time to cross the 50,000 word mark. I'm not going to make any excuses, but I *am* going to offer some thoughts, explanations, and insights into what made this year different from last year. First, though, let's see the splits!

That's a long list.

Here are the interesting metrics from the above table.

• Maximum output: 3910 words on 11/28
• Minimum output: 0 (!) words on 11/18
• Average output: 1799 words per day
• Median output: 1925 words

Insights garnered from comparing this year's effort to last year's:

• Writing every day for at least an hour matters. This is actually a maxim for anyone that wants to write well. I'm not even talking about writing to sell stories. I'm saying that the craft of writing is improved by constant and consistent practice. For NaNoWriMo, keeping the foot on the gas matters.
• Finishing sooner is better. Last year, I finished the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. This year, I had to try to write some over the Thanksgiving break, when everyone else is sleeping off the turkey buzz and/or storming the gates of Black Friday madness. Writing the day of any celebration where you're traveling is tough to pull off properly (as you can see from my 296 word effort on Thanksgiving day).
• Writing complete crap really is OK. This was hard for me to accept, but there are parts of this story that are piles of steaming hot excrement. There are multiple places where I left "<insert foo here>" and moved on because I didn't know what the "foo" should be at that moment. Ultimately, I figured out where the story was going generally and how to get there for the most part, and that is really all that matters. If you never get as far as the point from the last sentence, you will never write a book. Period. End of story, literally.

There are a few other thoughts about and lessons learned from this year as well.

• Minimizing commitments is crucial. One of the reasons I didn't have as much time and dedication to this year's effort is because I had (and still have) a bunch of other stuff on my plate. 
• I'm training for a half-marathon in March 2018, so we're running four times a week. In fact, we had a 5k race the Saturday after Thanksgiving. 
• I'm hosting and running a D&D campaign for the boys and the Scattershooters (group of friends from way back), and we had the first big story arc for the larger campaign on 11/18 (the day I wrote 0 words). Don't think I wasn't writing that day -- I was picking up the boys and finishing other prep work (15 or so pages of character, setting, and outlines for the first couple of scenarios).
• I'm helping with beasanta.org's annual fundraising efforts to benefit Penny Lane. This is my fourth year doing it, and it's always exciting, fulfilling, and stressful. If you haven't checked it out yet, stop reading this and do so. :-)
• Did I mention Thanksgiving? Traveling and spending time with loved ones is a must, and I enjoying being able to do so. Like I said above, having the book "done" before this is a WAY better scenario.
• Oh yeah, work. Work is still a thing I do for about 1/3 of the day, and it takes up about half of my waking time.
• Writing regularly throughout the year helps. I've been revising last year's book off and on for the better part of the year, but haven't really been spending dedicated, daily time working on the craft of writing. I think that if I'd been more diligent about that, even as little as fifteen minutes a day doing creative journaling or scene writing or anything, would have put me in a better position than I started in.
• Pantsing can be frustrating. If you don't know the difference between a Planner and a Pantser, the gist is that a planner plans the story a bit before writing while a pantser flies by the seat of their pants, essentially writing whatever comes into their mind. Stephen King is a famous pantser. He essentially thinks up characters and settings and puts the characters in the settings and writes what he observes happening. I am also a pantser, but I didn't feel nearly as inspired about this year's characters and setting as I was by last year's. As a result, the writing turned into slogging. About halfway through, I knew I didn't even want to finish the story.
• Take what you're given and be thankful. Even though I wasn't thrilled with the story as I was writing it, some really good things fell out of it. First of all, I should let you know that this story takes place in the same universe as last year's. With that said, I can see how one of the characters from this year's story could cross paths with the protagonists from last year's, and have a fully fleshed out backstory. If nothing else, that's a really good thing. And the characters from this year's story did manage to surprise me a bit. The guy that I was sure was a bad guy from the beginning turned out to not be, and the guy that I was sure was a good guy turned out far darker than I expected.

So now that it's done, was it worth it? Yes, definitely so. I needed to make sure that last year wasn't some kind of fluke. I now have two data points: I can write 50,000 in 23 or 28 days. I *can* write a bunch if I really *want* to. It also taught me that I need to vary my approach and style to help keep it fresh. I had the honor of meeting and hanging out a little with Amber Benson in September, who had already given me this advice. Amber, thank you, I'm finally ready to listen. :-) And finally, I apparently do like writing enough to put myself through this two years in a row, and see it through to the end both times.

I may have finally found the hobby I can carry through to old age... :-D