[Squee] It’s back! 
An excerpt from “The Love Song of J. Ebenezer Scrooge,” by T.S. Eliot
. . .
No! I am not a miser, nor was meant to be.
Am perhaps parsimonious, one that will do
To cause an investor to give a thought or two
Advise on interest; no doubt an easy tool,
Warn against funding, if needed.
Should I try not to be at all monstrous
And hope that my counsel is heeded?
At times, indeed, should I be generous?
Or am I simply a Fool?
Cash is cold … I am old …
Perhaps for me the bell has tolled.
Shall I spend a dollar here? Do I dare to pay a fee?
I shall doff my banker’s visor and sit up in a tree.
I have heard the children singing, happily.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I can see them walking in the snow upon the street
Laughing as they play their happy Christmas games
And I wonder if it’s possible that I was once the same?
“Boy! I need some help and here’s some money–
Buy the goose in the butcher’s; keep the change for your fun.”
And with luck, I’ll hear Tim say, “God bless us every one.”
In the room the women come and go, talking of reindeers and Ho Ho Hos.
For I handled them already, used them all–
Legal tender in countries, nations, lands,
I have measured out my life with Krugerrands…
Go. Go. Go.
Amazing!
I took this as encouragement that I should finish Eliot’s version of A Christmas Carol. So here it is, and my thanks to Sampiro for the lines he donated earlier.
The Love Song of J. Ebenezer Scrooge, by T.S. Eliot
O donna in cui la mia speranza vige,
e che soffristi per la mia salute
in inferno lasciar le tue vestige,
di tante cose quant’ i’ ho vedute,
dal tuo podere e da la tua bontate
riconosco la grazia e la virtute.
Tu m’hai di servo tratto a libertate
per tutte quelle vie, per tutt’ i modi
che di ciò fare avei la potestate.
La tua magnificenza in me custodi,
sì che l’anima mia, che fatt’ hai sana,
piacente a te dal corpo si disnodi.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like accounts coldly entered in a ledger;
Let us go, through Christmas Eve-deserted streets,
We’ll leave our balance sheets
Of debits and credits and interest owing.
Think not of what we reap, but what we’re sowing:
Streets that follow through the time of your days
Some thoughts to raise
To lead you to an overwhelming question…
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go,
Talking of reindeers and Ho Ho Ho.
The yellow light that pours forth from the window-panes
The joyful sounds that somehow reach through the window-panes
Joined by similar from all houses warm this evening,
A time of laughter and feasting, when happiness reigns
And covers the night, like snow that falls from heaven,
Blanketing all with beauty, would it could last!
And upon joining me this soft December night,
I’ll introduce myself. I am Christmas Past.
And indeed there was a time
When your merry laughter spilled along the street,
Echoing from walls and rooftops and window-panes;
There was a time, there was a time
You prepared a smile to greet the faces that you meet;
There was a time to work but also to play,
And time for buying gifts and making plans
That brightened friends’ and family’s Christmas Day
Time for you and time for me,
And time now for a hundred recollections,
And memories, thoughts, and hard reflections,
Before the taking of your breakfast tea.
In the room the women come and go,
Talking of reindeers and Ho Ho Ho.
But Spirit, that was a time
I wondered, “Was there more?” and “Was there more?”
A time I reflect upon, when my family was poor
And a gentleman in debt was something to abhor–
[They could say, “He’s a successful businessman!”]
My investing of funds wisely, making money as I can,
I know right to the penny when my ledger-books I scan–
[They will say, “He is greedy,” but it’s all part of my plan!]
Do I dare
Disturb this money drug?
In a minute there is time
To change a destiny, but could I? Should I? Bah humbug!
So you say you have a plan, you have a plan:–
You know the mornings, evenings, afternoons,
Of people now, whom your greediness impugns?
You know their obligations, how they scrape to pay a cent?
You must know that they are not, like you, tycoons.
I am the ghost of Christmas Present.
And you curse the beggars daily, curse them all:–
But let us observe the family Cratchit
There is Bob, and his wife, and crippled Tiny Tim
Picking at meagre rations, with his crutch against the wall.
Is it not grim
To see a working man barely able to provide?
So how dare you presume?
And know we’ll look and listen, listen and look:–
Hear their murmured blessing, see the sadness in their eye
[They are so very poor, with so little they can buy!]
Is someone smoking in here?
Ebenezer, tell me, is that a tear?
Lives are more than just numbers entered in a ledger-book.
So how dare you presume?
Spirit, I say, I have saved and husbanded my wealth,
And watched the waste when others squandered theirs
On silly things like wine and toys and garments of fine array.
I should have been a pair of lion’s paws
Stepping through the brush of silent savannah.
Cratchit’s poor quality, his goldbricking, makes me sour.
Checks sums upon his fingers;
He sleeps, he’s tired, he malingers
All while taking my money by the hour.
Should I, after seeing the Cratchit family’s vices
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
What benefit will a change of heart bring to me?
I can scratch my head [until it’s bald] and won’t puzzle this out.
I am no prophet–a fact I’ll gladly flout.
But am I now seeing moments yet to come?
Is that me lying there? Why is everything so glum?
Ah, this is Christmas Yet to Be.
I see this and ask, was it worth it after all?
Because Spirit, I see what you are showing me
'Tis a casket in a church, just a candle’s company,
No mourners, no priest, to attend to the dead?
Tell me Spirit, where they are. Is the funeral over? Have they fled?
Or were there ever any mourners at all?
Spirit, you are silent, but I’ve so many questions
I want to know who lies there, friendless and unmourned
That’s not my wish for my dying day, not at all
With not even a priest for comfort, lonely and forlorn.
No, again I say that’s not what I want at all,
That’s not what I want, at all.
Once more, I wonder–was it worth it after all?
Spirit, I fail to understand what you are showing me.
A darkened country churchyard, a grave, a simple stone–
Is it the dead man from the church, the one who was alone?
Let us approach, to read the name thus there engraved
Who was he, I wonder? Was he timid? Was he brave?
I’ll strike a match and read-- E-B-E … oh my God, that’s me!
I’m the one who died, who mourners left alone!
Oh Spirit now I understand the scenes to me you’ve shown.
But Spirit, again, I’ll say that’s not what I want at all,
No, that’s not what I want, at all.
No! I am not a miser, nor was meant to be.
Am perhaps parsimonious, one that will do
To cause an investor to give a thought or two
Advise on interest; no doubt an easy tool,
Warn against funding, if needed.
Should I try not to be at all monstrous
And hope that my counsel is heeded?
At times, indeed, should I be generous?
Or am I simply a Fool?
Cash is cold … I am old …
Perhaps for me the bell has tolled.
Shall I spend a dollar here? Do I dare to pay a fee?
I shall doff my banker’s visor and sit up in a tree.
I have heard the children singing, happily.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
Awake now, I see them walking in the snow upon the street
Laughing as they play their happy Christmas games
And I wonder if it’s possible that I was once the same?
“Boy! I need some help and here’s some money–
Buy the goose in the butcher’s; keep the change for your fun.”
And with luck, I’ll hear Tim say, “God bless us every one.”
checks thesaurus for synonyms for “Awesome”
Since it seems appropriate for a zombie holiday thread:
Suggestions for this year:
George R.R. Martin
Woody Allen (I’ve always wondered how Hannukah Past/Present/Future would be handled- would there be 8 of each or just one?)
Edgar Allen Poe
[squee] It’s that special time of year again!
I have loved this thread for years.
The genius in every doper that has contributed rekindles my faith in humanity’s wit every winter.
COMMUNITY
REPRESSED MEMORIES 101
Pierce: Cool, the 1970s! Is this the Christmas I had sex with Eartha Kitt in an airplane toilet?
GoC Past: I don’t believe you had sex with Eartha Kitt in an airplane toilet on Christmas…
Pierce: Trust me, when you’re having sex in an airplane bathroom with Eartha Kitt, it’s always Christmas!
GoC Past: But you never had sex in an airplane bathroom with Eartha Kitt. Your mind rewrote that chapter.
Pierce: All I know is that I was 30, I was on a plane, she was a lovely black actress, older than me but I still didn’t care, and everybody on the plane knew her, and together we got our mile high wings in the bathroom and came out to much applause.
GoC Past: All true, but her name wasn’t Eartha Kitt. Her name was Zara Cully.
Pierce: Eartha’s real name was Zara Cully?
GoC Past: No, but Mother Jefferson’sreal name was. And if it’s any consolation it not only made her very happy, it gave you the moment of clarity to quit cocaine.
A Christmas Carol by Cormac McCarthy
I’d like Christmas day off.
Why?
To be with my family.
You can’t have Christmas day off.
Why not?
I need you here.
Ok.
Ok.
Bob returned to his task of counting gold coins at a languid pace.
The bells chimed, though how often Scarlett was not sure for she was not counting. It was evidently midnight or before for it certainly took more than three or four chimes as she tried drowning the noises in her heavy velvet bedspread, placing her hands on her ears tightly as if to drown out the sights of the last dream, one that she felt had gone quite well, thank you very much, until he had to bring in the family of that damned dead Yankee. There were many things in her life she might have handled wrong, she thought, some she might have proceeded differently had she to do them over again, not that there was any point in thinking about such things, but killing that Yankee was not one of them and that spirit, even if he was only in a dream, could burn forever in Purgatory or jump into the pits of Hell itself if he judged her for that.
When the chiming stopped the room was still. No lights, no bells ringing, and at least she was certain it really was all a dream. Until she felt the unmistakable sense of being watched. She sensed something by the bedroom door, that door being a carved oak monstrosity that had once separated a Florentine palazzo’s service entrance from the street until she bought it sight unseen from a catalog to replace the much flimsier one that Rhett had knocked down. S she saw the figure, draped in a heavy robe that might be any shade, vibrant or muted, but with only the reflections of the rooms copious gildings appeared vaguely gray blue. The figure was hooded, and tall, not joyous as the last had been.
“Who are you?” she asked. The hooded specter did not answer in voice or in motion. “Are you with them? Are you another hallucination about This Christmas or That Christmas or Somebody Else I Don’t Care About’s Christmas come to keep me from getting my beauty sleep? Because if you are you can turn right around and march right out that door because I don’t give Tippecanoe what you or anybody else says or thinks about anything I’m doing or ever have done, do you hear me?”
She hoped that more than a quarter of a century of hiding her emotions when needed, of “playing her cards on her bosom” as Rhett would say, allowed her face to be appear as unaffected as her inner self felt agitated, for there was something about this spirit… posh, not a spirit, just a figure in a bad dream… but still, one that affrighted her more than the others had. She wished her revolver was handier, though she knew the only good it would do was making her feel braver, and perhaps the sound of its discharge would rouse her from her slumbers. She did have plenty to do after all, what with the Christmas Open House that half the prominent Yankees in the city would be visiting with their gratitude at being received by an authentic belle hopefully rutting with their ability to award those lucrative contracts.
“Be you ghost or dream or whatever you wish to call yourself, it’s only proper manners to introduce yourself. Even if you are rude enough to be standing in my bedchamber uninvited.” The specter moved slightly, neither menacingly nor reassuringly, but said nothing. “I’ve had three husbands and three children but I’ve never had this many people… or… entities… wake me up in the middle of the night. Say what you will about them they at least were well brought up enough to respect a locked door.”
Except of course for Rhett. And even he respected them all but one time. And what a time that was… she really wouldn’t have minded if he had knocked it down again once or twice. The Florentine door was so massive and so expensive she’d made sure the contractors make the door frame of cheap pine so that it would give way easy and leave the door untouched should he ever knock it down again. If for any reason she ever truly wanted safety there was a perfectly good guest room that she’d had outfitted with two deadbolts and a mahogany brace after all. Now she just wanted Rhett to come up the stairs…. But of course he was, wherever he was. Charleston if the last ghost was right, but why should he be? This was all a dream brought about by Cook using too much sherry in the pie, and don’t think she won’t hear about it.
“Well, are you going to introduce yourself? Have you no message at all? Your two buddies earlier this evening were Loquacious Lulu and Chattering Charlie after all, why aren’t you speaking? Are you perhaps from the impaired side of the family?” Taunting it seemed to no more effect than ordering it.
“Well I must admit… you do have me intrigued” she said in her most flirtatious voice. “Your first pal showed me the past for reasons I’m sure made sense, then this last one the present which I assume had some purpose, that would make you… the future I suppose? Or perhaps Christmases that never were? Christmases in the Jungles of Africa perhaps? Whatever you are, say it!!!”
Her face was rigid and challenging, brave and perhaps even confrontational, but the ice of her own countenance was matched by a corresponding cold quagmire in her nerves. She hoped this spirit could not sense that, and she thought to herself “Of all the spirits I have glimpsed tonight, I fear this one the most”, a thought she had with such clarity that she was afraid almost that she had said it, and more afraid when a gloved hand protruded towards the specter’s hood.
“I heard that” said the specter in a voice at once beautiful and ominous. “And one thing I must give you is… whatever else you is or isn’t, you ain’t stupid.” With that the spirit through back its hood and its robe to reveal a beautifully clad form and a face that smiled warmly but not friendly, and as Scarlett audibly gasped the spirit- who appeared very much a female- floated towards her.
“Are you… Mammy? I know you’re not my mammy… but you must be somebody’s…”
“Oh shit… I don’t know which of us is going to have a longer night. But, I gotta job to do, so…”, her hand taking Scarlett’s, “Let’s get it over with. Let’s you and me take a ride.”
TO BE CONTINUED:
SCARLETT’S WILD RIDE, or 'This Isn’t Any Atlanta I Know…"
A VERY SCARLETT CHRISTMAS
Chapters XXIV/part 2 through Chapter XXVI- Synopsis
SYNOPSIS OF Chapter XXIV, part 2, through Chapter XXVI
*Scarlett gets into a carriage with the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, a bit perplexed by the fact that there are no horses drawing it but far more concerned with the fact it goes to a city that looks much like Atlanta after the burning. She realizes it is Charleston, still under repair from some major future Earthquake, but she is more alarmed to see a visibly older Rhett, shabbily performing philanthropy in the wreckage, and is concerned about his obviously declined health until she also sees him in the company of “an old friend”.
The carriage, now even stranger to her, proceeds even faster. She stops at a place she recognizes- her Atlanta mansion- where she enters without opening a door. She is surprised that the home is redecorated in an Oriental theme, sees some guests who look familiar and more who do not, hears several mention “the Princess”, and nearly swoons at the beauty of a young Eurasian man who mentions “the Princess personally chose the new furnishings”. She hears a few familiar names mentioned as if they are dead, which upsets her, but she is not horrified until a woman, “the Princess”, enters the room, and just a brief glimpse of her makes Scarlett scream as she hasn’t since she saw her mother’s body.
She flees from the room so fast that the Spirit cannot catch her, and perhaps coincidentally the guests at the Princess’s party notice a quick draft.
She jumps into the changed yet again carriage, manages to start it and, figuring out how to steer and accelerate it as she steers and accelerates it, drives as fast as she can from the mansion, the Spirit holding onto the doors until she can get inside. The vehicle goes through yet more changes and drives through pitch darkness before the Spirit manages to recapture the steering wheel. At last the car careens out of control (not to be confused with Scarlett’s sister) in what would be an accident with multiple fatalities if the vehicle in fact had any substance and did not merely pass through other automobiles.
She finds herself in a very strange and large city, where there is in fact an accident, albeit a mild one. A taxi has slammed on its brakes, barely missing a pedestrian as it veers, and caused another car to slam into it. Scarlett attempts to non chalantly walk away from the vehicle, but while her flesh is willing, the Spirit is pissed.*
TO BE CONTINUED (not in synopsis)
“Scarlett… I am forbidden by… let us say, my superiors… to do you physical harm. None of my thousands of sisters has ever, ever broken that oath, so we honestly don’t know what the penalty will be, but one more trick like that Missy and WE ARE GONNA FIND OUT!!!” The last was said with a roar that should by logic have turned this city into a post quake Charleston, yet strangely seemed unheard in the din of traffic of the horseless carriages and what must be thousands of pedestrians.
“I’m very sorry, Spirit, really, I am”, she said with her best little-girl flutter, “but, well, when I was a very little girl my mother used to tell me stories of a wicked Princess and I was afraid that was the person she was speaking of, for this is a dream after all and I very much did used to have nightmares of the evil princess and well, you see, I’m just a barely educated farmgirl and don’t know how these things work…”.
The Spirit was not amused. “You are warned. For now, since we’re here anyway, have a seat, and let’s watch.”
“Where are we? It’s the biggest city I’ve ever seen… is this some, some… Yankee city?”
“Increasingly”, said the Spirit. “Let’s sit on this building and watch the crowd…”
“I can’t very well sit on the sidewalk, even if this is a dream, Mother would… oh, ohhhhh…”, said Scarlett, the last as she felt herself rising through the air, then, her back to the wall of a building, sitting quite comfortably on an awning or, perhaps, nothing at all, but elevated several feet off of the sidewalk. The Spirit sat beside her, Scarlett’s thin wrist held as tightly as if in an iron shackle. It was then they heard the voices of several young ladies, and realized it was about the car accident they had just witnessed.
“Oh my Lord, Charlie, did you see that?!” said a sweet delicate young female voice. The young lady it belonged to was facing the street, which meant her back was to Scarlett and the spirit.
“Of course I saw it, Ellie. I’m not blind” came a no less ladylike but far more gruff one. Charlie, Scarlett noted disapprovingly, was evidently now a girl’s name.
“How terrible”, said Ellie’s voice. “Do you think the taxi driver is alright?”
“If you’re so worried about taxi drivers see if you can hail us another one… these all have fares. It figures the one taxi driver in this city that doesn’t have a fair would be the one who’s in an accident…”
“Oh Charlie, do be more compassionate… he almost hit that poor woman. Look at her, she dropped all those paper’s she’s carrying… wait, isn’t that Judge Mitchell’s daughter?”
“Was it? That horrible Marsh thing? Why so it is… ‘Hello Mrs. Marsh! Tell Judge Mitchell we said hello! Sure am glad you okay!’ Serves her right. Way she carries on.
“Hello, Mrs. Marsh! I’m glad you’re alright!” said Ellie, then to Charlie with real concern, “I thought that taxi driver was gonna be the death of her.”
“Why am I eavesdropping on the conversations of two women I do not know about a third I don’t know?” asked Scarlett.
“More likely he was goin’ to be the death of me, since he’s about the last taxi in Atlanta workin’ on Christmas” Charlie complained. "Today’s no day for walking. Oh Lord, I could kill Rhett for taking the car today. He knows I needed it.”
“Did she say Rhett? Rhett lives here?” asked Scarlett.
“Rhett is the name of her brother” answered the Spirit as if this should be common knowledge.
“She’s a Butler…”
“No, but her brother is named Rhett. After your Rhett. About 80 years after I would think.”
“Where are we?”
“Atlanta. Now hush!”
“Oh Fiddle-de-Dee, I know every inch of Atlanta and there’s not an inch of it in this place.”
“It is here. Very little that you know is here. But it was once. And will be when you wake. And never was and will be a million years hence, a billion years ago. This is their Atlanta. And, until yesterday, your’s. Or, until 60 some odd years your’s, whichever way you want to look at it. You are out of your time here."
“Out of time for what? If it’s out of time for napping then I’d wish you’d go.”
“I’d tell you the year but, I seriously doubt you would believe it, or you’d choose not to.”
“Well, I am going to speculate it is far in the future. In which case, the one redeeming thing about this dream was that it was at least about me and the people I knew. This strange place has nothing to do with either and I see no point in following…”
When she looked down she noted that Charlie and Ellie had turned around. Scarlett let out her 17th audible gasp of the night, though once she did she was not sure why. The two women were at once shockingly familiar, and yet, not at all.
“Why so shocked, Scarlett?” asked the Spirit.
“They look like… they reminded me of… I thought they were someone else. But now I see, they’re not.”
“Who do they remind you of?”
“Oh, no matter…”
“Who?”
“It’s not them. Besides, she’s dead and…”
“WHO?!” the Spirit demanded with another booming question that should have rocked whatever street this was yet went strangely unnoticed.
“Well, if you’re to give me no peace, the woman on the left… she sort of… in a way… reminded me a bit of Mellie. She doesn’t look exactly like her, but there is a resemblance, she could be her sister almost. Of course Mellie was never a blonde. And she has… her eyes remind me of my husband. My first husband, Charles Hamilton, of course that’s hardly surprising considering he was Mellie’s brother… oh, is she some relations of Melanie’s? All that inbreeding does win out over all other influences…”
“Yes, they are”, allowed the Spirit in perhaps her first straightforward answer of the night. “Though I am surprised you see it. Tell me, who does the other woman remind you of?”
“Well, if pressed, and only in the sense that I suppose everybody reminds you of somebody I suppose, she reminds me, a tad, of… I would say, my sisters.”
“As your sisters look, a tad, like you, would she then remind you of yourself?”
“Oh don’t be silly. Though she is very pretty, I’ll say that for her, but I would have to say it’s not immodesty when I say I’m far the prettier, and far better dressed. I can only assume Yankees got to the fashion in this place. Put her in velvet and taffeta instead of that ridiculous skirt and jacket and she might well be as pretty as I was when I was her age.”
“She’s not that much younger than you, actually. But, this is the future. Skin creams are much better.”
“Of course. God could at least have allowed me access to those now that I am beginning to need them. Why are the two women… Carla and Nellie…”
“Charlie and Ellie…”
“Whichever, why are they just standing there, silent? Do they see us?”
“No, but, as I said, we are outside of time, they are paused while we talk. You will hear all that you need to hear.”
“Oh well, it is a nice day for a walk at least. It’s well above freezing and the exercise and air might do us good.”
“Well above freezin’ and the exercise and air might do us good’’, mimicked Charlie. “I swear aren’t you little Miss Pollyanna Sunshine."
“Oh I can’t help it, Charlie, it is Christmas Eve. And… well, I truly am distraught over her… over the passing, it makes me recognize how wonderful it is to be more alive. When I think what she lived through, the Depression is nothing. I do wish I’d known her better Charlie, I do, but since I can’t do anything about that, I can rejoice in being… oh my word, it’s Aunt Pitty!”
“Quick Ellie, turn around before she sees us…”
“It’s too late and I wouldn’t if I could. Aunt Pitty! Over here Aunt Pitty!”
“Aunt Pitty?” said Scarlett. “It can’t possibly be… this is apparently not as far in the future as you thought. Where is she… why, that can’t be Aunt Pitty. She looks even younger than I ever knew her.”
“That’s because it’s a different Aunt Pitty”, the Spirit informed her. “The one you knew is dead… well, let me rephrase. To you she’s still alive, to them… in their time, the Aunt Pitty you knew has been dead since… well, I won’t give dates, but since long before you were born. This Aunt Pitty is quite different indeed.”
“She looks… similar. Just younger. Same family again, I suppose? The famous Wilkes-Hamilton inbreeding?”
“Yes, but this one would make the other need more than her smelling salts. She’d need an outright triple bypass. She’s already been divorced three times and managed to work in a ten year live-in relationship with a female sculptress. Watch, this one’s going to throw you for a loop!”
“Well as I live and breathe, Charlotte and Ellie! How the hell are y’all!” said the future Aunt Pitty as she gave each girl an embrace, Ellie receiving her’s warmly and Charlie, or Charlotte, as if it were a painful obligation. “I figured I’d see you at the funeral, but since y’all are here ain’t no point in me going there even!"
“Oh Aunt Pitty, she was your gra…”
“She was the same to me as she was to you and everybody else, a mean old bitch! And Ellie Wilkes as much as I love you I’m going to call even you a liar to your face if you say you’re truly upset she’s dead!”
“Who are they talking about?” asked Scarlett.
“I wonder” said the Spirit.
"I’m sorry if I offended you, hon, but there’s no reason. Her priest would probably tell you the same. You’re the sweetest person I know and if even you shed a tear then it’s just because you thought you should, and that is alright honey, it’s alright. You reap what you sow. But let’s talk about something else, anything else. Y’all can’t get a taxi? Only way I know of old Charlie here would be walkin’!”
“No, unfortunately… we had one but, you can see what happened” said Ellie. A tow truck was currently taking the taxi away as a policeman cleared the way.
“Well land’s sake! I hope nobody was hurt. So what were you girls up to today?”
“We just came from the theatre” said Charlie haughtily, as if they’d just emerged from La Scala.
“I just got out of the picture show myself. What’d you two see?”
“Romeo and Juliet” said Ellie, savoring the words. “It was absolutely divine.”
“I wouldn’t say divine, though I did quite like the actor” said Charlotte.
“Oh really?” said Pitty. “Well, I’ll take your word for it. I didn’t like Shakespeare in school and I sure as hell ain’t gonna pay good money to see it in black and white with that Evelyn Howard or whatever…”
“Leslie Howard”, Ellie corrected gently.
“Leslie, Evelyn, whatever it is. I just remembered it’s properly a woman’s name. I just saw my favorite movie. It Happened One Night. It’s two years old, but I saw it six times the first go round and already seen it twice this time. Y’all seen that one?”
“No, but I’ve heard it’s excellent. It won several awards.”
“No I have not”, said Charlotte as if she’d just been asked about a strip show. “Nor do I intend to. I have heard it’s smut, pure and simple, something more suited to a barracks.”
“Well point me the way to that barracks, hon, cause I want to get in. When Clark Gable takes his shirt off… and he’s not wearing a stitch of undershirt… oh child, my drawers straightened!”
“Pitty Wilkes you stop that now! I won’t have you sullying my reputation like you’ve sullied your’s.”
“Oh baby, you’re still young. And there’s a lot of girls down in Milledgeville that still talk about how unsullied your reputation was when you were in college…”
“Then they’re liars!”
“Oh, I hope not. I’d like to think there’s more to you than just that stick up your butt…”
“I can’t decide if I like this Pitty more or less than the one I know” Scarlett declared sincerely.
“I know which I like better” said the Spirit.
“Well, alright Sister Mary Prudence, how did you like old Romeo and Juliet?”
“I much prefer it on stage, but for a film adaptation they did rather well. The material is so pure that it is still classical and graceful and timeless, and like Cousin Ellie I believe Mr. Howard to be quite the thespian.”
“’Quite the thespian’ indeed. Ellie I believe, but you Charlie, you’re just liking it because you feel you’re supposed to. It’s been done a million times in everything from grade school to Broadway and back again.”
“The only thing I heard that ‘happened one night’ in your movie was pure gutter filth. Sleeping in a room with a half naked man like that! But of course my opinions aren’t important. I wanted to see ROMEO AND JULIET, so romantic and tragic. “
“Oh please”, argued Pitty. “The only tragic thing is that some film maker thinks there’s a teenaged ninny stupid enough to choose a doomed love affair with a hopelessly miscast and way too old for the part Leslie Howard over a hot romp in the sack with Clark Gable. And if you had the sense of a mule you’d believe me.”
“Oh dear Pitty, dear Charlie, let’s agree to disagree. Pitty, if you want to see the movie again, I’ll come with you. I think it’s best when you broaden your horizons. Don’t you Charlie?”
“Mine are broad enough. Like Pitty’s hips. Now if you’ll excuse me I think I see a taxi…”
Scarlett shook her head on the awning above them. “Why am I hearing this? It doesn’t apply to me at all, and I don’t know these people other than they’re some distant kin of the Hamiltons or Wilkeses, like everybody else in central Georgia.”
“Perhaps you’ll understand. Or not. Either way I’m enjoying it.”
When she looked back, the new Aunt Pitty had walked off. Ellie and Charlie had gone to take the taxi cab only to be beaten to it at the last moment by a well dressed man and wife and were coming back to the curb. As they were arriving back an elderly Negro woman had emerged from the bank, her back to Scarlett and her face to the curb and to Ellie and Charlie.
“Well I absolutely am not going to walk” bickered Charlie. “And I’m not going to take the bus either, my mother and your mother both raised me better than that. I’m going to go into that store, I’m going to call Rhett, and tell him to pick me up or I will see to it that Uncle Henry finds out about his little shenanigans in Savannah this summer and docks his allowance…”
“Another Uncle Henry also?” asked Scarlett. The Spirit nodded.
Charlie and Ellie looked in the direction of but did not make eye contact with the elderly Negro woman, her back still to Scarlett. As they made their way past her and down the street the old woman did something Scarlett had never heard a person of color do unless they were drunk or insane- she yelled at the young white women.
“You girls, come back here!”
Charlie and Ellie both looked around startled, Ellie gazing at the old woman with pity as if seeing a poor wounded animal, for she was clearly demented. Charlie looked at her with supreme indignation, as if a beloved lap dog had just bitten her hard enough to draw blood and now must be dealt with.
“I… seriously… beg your pardon. Were you referring to me?”
“Yes”, said the old black woman. “Aren’t you that Hamilton woman? The one who can’t brush her teeth without it ending up in the newspapers?”
“I know that old colored woman’s voice” said Scarlett, her heart temporarily stopped. "I’d know that squeaky little voice anywhere…”. As the old woman moved closer to the woman she had called Scarlett saw her face and yelped, with genuine feeling, “My God… what’s happened to her?”
“I am a woman. And my name is Hamilton. I suppose that makes me a Hamilton woman. Not that this is any concern of your’s. And now if you’ll excuse me, Granny…”
“I am not your Granny, young woman!”
“I’ll say you’re not indeed!” said Charlie, now furious. She turned her back to the old colored woman and proceeded to walk off in fury, a flustered Ellie, hating to seem rude even to an obviously deranged old Negro, flashing a look of apology to the old woman and then turning to go with her cousin
“Because if I was your granny”, continued the squeaky old voice, “I’d be laying up dead in that big house downtown, where you should be preparing her for her final goodbye instead of carrying on like trash! Cavorting the streets of Atlanta one of Old Miss Watling’s girls!” And for the second time, Scarlett prepared for an explosive shelling in downtown Atlanta, though this time she was not certain which side she was on.
TO BE CONTINUED
“How dare you, you impudent old n…. harpie! I don’t know who you think you are and I’m sorry your mind is gone but my family matters are not your concern and I will not stand here…”
“I know exactly who I am. And there was a time when your family matters and my family matters were exactly the same. And I am telling you that your place is downtown seeing to your Grandmother’s final needs.”
“I… you old…”
“Charlie… leave her be, she… her mind isn’t there. I am sorry, auntie, but you must forgive my cousin, she…”
“I am not your auntie. Or your mammy. And I know who you are. Mr. Beau Wilkes was your grandpappy wasn’t he?”
“Yes…” said Ellie meekly. “Yes he was. And he was a very dear man and I took good care of him, I’ll have you know.”
“So did I. I gave him the first bath he ever had. I held him in my arms before his mama did, because she was too weak. You didn’t know her.”
“I know of her” said Ellie, anger gone and as if she was in a trance. “Who are you, may I ask?”
Scarlett was amazingly silent, though her lips and mouth wanted to shout the answer. The Spirit asked her “Did you ever think she would defend you?”
“No… I… well of course I didn’t, I know who she is and I’m sure I don’t know who she’s talking about.”
“I worked for your family, in a manner of speaking. As did my mother, whose milk fed your father as it did me, as it did my brother. My brother still has a watch that was given to my stepfather by your grandmother or great-grandmother, however many she was. And I’ve lived almost ninety years and in all that time I never one second thought I’d be standing on a street defending that old harridan downtown but here I am and proud to do it!”
A small crowd had formed. Charlie looked through it for a policeman but there was none. Aunt Pitty had returned, though, and shoved herself between the old woman the two young women. “Miss Freeman, today is not the day…”
“Then what day is? That woman is gallivanting while her grandmother is not even in her grave!”
“And she’s going to see to her, I promise you…”
“And for your information” Charlie said with her shoulders arched back, as if she were about to deliver some coup d’etat, “Miss I-Know-All, she isn’t downtown. She’s in Jonesboro per her specific request.”
“Then what are you doing in Atlanta?”
“Because quite frankly…”
“Charlie, no…” soothed Ellie, but she would not be ameliorated.
“Because I couldn’t stand the old bat. I am not upset she is dead. I only hope she left me some of her jewels, I understand there’s not much left. And do you want to know why I couldn’t stand her? Because she was mean, because she was greedy, because she was selfish, because she was an absolute horror of a person. She didn’t speak to my father for the last twelve years he was alive and never saw me once until he and my mother were dead, and do you want to know what their great crime was? She didn’t approve of my father’s marriage, all because my mother was a…”
“Because her name was Slattery” said the old woman.
“Slattery, the richest landowners in Jones County, but that wasn’t good enough for Queen High and Mighty! She didn’t like his first wife either, because she was from Texas and had Mexican blood or some nonsense, but she took no interest in me and my brother until our parents died…”
“1918, the Spanish Flu.”
“Yes! Stop interrupting! She took no interest in us til then, and then she tried to stop Ellie’s parents from taking us in, and do you know why? Because she…”
“Because she wasn’t speaking to Ellie’s grandparents either. She didn’t speak to her son because of his marriage and she didn’t speak to her daughter because of business matters and she outlived both of her children by many years and never forgave either of them… yes, I know, I know all this and I know a lot more. She killed a man besides, did she ever tell you that?”
“That is the one thing that will be remembered about her, and for your information I don’t think she did that…”
“Oh I’m not even talking about him, whoever killed him did the world a favor. She killed a Yankee in her house during the war. Then she fooled and old fool into marrying her and all but stole his business from him and put him in an early grave. Then she married the old robber baron blockade runner and they still talk about that and the others. Girl, nobody has to tell me what an old bitch that woman was and how many reasons there are to hate her, I don’t even care if you hate her, but show her some respect… know about her. If it weren’t for her you and your papa before you would have grown up in a ditch somewhere like the Fontaines and the Tarletons and all the other used-to-be-somebodys… “. The last was said in a voice that was muffled by tears.
A policeman arrived. “What’s the problem here ladies?”
“This old bitty attacked us!”
“I did no such thing. I tried setting them straight.”
“Who are you auntie?”
“I am not your auntie. My name is Priscilla Freeman. I suspect your captain knows it.”
The policeman was clearly impressed and the balance of his respect swung to the old woman. “Well, Miss Freeman, I’m not going to run you in due to… your age and all, but we can’t have you out here causing scenes. Do you need a ride.”
“I’m waiting for my driver! Here he comes now…”
A slightly out of date limousine pulled to the corner. It’s driver, a middle aged moustached black man, bounded out immediately.
“There you is Miss Freeman, I been lookin’ for you.”
“Well why didn’t you park where you let me off?”
“There ain’t no parking in Atlanta on Christmas Eve, Miss Freeman…. But let me take you in now. I’ll take you on home.”
The small crowd parted as the chauffeur helped the old woman into the Gothic contraption of a limousine. “I’m not going home”, she told the driver in a voice deliberately loud enough for all to hear. “Take me to Jonesboro!”
“Jonesboro? Why Miss Freeman, Jonesboro is thirty miles down the road or more…”
“Nobody needs to tell me of all people how to get from Atlanta to Jonesboro! Now take me there!”
“Yes ma’am, it’s just that, well, my daughter’s coming home with her husband and her new baby, and I’d kind of like to be home tonight to spend Christmas Eve with them…”
“Hoke, take me to Jonesboro or you’ll be spending every day with them from now on! Now get in and drive!”
“Yes ma’am. Yes ma’am.” As he moved back to the driver’s seat he was heard muttering “Damn old…. No Christmas Eve off… might as well be working for an Old Jew Woman as her. I’m taking that Avondale Dairy job soon as it’s ready, I sure am…” and with that he drove the old woman away.
“That was quite a show” said Scarlett. “I… the woman she mentioned… the dead one… do I know her?”
“I don’t think so” said the Spirit. “I think you knew somebody you wanted her to be.”
“Why was the policeman so… deferential… to the old colored woman?”
“Because she has money. And power.”
“How would a colored woman have money and power even in the future in Atlanta?”
“Because she knows a thing or two about dealing with women who are having babies.”
“Ha ha… do you know for a moment I thought she was a simple minded darkie who used to belong to my family? I actually thought that. Until you said that. The one I knew didn’t know a thing about delivering babies.”
“Neither does this one” said the Spirit, and she pointed to where Pitty was having a conversation with a now weeping Ellie and a still furious Charlie.
“Who the hell was that old fool!”
“That was Priscilla Freeman, Charlie…”
“You keep saying that like it should mean something.”
“She’s famous here in Atlanta… she’s the woman who other women used to go to when… well… “ and with that Pitty whispered into Charlie’s ear. Charlie’s eyes widened.
“I thought she was just a myth, like Johnny Appleseed or Paul Bunyan…”
“She’s no myth hon, trust me. She’s retired now, but She knows everything there is to know about not birthing babies, learned it from her mama they say. And her files could destroy the best families in Georgia, trust me on that too, no policeman is likely to touch her.”
“Hmm. And she seems to think she belongs to us. Or we belong to her. Old Coot. Oh Ellie what are ou bauling about?”
“Because she’s right… we shouldn’t be here. We’re terrible people Charlie… and we know so little of what Grandmama…. We must got to Tara. We must go to Tara now to see her off.”
“I do not… oh Ellie stop crying, I can stand anybody’s tears but yours… fine, we’ll go tomorrow. The funeral’s not until tomorrow. Til then let’s go shopping for something to wear, and some other things besides. Tomorrow is another day after all. And who ever heard of a Christmas funeral….”
“Hmm,” said Scarlett. “Tara’s still there. I must admit some curiosity as to who’s being buried there, I can’t think of anyone in the Wilkes or Hamilton family who’d be buried there anymore, they still have the Twelve Oaks cemetery, only thing left of Twelve Oaks.”
“You don’t really think anybody buys your fake obliviousness?” asked the Spirit.
“Why whatever do you mean? And I’m definitely not oblivious to the way you react kinder when I bat my eyelashes. You’re just like Belle Watling in that, I’m truly not as innocent as you seem to thing. But you keep my secrets, I’ll keep yours. Now remove me from this place.”
The spirit did not budge, nor did Scarlett, and she could no longer even hear the conversations of those below her.
“Please, remove me.”
“Do you want to see the woman’s house they were speaking of? The dead woman in the lonely old mansion?”
“No. I do not. If you absolutely insist on keeping me here, and in some foddle diddle rah about some old woman or some such, then at least show me somebody who is moved that she is gone.”
“Done”, said the spirit.
TO BE CONCLUDED
If… a Christmas Carol had been written by Rudyard Kipling
If you can keep your gold when all about you
Are wasting theirs and claiming more from you;
If you can tell your nephew not to flout you
And spurn the morrow’s invitation too;
If you can give your clerk all Christmas day off,
Complaining that you cannot stop his pay,
And bid well-meaning carol-singers lay off,
For Christmas should be just another day;
If you can see old Jacob Marley ghostly,
And claim 'twas something bad you had for dinner;
If you can keep your sense of humour - mostly -
But lend an ear to that poor damned old sinner;
If you perceive his dreadful situation,
And mark that all your money in the bank
Will lead you but to such a horrid station
Wound round with chains of ever-doleful clank;
If you can see the years when you were boyish,
When Christmas Days were lonely and too long,
Or prentice-times that were uncommon joyish,
With friends and fun before it all went wrong;
If you can see the girl you nearly married,
Before your love of gold drove her away,
And see what could have been if she had tarried -
Your children, on a happy Christmas Day;
If you can see the joyous merrymaking
Around you on the present day and year -
A Christmas Day of giving, not of taking,
Of bonhomie and neighbourly good cheer;
If you can see Bob Cratchit at his table,
Or Frederick at his richer Christmas party,
And each of them, as well as he is able,
All set to celebrate in manner hearty;
If you can see yourself in cold bed lying,
Upon another Christmas soon to come,
And no-one shed a tear to mark your dying -
Your death a cause of great relief to some -
If you can kneel and beg at last for pardon,
To lose the miser’s burden you have borne,
And nevermore your broken heart to harden…
And wake upon a frosty Christmas morn;
If you can send a turkey as a blessing,
And sing your Christmas hymns with cheerful voice;
If you with nephew play at riddle-guessing,
And happy dining-company rejoice;
If you can fill each Christmas ever after
With one whole year’s worth of joy and fun
Yours are the later years of love and laughter
And - which is more - God Bless Us, Every One!
Sampiro has not been around lately, so I’d better revive this thread for its sixth outing:
The Great Turkey Caper
by Damon Runyon
It comes on a chilly Christmas morning when I am sat by the fire thinking of not much except how to raise some scratch to pay the rent in January, for while I do not say my employer is the meanest old skinflint who ever underpaid his clerk in London, he will do until a skinflint comes along, and although he does not dare to stop my pay by one half-crown for Christmas Day he will certainly do so if he can see a way to do it and keep his good name. Anyway, while we have little enough in the house by reason of the scandalously low wage I am paid, we have a goose all ready stuffed and parcelled up to take to the baker’s, where the big oven is all heated up for such as live on our street and have no oven of their own, and there are precious few on our street who have an oven of their own, nor yet on the next street over. Also my ever-loving wife has a pudding all wrapped up in our best pudding cloth which she boils in the copper since sunrise, and while I am not such as man as has to have his drink I will not say no to a drink on Christmas Day, even though the gin that Lemmy peddles in his grog-shop is the worst rot-gut you can stomach and it needs hot water and a lemon or two and not more than a pound of good sugar to make it fit to drink. So all in all we are set to make merry this Christmas Day once I take Tiny Tim to church and his big sister comes home for her day off, and if we have little enough then at least we have our pride, though you cannot eat your pride no matter how hard you try.
But as I am wrapping myself up in my coat and comforter and Tiny Tim comes hobbling down stairs on his crutch, who should come to our door but a red-faced ghee I never see before carrying a turkey somewhat larger than my little son. Fortunately it is a dead turkey or else it will be raising no small fuss at being carried through the streets by one of its feet, but I cannot think what anyone will be doing with a turkey at our house, for I never see such a turkey in all my life and I figure perhaps the Lord Mayor of London may afford such a turkey for his Christmas dinner, and then only if the Corporation vote him a subsidy, as I hear the Corporation sometimes will, and after all what is the point of being the Lord Mayor of London if you cannot get the Corporation to vote you a subsidy for your turkey?
Well, this ghee asks if he is at the house of Bob Cratchit and explains that this turkey is for me, and I tell him there is surely some mistake for there are not people in this town who can afford to give such a turkey away for nothing, and it is certain that I cannot pay for it. But he tells me that some cove in the City is most insistent that the turkey comes to me, and not only is the turkey bought and paid for but the cove also pays for the delivery of the turkey, and pays this ghee more for his time what with it being Christmas Day and all. So my ever-loving wife says thank you very nicely to the ghee, and instructs me to lend a hand and calls whichever of our children are in earshot to lend a hand also, for the turkey needs plucking and drawing if it is to go to the baker’s while the oven is still warm. Even Tiny Tim helps, though he does not do much except hold a bag for the feathers, for this turkey has feathers enough to stuff a pillow and plenty over, and pillow feathers are worth money in this man’s town.
Soon we have a heap of turkey guts beside and a pink naked turkey on our clean table, and my ever-loving wife sends Peter next door to Widow Henderson to ask for the loan of her big roasting tin, for it is sure she has nothing big to roast for Christmas and there will be a turkey supper in it for her. Also we ask the neighbours for some bread crumbs and an onion and some herbs to make a stuffing, and there will be turkey suppers in it for them too. This is all done with much haste, and yet it is not so badly done at that, and soon I am off down the street with Tiny Tim balanced on one shoulder and the turkey on the other, while Peter leads the way with our goose, for the goose is all ready to be cooked too and we are not so flush that we will throw a good goose away, even if there is turkey to follow for supper.
Now most of our neighbours already have their Christmas dinner planned, as do we, but after some to-ing and fro-ing we pass the word that there is a turkey supper at the Cratchits’ once the turkey is in a very cool oven for perhaps nine hours, or maybe ten, and when I go back to the baker’s well after dark I trail a queue of children behind me not unlike there is in that story about the rat-catcher from Germany. All that evening there are people filing in and out of our kitchen bringing a plate or a bowl and a knife and fork, and they all bring something for our table and go away with a helping of turkey, and our house is so full of neighbours it is like we build an ark and it sets in to rain for forty days and nights. Of course certain citizens happen by with something in a bottle or glass for the man of the house, and this is much as is right and proper, and we pledge each other good health in sherry or beer or hot toddy, especially the hot toddy, for a little gin and hot water and lemon and sugar keeps the cold out somewhat better than an old coat and comforter.
When at last it seems that the whole street helps us to eat our turkey, and for sure it is more like that such a turkey will feed thirty people rather than twenty, and every bone is picked clean as a church floor, everyone takes to his bed and dreams of turkey for eight hours solid, though the turkey in my dream is drinking all my hot toddy, which I do not think so very fair, at that. Still, dreams or no, I sleep solid until the sun is well in the sky the next morning, and I must run all the way to my work, for it is sure that Mr Scrooge does not make merry, nor sleeps late, nor arrives at the office one minute late, and I am no less than seventeen minutes behind hand, and there is none that arrives late to Mr Scrooge’s office and has his situation the next day.
Mr Scrooge asks me what I mean by arriving at such a time, but as I try to answer he begins to laugh and I fear that he parts his mooring and departs where the woodbine twineth. He vows to explain all over hot toddy that same afternoon, and it is the only afternoon off Mr Scrooge is ever known to take, and he tells me such a tale of spooks of Christmas past, present and yet to come as it seems he is away with the fairies and never to return. However, he doubles my salary on the spot, and this is before he has his second go of the hot toddy, and asks after my ever-loving wife and all the little Cratchits beside, and while I do not pretend to understand his spook story one little scrap, it turns out to be not such a mean Christmas after all.
“Ghee”?