Scrooge

'Tis the season, and so, while engaging in one of my favorite -- and most useless -- pastimes, which readers of this blog are already aware of, surfing the television airwaves, I chanced upon George C. Scott's masterful portrayal of the penurious curmudgeon, in what is surely the most famous -- and most often performed -- Christmas tale of all time, excepting, of course, the Biblical one. So entrenched is this fable in our consciousness and so familiar is its ill-tempered protagonist that his name no longer requires capitalization but has assumed a singular status in the English lexicon as a noun and verb signifying, well, a decidedly un-Christmas-like spirit.

While his creator, Mr. Dickens, is rightfully recognized as one of literature's most artful and engaging notables, what greater accolade can accrue to him -- or any other writer -- than having a fictional character's name be incorporated into everyday language? One wonders whether some other moniker from the Dickens anthology -- Heep, Fagin, Pickwick, or Haversham, for example -- if substituted for Scrooge, would have been similarly popularized. To me, "Scrooge" sounds a lot like "screw," which, aside from its prurient connotation, conjures up an image of a person unfairly losing out or being taken advantage of in a contest or negotiation -- a predicament which Mr. Scrooge might well be able to facilitate -- as well as a tightening up, as a screw is tightened, synonymous with stinginess. The fact that these word associations are both slang and contemporary makes it unlikely that they contributed to Dickens's thought process, but does prompt the curious speculation as to whether the usages themselves became some iteration of the "Scrooge" name, which would make its invention even more historic.

My first cognizant encounter with the Scrooge personality came in the third grade, when I was invited to play the part of Tiny Tim in a sixth grade production of "A Christmas Carol." It's difficult enough to be one of the smartest kids in the class -- it never compensates for one's athletic deficiencies -- but even more embarrassing to be transplanted summarily into a class three levels above one's own. I assume I was selected for this role because (1) my diminutive stature suitably contrasted to that of my sixth-grade costars; (2) my memorization skills were sufficiently developed to regurgitate on cue the climactic line "God bless us every one"; and (3) I could easily afford to miss a few third-grade classes to attend rehearsals. I suppose I could have declined the honor, but, really, what nine-year-old could have resisted the glare of the spotlight and the insistent prodding of proud parents and enlightened teachers?

What made this episode even more anomalous and ironic was the fact that I was Jewish -- probably, I don't remember, the only Jew in the class. So there I was, up on the stage, or whatever served for a stage, at the old Garland-Rodes School, in front of an audience of hundreds, the sole non-Christian in the crowd (other than my beaming parents and grandparents), a veritable Christmas icon, resurrected from certain death (as revealed to Scrooge by the Ghost of Christmas Future) by the former's transformation, whose only line was a prayerful entreaty to a merciful deity to bless the Cratchit family and, by extension, the entire assemblage.

Although the political correctness of religious impartiality was not as pronounced fifty years ago as it is today, it was common knowledge among my peers that, while Jews did not celebrate Christmas and its gifting rituals, they did observe an alternate seasonal holiday, Hanukkah, which, serendipitously, offered its own opportunities for receiving gifts, eight nights of it, as a matter of fact, a glorious phenomenon which evoked half-serious declarations of envy from some friends, mindful of their own holiday's one-day limitation. My two siblings and I were especially fortunate since our parents, in an egregious demonstration of Jewish guilt and not wanting us to feel deprived, nurtured our blind faith in an ecumenical Santa Claus by surprising us on Christmas morning with a spate of presents -- bicycles, sleds, electric trains -- all in addition to those we had already received for Hanukkah. They did spare themselves the aggravation of erecting (and decorating!) a Christmas tree, correctly deducing that the presents were what really mattered.

I always had a trough of toys to wallow in. For as long as I can remember, the flagship Schewel store on Main Street in Downtown Lynchburg operated a toy department in its basement during the months of November and December -- and, in the days before Wal-Mart and Toys-R-Us cornered the market, did a brisk business in bicycles, tricycles, pedal cars, board games, dolls, coloring books, erector sets, cap guns, costumes, and other 1950's and 1960's kiddie paraphernalia.

Legend has it that my grandfather, Ben Schewel, whose own father immigrated to this country from Russia in the 1890's and who grew up in a household markedly devoid of playthings (whatever kind may have existed at the turn of the century), other than those of a severely primitive nature, pledged to himself that, if it were up to him, no child would be left behind. Consequently, he established Schewels Toyland, where he didn't exactly hand out toys for free but did offer cash-strapped parents the option of stuffing their childrens stockings on credit, which otherwise might go empty. Mr. Ben gave away toys, too, lots of them, to mentally ill patients at the Lynchburg Training School and Hospital at a Christmas Party he hosted every year and to every Agudath Sholom Religious School student at an annual Hanukkah Party.

Is it possible that my own Scrooge-like proclivities are somehow a perverted reflection of Mr. Ben's profligate munificence? After all, the image persists of my merry grandfather perched up on a stage lavishly doling out Toyland treats to one hundred Jewish youngsters -- who were certainly not destitute -- like a Santa Claus in dark suit and skullcap, until he arrived at the grand prizes -- a boy's and girl's bicycle -- for the final lucky pair chosen by lottery, a lengthy, excruciating production which never failed to leave me quivering and ashen-faced. Surely all my envious compatriots were staring at me and thinking to themselves: "You could have all these toys yourself, couldn't you? If your grandfather can give them away to us, why couldn't he do the same for you? You could make a clean sweep of Schewels Toyland any time you wanted to."

Sixty years later, I find the giving and receiving of holiday gifts troubling, even painful.

Comparatively speaking, I am sure I have little to complain about, especially on the giving side. I don't give that many gifts -- and of those it is necessary for me to select only a few.

After several years of foolishly believing that I could divine my wife's taste in clothing -- even with the confident advice of her favorite salesladies -- and of trying to decipher her quizzical expressions as she perused a pink blouse or lavender sweater as if it were covered with grease, I smoothly transitioned to jewelry as less trendy, less subject to error, universally prized and, naturally, more expensive. I declared victory -- prematurely. A series of surreptitious exchanges and closet confinements finally convinced me to take my wife along on my shopping excursions -- with the result that, although my beautifully wrapped package retains a semblance of mystery and, when opened, prompts (faked?) orgasmic exclamations of joy, its contents are no surprise.

When I described my current and much-improved method of spousal gift selection to an acquaintance, she smiled pleasantly before offering the blunt opinion that she wanted to know that her husband had employed some effort in the activity and thus preferred to abandon him to his own hapless resources. To which my silent (even I wasn't so brash as to blurt it out) response was: "Well, effort is certainly a noble aspiration. But what's the value in expending precious time, money, and energy to produce a dubious outcome of blatant disappointment or feigned glee?"

In truth, I did exert some effort this season, with mixed results.

Other than his accompanying me occasionally to a men's store, I never saw my father do any shopping. Yet every Christmas he would bestow gifts -- what they were or how he collected them remains obscure -- on all the female employees at the Schewel corporate and downtown offices, a practice I thought admirable (while cynically questioning whether his motive was altruistic or obligatory) and came to emulate after his death. For a number of years I purchased poinsettias to support a local non-profit fundraiser -- which, I was told more than once, could be had at Wal-Mart for half the price -- before switching this season to a mixed assortment of Florida grapefruit and oranges. Although the poinsettias were always gratefully accepted and lauded for their blood-red beauty (I discarded yellow as less popular after the first go-round) -- and after all, what other response could be accorded a beneficent boss -- I believe the fruit was a refreshing change.

I also send a gift to Schewels fifty store managers, usually a small tin of cookies or toffee, selected, wrapped, and shipped by the proprietress of a downtown sundries emporium in a turnkey job that spares me all the work and decision-making. Alas, she shuttered her doors a year ago, casting me hopelessly adrift, waiting for the inevitable panic to set in when Thanksgiving should appear in the rear-view mirror. As time was winding down, like a hungry pigeon I finally lighted on a Hickory Farms packaged nut assortment, fifty of which I ordered, picked up at the Mall, and transported to Schewels Central Warehouse (only a mile away) for distribution by tractor-trailer (along with furniture) to each store, thus avoiding an outrageous seven-dollar-per shipping charge.

Since my wife was going to be out of town for our family's annual Hanukkah dinner at my mother's home, I implored her to share her considerable shopping expertise and assist me in choosing gifts for son, brother, brother-in-law, mother, nieces, and nephews, a task I am pleased to report we completed in a one-hour whirlwind tour of J.C. Penney. "Why Penny's?" I innocently inquired of her on the way home. "Because," she replied, applying a peculiar but typical logic to the query, "it's where I always park whenever I visit out-of-town malls."

The purchase I was most proud of was the one for my mother -- a friend of every merchant in town, for whom trying to find an item she doesn't already possess is a futile exercise, unless it be of the living, breathing variety, which of course she would never allow to cross the threshold of her immaculate domicile. She warmly embraced my surrogate, however, a battery-operated, walking, talking white poodle that required no feeding or house training.

A riskier proposition was a shirt for my younger son, Matthew. (I wasn't worried about my older son and daughter, whose New York and Philadelphia abodes were too distant for return visits so soon after their Thanksgiving homecomings; I effortlessly mailed each cash in a card.) How does a fifty-nine-year-old ultra-traditional dresser -- that is, one who wears old clothes -- pick suitable attire for a twenty-something? Only by sheer luck. I liked the shirt -- under normal circumstances, a certain guarantee that its recipient would not -- for its soft cotton hand, bold burgundy coloration, and narrow white striping, and it was on sale, only $24.99.

Matthew is a healthy six-foot-three, an extra-large I thought, for sure, but, as he later explained to me, contemporary fashion now dictates a snugger fit -- a clever ruse on the part of apparel purveyors, I submit -- which meant that, after he tried on the shirt, he and I would visit Penney's for a reshopping adventure, an accidental opportunity for me to ascertain if he really liked it: would he simply trade sizes or would he reselect altogether? Much to my suppressed delight, he chose the same shirt, in a large, a development that so intoxicated me I bought one too, size small (opting for the fashionable fit). Our pleasurable experience was further enhanced by our discovery, upon check-out, that the shirts were now reduced an additional six dollars each. We consummated our transaction and jauntily emerged from the store with enough savings pocketed to pay for our Panera Bread lunches.

Sometimes, though, it doesn't pay to try to save money. The day I was cruising the Mall looking for Hickory Farms, I stopped in the lobby to examine a display of interesting board games, thinking one might make a suitable gift for an employee and his family. Since my antiquated knowledge of such games is limited to Scrabble, Monopoly, and Trivial Pursuit (for all three of which, by the way, there are now innumerable variations), I stood wide-eyed and confused by the mind-boggling choices, until a woman nearby, in an eruption of enthusiasm, pointed out her favorite, "Sequence," which, she explained, her friends never failed to purchase for themselves after she introduced them to it.

"You can buy it at Target for $16.99," she added, a savings of half the Mall price. I started to grab the one I was looking at, reluctant to attack the snarl of traffic between River Ridge and Target. It wasn't the $20 so much as the idea of unnecessarily overpaying that finally lured me to my car, Ward's Road, and the bright orange bull's eye. Of course, Target was sold out of "Sequence," and by the time I got back to the Mall to buy the game, I had wasted a good forty minutes, and saved nothing.

I confess that I did use that side trip to slide into Barnes and Noble to search out a particular book for my sister, Donna; she had read and raved about another work by the same author. Here was a popular novel, published six months ago, well-reviewed in the New York Times and Wall Street Journal, available only in hardcover -- and Barnes and Noble didn't have a copy. I wasn't surprised; the Lynchburg branch is decidedly substandard, in my humble opinion, testimony to the company's bleak but telling assessment of the local market. As it turned out, Givens had one copy, which I greedily snatched up and took to Schewels for my able assistant to wrap. (Remember, my wife was out of town, and gift-wrapping presents for me the same manual dexterity challenges of DVD programming, furniture assembly, golf, tennis, and Wii.)

When my sister handed me my own Hanukkah gift a few nights later, a festively-disguised book, it had a suspiciously familiar heft and thickness. Like a skilled surgeon at work, I patiently removed ribbon and bow, delicately separated tape from paper, and carefully began to peel back the protective tissue, when a distinctive teal and orange jacket design brazenly peeked from concealment and confirmed my dolorous premonition. Yes, it was indeed "The Yiddish Policeman's Union," the same book my sister was simultaneously unwrapping, the Holy Grail of my determined quest. What made this O. Henryesque development even more revolting was her now predictable admission that she already owned a well-thumbed copy. I was too dispirited to even think about returning the book, and thus passed it on to my brother, upon whose bookcase it is fated to rest, forever pristine.

While I will undoubtedly read the book -- affirming my compulsive eccentricity that no tome shall be left unturned -- and eagerly await the proper time and place to don the tee shirt given me by my children -- muted gray bearing the provocative insignia "Ask me about my blog" (Now that took some effort!) -- my innate uneasiness in the face of such favors remains intact.

Perhaps this anxiety is some remnant of low self-esteem lingering from childhood, which would deem me an unworthy recipient of largess, or simply evidence that the aforementioned ethnic trait (guilt) has been passed to another generation. I also need to be clear that these musings should in no way be interpreted as disrespectful of the pervasive Christian mythology, according to which man's Creator gifted to him His Only Begotten Son, at whose birth there appeared three Wise Men bearing from afar gold, frankincense, and myrrh, and who, years later, sacrificed his own life so that his disciples might be saved.

That's enough on those subjects. In my view, much of the joy of the event stems from the mystery of the unknown.

Does not the anticipatory thrill of contemplating a seductively adorned future possession often exceed the satisfaction reaped from its unveiling? Is not the revelation of the putative object of our desire usually anticlimactic to our admiration of its glamorous packaging? Like eager children, we rip away the glitzy camouflage, only to come hard up against a pitiless disillusionment.

Why should we be surprised? How often do the contents of our own overstuffed shopping bags, once stashed away in closets or drawers, suffer an inglorious demise, their formerly delicious attributes suddenly as sour and disposable as spoiled milk? Unless we have informed our donors of our specific wants and needs -- the substance and permanence of which, I maintain, are problematic -- how can we expect them to make judicious and pleasing choices?

Nevertheless, we smile graciously and proffer the appropriate declarations of appreciation -- not only for effort and thoughtfulness, but also, I suspect, for gift receipts and liberal return policies. Isn't the day after Christmas one of the busiest in the retail universe?

Food, however, can not be returned -- except in a most unbecoming manner. And I receive a lot of edibles over the holidays, in the form of business gifts, all sinfully gratuitous, including the most recent to arrive, which instigated this whole diatribe. (Astute readers may already be salivating at the self-contradiction contained in my condemnation of this common practice while resorting to it myself, to which my feeble retort would be: Such is life, or Do as I say, not as I do.)

My idealistic wife would contend that the friendly folks who send these delicacies are performing genuine acts of kindness in keeping with the spirit of the season. I suggest that they are expressing gratitude for business past and not-so-subtly enticing me to keep our relationship ongoing.

There may be an cadre of customers who anxiously await the arrival of holiday gifts from their vendors, but I am not one of them. I once wrote my business associates and asked them to donate the equivalent cost of their gift to me to charity, a suggestion that was unanimously ignored, probably because of that cost's relative immateriality. I imagine, however, that the combined expenditures of one vendor's total gifting would make some non-profit's Christmas very merry.

One objection I have to these business gifts mailed from distant places is admittedly frivolous yet nonetheless valid: the sheer nuisance of unpacking and transporting them. One vendor is sensible enough to ship his super-sized box of Florida grapefruit and oranges (ah yes, how ironic) to my home; yet I still shudder when I read the chilling words: "Contents perishable; open immediately." There are at least three dozen of each fruit stacked inside on cardboard trays which have to be removed and carried to my downstairs refrigerator (it takes about five exhausting trips), where they will enter hibernation and trickle out slowly over the course of the next three months, unless I should be so fortunate as to be able to pawn some off on children or friends. (As I write this, I'm thinking that, instead of whining, I should just take them to the food kitchen or the Salvation Army.)

My second objection is that, except for the fruit and a box of Christmas wrap (we now have ten of them, each half-empty, gathering dust in our attic), most of what I receive is quite frankly not very nutritious, loaded with empty calories, and at my age best avoided. Oh, it all looks wonderful, and one small bite will leave your taste buds begging for more; the problem is that the generous provisioners never consider that not everyone eats this stuff.

I'm speaking of moist, tender homemade cookies speckled with oversized chocolate chunks; crispy, flaked wafers rolled around chocolate and vanilla filling; Godiva chocolates laced with rum, fruit, caramel, or darker chocolate; mouthfuls of sweet Hershey kisses dressed in shiny red, green, gold, and silver foil; handfuls of popcorn -- caramel, buttered, and cheese -- overflowing a large, seasonally decorated, cylindrical container; Harry-and-David gift boxes (each one of which has to be pried open) offering delicate pastries, assorted cheeses, fancy crackers, smoked beef, choice preserves, and juicy pears and apples; a gorgeous pre-sliced cheesecake, complete with freezing plate, featuring natural, chocolate silk, raspberry, and peanut butter flavors; several Virginia Diner tins of gourmet peanuts, pistachios, and salted almonds; homemade blackberry jam (tasty and useful); a pungent, honey-smoked, spiral ham-and-a-half (my family will enjoy it, even if I won't); a luxurious Montana Plains raisin and honey bread loaf (appreciated by all); and the outrageous piece de resistance, a huge basket filled with boxes and containers of chocolate peppermint smoothies, Ghiradelli peppermint squares, Lindt cappuccino sweets, chocolate-covered graham crackers, more Godiva chocolates, Walker chocolate fruit, King Leo mint puffs, Brown and Haley butternut toffee, Old Dominion peanut brittle, chocolate cream-puff cookies . . . well, you get the idea.

This ultimate cornucopia wasn't even sent by a vendor, but rather by a non-profit furniture buying group, whose other members would certainly be justified in protesting its president's holiday perquisite if they ever found out about it.

All the cookies, candy, nuts, and cake I laid out for my employees to dispose of, which they did in short order (I even ate half a piece of cheesecake myself), except for that last monstrosity, which, having been sent to the house, my wife decided to keep, more as a display of ostentatious indulgence than something one really wants to ingest.

I did receive one handy gift from a manufacturer's representative, a stubborn Republican who, after seven years in the wilderness, may be seeing the error of his ways. This inveterate prankster sent me a roll of toilet paper, on each panel of which is imprinted a likeness of George Bush mouthing some infamous malapropism. Since I haven't opened it yet, intending to regift it (perhaps to the sender!), I am only able to reveal the first three (I doubt my readers will mind, after 3000 words): "Bring 'em on" (Bush on Iraqi militant attacks, July 3, 2003); "They misunderestimated me " (Bush on Bush, November 6, 2000); and "We need an energy bill that encourages consumption" (Bush on the environment, September 23, 2002). Although you can't eat it, you can still use it to wipe the crumbs off your . . . smiley face.

Sometimes, though, even a Scrooge receives a gift he cannot spurn. This morning, Christmas Day, when I went to my mailbox, I found a mysterious white envelope, its stomach bulging like a pregnant woman's, its flap and ends so meticulously sealed and wrapped in protective tape that no loose edge was visible. As I struggled to open it, cursing its security, I noticed the return address: Macey R., a high school friend, now living in Berkeley, whose only recent contact with me was one e-mail six weeks ago, to which I had responded by sending this blog link. Finally, I was able to dislodge the letter inside, on which was typed a brief message: Natalia (Macey's significant other) and I thought you might like these. "These" fell out into my hand: twenty-two baseball cards, the 1960 Pittsburgh Pirates, World Series champions, surprising victors over the invincible Yankees in the Greatest Game Ever Played, which I witnessed sitting beside my father in Forbes Field forty-seven years ago.

They were all there -- Gino Cimoli, Hal Smith, Rocky Nelson, Harvey Haddix, Roy Face, Bill Virdon, Vern Law, Bob Skinner, Don Hoak -- and now they rest on my dresser beside the signed photograph of their teammate Bill Mazeroski crossing home plate after hitting his unforgettable home run, simple but magnificent reminders of youthful avocations, baseball lore, enduring friendships, and the power and poignancy of an ingenious gift. Bah Humbug!