Rushing The Season

There’s a bit of a chill here in the northeast. The temperature outside, when I got up and read it on my wall thermometer, was in the 50’s, which would have been delightfully warm in February, but not in October.

Still, it got me thinking about the joys of winter to come. I called the repair shop to get my snowblower fixed. I found a couple of warm sweatshirts. And I thought about the joys of holiday shopping in Bryant Park in Manhattan, going from tent to tent and eating hot roasted chestnuts while a light snow came down on me and my wife.

Naturally, politics soon intruded.

I thought of the White House at Christmas, the lighting of the tree, a prayer service, and of the President reading that most beloved of stories, A Christmas Carol.

That soon became a movie, with Mike Pence playing the roll of Jacob Marley. He was surprisingly good, especially when he showed Scrooge - the staring roll was, of course, played by our President - the chain of wrongs Scrooge had done in his life against his fellow men.

The Ghost of Christmas Past was played by Bill Clinton, which seemed a more than appropriate choice, while the Ghost of Christmas Present was natural for Bernie Sanders.

As that second ghost and Scrooge flew over the rooftops of London (yes, the story had clearly changed to a movie at this point) I looked at the crowds of happy people below and wondered who would be playing the Ghost of Christmas Future.

When we stopped off to see Scrooge’s well-meaning, happy but ineffective nephew - who had been trying unsuccessfully all these years to get Scrooge to come to his party - I found another masterpiece of casting. It was Mitt Romney, but drinking punch.

Well, we shed a tear, Mitt and I, for how Trump was losing the warm feelings shared by everyone at the party. Then came the scene where the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come appeared.

I would have cast Whoopi Goldberg, but my idle thoughts did me one better. It was Elizabeth Warren, telling Trump that she had a plan for his salvation. She outlined it clearly, but Trump just kept muttering “fake news, fake news.

Then came the end. Instead of running out the door filled with the Milk of Human Kindness, showering gifts as he went and shouting “Merry Christmas” as a symbol of his new and wonderful salvation, Trump rushed to his office and got there early, to surprise his clerk, Bob Cratchit.

 Then, when Cratchit showed up late, saying he had made merry with his meager family Christmas dinner, Trump bristled.

“That’s the last time you make merry on my dime, Bob Cratchit. You’re fired. You can go to the poorhouse for all I care. I’m calling the home secretary to see if your wife is in this country illegally, and should be deported with all your children. Free medical care for them, bah,” he shouted.

With that, the camera pulled out, showing the dirty streets and black smoke curling up from the smokestacks of London. In one small corner of the screen, if you look closely, you can see Mike Pence quietly counting the new links on Trump’s chain, already much longer than the one he wears himself.

But, he is catching up.