Dickens, Cambridge (OH), and Christmas

The works of Charles Dickens elicit strong responses. There are those who take great umbrage about the place in Dickens occupies in literary canons. His contemporaries often found that his work was wordy and tedious; some modern critics find him too didactic and overly committed to idealized characters rather than real-life people.[1] Yet, many of his works are considered classics, stories that continue to be read in high schools and inspire films, plays, musicals and other works. More so than any other, Dickens has become synonymous with the proper way to celebrate Christmas. The emphasis on traditional meals, caroling, and gift-giving can be traced to A Christmas Carol, even if most people are unfamiliar with the underlying social and political commentary that accompanies the novella.

In Cambridge, Ohio during the holiday season, I found evidence of this connection between the public imagination and Charles Dicken. Each year, along Wheeling Avenue, this small town erects nearly one hundred displays as a part of the annual “Dicken’s Victorian Village,” recreating London Victorian Christmases of the 1850s.  Up and down the sidewalks, in shop windows, and even upon some second stories, mannequins display scenes from a holiday season from our collective imagination. The displays attempt to balance the idealized Christmas with the poverty and deprivation Dickens wrote about. For example, a female mannequin is seated, exhausted, because she has no days off during the holiday season and is expected to be constantly available to provide her service. Another display shows an elderly woman begging from an upper-class man. The accompanying sign from this display notes that there were few respectable remunerative opportunities for females in the London of the 1850s. Yet, most others describe decorating trees, depict Tiny Tim and Bob Cratchit, and details of Dickens the man and his family. These are scenes that prompt nostalgia for days gone by; an imagined simpler time. But juxtaposed are the signs and symbols of the holiday season of the present, with more prosaic advertisements. For example, a used car lot, not too far from Wheeling Avenue, beckons potential customers with a sign that reads: “Naughty or Nice / Get a new car for your wife.”

It is interesting to speculate how Dickens might feel about the linkage between him and Christmas today. I am sure that he would be flattered to think that his works, specifically A Christmas Carol, nearly 175-years old, continues to be relevant and beloved. But in one of his lesser known works, The Chimes, written a year after A Christmas Carol, Dickens is particularly suspicious of nostalgia and believing that there were “good old days.” The primary protagonist in this novella is Toby Veck, who opens the story with a prayer, muttered to himself, “I don’t know what we poor people are coming to. Lord send we may be coming to something better in the New Year nigh upon us!” Although it is frequently pointed out that Dickens was concerned about the plight of the poor, the collective remembrance of A Christmas Carol tends to focus on the spirit of Christmas and holiday traditions. But Dickens was also concerned about how recounting the “good old times,” as he called it in The Chimes, served to discount the lives of the poor. In remembering the “good old times,” no one ever talks about poverty and deprivation. Toby comes to believe, because of the persistent nostalgia for an undefined previous romanticized era, that the poor must accept sole blame for their plight and are “born bad.” This relieves the intelligentsia and upper-classes from any responsibility for the system, the alleviation of poverty, or supporting the public tools, such as education, to help the poor escape the situation. Surely, a lesson for the modern world as well.

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[1] In an editorial written in the Wall Street Journal, playwright David Mamet wrote that the author’s work made him “vomit.” Mamet admits, however, that A Tale of Two Cities and A Christmas Carol are classics of English language literature. David Mamet, “Charles Dickens Makes Me Want to Throw Up,” Wall Street Journal, 22 July 2017. 

Signs

I know that the landscape is flat in western Ohio, but sometimes signs are seemingly redundant. Hills are a matter of perspective: in Ohio a slight rise constitutes a hill; in Pennsylvania, hills rival mountains in size. I chuckled when, while driving on Shrine Road in Miami County, Ohio, I came across a sign that told drivers that the “hills blocks view.” It reminded me of one of my grandmother’s favorite sayings, often used while she was watching television, “You’re a pain, but I cannot see through you.” I appreciate the sentiment that the sign was placed to caution drivers about obstructed views, but could not resist thinking, “How could the hill be so mean?” 

Odd Sightings Along the C&O Towpath

Part of my walking regime is to find new, and interesting, places to walk. I try, as much as possible, to vary the locations of my perambulations. Even when I repeat locations, it is in the hope of seeing new things, variations, wildlife, the evolution of a landscape. A particular walk on the C&O Canal towpath, in early December, was memorable because of the numerous odd things I encounter in the space of just a few hours.

A buzzard stands guard of an abandoned house
on Dam 5 Road

Within the first mile of my walk that Saturday afternoon, I saw a buzzard perched atop an abandoned house, two young deer trying to figure out how to simultaneously run away from me and get out of the gully that had once been the canal bed, and then, bizarrely, I came across a woman walking a goat. From a distance I thought it was a large dog, but as the two approached I realized that it was not walking like a dog. The woman had nothing more than a rope around the goat's neck for a leash and its gait, from a distance, looked more like a deer than a canine. As I approached, the goat drew back with some astonishment as it beheld me. I offered the back of my hand, like I would for a dog, as a sign of friendliness.  It took a quick sniff, nuzzled, and then began to lick my hand. I remarked that it was a nice response. The woman, who remained silent throughout the encounter, laughed heartily and resumed their conveyance.

The C&O Canal Towpath, near mile marker 106

Because of its length (184 miles), it is easy to find parts of the towpath that are relatively isolated. I might occasionally come across a few people, but generally it is quiet. The large trees growing alongside the Potomac River makes for a reflective walk. It is quiet enough that wildlife sightings are common. A lone, scrawny wild turkey wanders across the path several yards ahead of me and disappears into the underbrush. I hear woodpeckers throughout my walk; because most trees no longer have leaves, they are easier to spot and identify. Yet, because it is hunting season, every five minutes or so, the repeated report of rifles echo down a river valley.

The reclusive pileated woodpecker

I stopped and watched the river for a few minutes, and chickadees begin to fuss at me. I concoct a story in my head that they are jealous that I spend too much time photographing woodpeckers instead of birds such as themselves. Yet, the instant I have them focused in my camera, they flit away.

The sun was getting lower in the sky, and clouds were beginning to obscure the sunlight. I picked up the pace. Although the sun was not to set for another forty-five minutes, I still had a mile to go and the light was beginning to fade. In a few minutes the sun would dip behind the hills on the West Virginia side of the Potomac. I glanced over at the base of the large sycamore tree adjacent to the trail. Is that what I think it is? Indeed, it was a pair of size 8 women's panties bereft of an owner or further clues. The mind reels at how the garment came to be deposited at the foot of the massive tree, along the towpath, in a national park.