Bears in the Garbage

I sat in our old well-worn armchair this morning with a carafe of fresh hot coffee beside me and the Pickwick Papers open on my lap. I was in my oldest and most comfortable pair of slippers, warm socks, pajamas, and my flannel bathrobe. The sun was coming in through the east windows, and I could see big flakes of snow gently coming down outside. I had several hours before leaving for church, and I had nothing to do but keep an eye on James and work on my book and my coffee.

It was perfectly peaceful and relaxing. The house was quiet.

The house was quiet.

...something was wrong.

Sure enough, I stood up and walked into the kitchen.

The lid was off of the trash can, and James was sitting on the floor sucking on his fingers, which he was reaching into the plastic carton of blueberry yogurt I'd had for breakfast. (Again.)

Not the only type of bear who gets into garbage

After I cleaned him up and found some toys for him to play with, I went back to one of my favorite chapters in Dickens, chapter 28 of Pickwick Papers. Here are some of the highlights:

"Christmas was close at hand, in all his bluff and hearty honesty; it was the season of hospitality, merriment, and open-heartedness"

"As they turned into a lane they had to cross, the sound of many voices burst upon their ears; and before they had even had time to form a guess as to whom they belonged, they walked into the very centre of the party who were expecting their arrival--a fact which was first notified to the Pickwickians by the loud 'Hurrah' which burst from old Wardle's lips when they appeared in sight."

"No I ain't, sir," replied the fat boy, starting up from a remote corner, where, like the patron saint of fat boys--the immortal Horner--he had been devouring a Christmas pie, though not with the coolness and deliberation which characterized that young gentleman's proceedings.

Whereupon Mr. Winkle gallantly inquired if it couldn't be done by deputy; to which the young lady with the black eyes replied "Go away"--and accompanied the request with a look which said as plainly as a look could do--"if you can."

When they were all tired of blind-man's bluff, there was a great game at snapdragon; and when fingers enough were burnt with that, and all the raisins were gone, they sat down by the huge fire of blazing logs to a substantial supper, and a might bowl of wassail, something smaller than an ordinary wash-house copper, in which the hot apples were hissing and bubbling with a rich look and a jolly sound that were perfectly irresistible.

The chapter following is the great story of Gabriel Glum and the goblin king, which is exactly the sort of thing that I would have been confused about and disliked (but what happened to the real story) before I was officially converted to Dickens. I could tell, even from the old Great Illustrated Classics versions of David Copperfield and Oliver Twist, however that Dickens' characters simply had to stick. They are too memorable to be boring, even if you're nine years old and all the humor is going over your head.

Maybe it was the Christmas joy and merriment from Pickwick (along with some beautiful upstate snow) that made the afternoon so wonderful. I met J and her parents for lunch at an old restaurant that used to be a train depot in Leroy, and had the most wonderful half an hour waiting for the them to arrive. As I sat at our table with menu in hand looking out the windows and around the dining room, I couldn't help grinning to myself knowing that my wife would be arriving and lighting up the room, dressed up in a cute outfit for church, the youngest and the prettiest in the room, and toting a cute baby boy to boot. (He was fascinated by a model train that ran upside down on the ceiling, and he made a great game of dropping silverware on the floor on purpose.)

And NOW I'm off for a whole week to play at home snowed in with both of them and to sleep, clean, practice, relax, eat, drink, and be merry. And to finish Pickwick Papers. And, apparently, to keep a better eye on the trash.