The Ghost of Christmas Future
Atlanta, GA
December 25, 2018
The phantom approached slowly, solemnly, and somberly…its black garment concealing its figure, face, and form.
The woman in the bed…visions of sugar plums dancing in her head…heard, felt, and saw nothing. Her middle-aged husband, struggling thru a partial, fitful sleep, woke with a start…and questioned the intruder.
“Who are you? Why are you here?”
“I am the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.”
“Huh?…Yeah, right. How did you get in here? What do you want?”
“I am to show you shadows of things that have not yet occurred, but that will happen in the time before us.”
Thru the exterior darkness, the wind howled, and the branches of trees tapped ominously at the opaque windows.
The man trembled, looked pleadingly at his oblivious wife, but dared not rouse her. He instead directed his diminishing courage toward the ghostly guest before him.
Unlike the Past or the Present, the Future has what Bret Harte called the defective moral quality of being a stranger. But the Future, unlike strangers, cannot be avoided. Nor, on this night, could it be deferred.
Much as we may try to hide from it, it always finds us. We merely do our best to ensure it is rewarding…or at least forgiving…when it does.
“Spirit of the Future…if that is what you really are…I fear you more than any other, for what you have to share is meant to be known by no man. Can you not leave me in ignorance, and in peace?”
An apparition of actuarial vision and narcoleptic passion, the phantom fell silent…and simply pointed his cloaked arm toward the closed window as the reluctant Mr. Breen dutifully donned his warmest robe.
Our uneasy protagonist glanced apprehensively at his tranquil wife, contemplated his children in their adjacent rooms, grasped the ghost’s gown…and dissolved with his chaperone into the cold winter’s night.
Slowly, through the darkness, familiar scenes evolved into view, like photos developing in a darkroom tray. The man squinted through an ascending light, and noticed a small crowd of people in a large quiet room.
A tree groaning with ornaments graced a corner, colored lights framed garlanded windows, and a small Nativity scene of long family lineage consoled the lone morsel of mantel not bedecked with stockings or decoration.
Through the walls and into this scene stepped our time travelers, unseen by other occupants of the room.
All was bright, but all was calm…even a bit solemn. Our invisible intruder recognized himself as one of two septuagenarian brothers chatting quietly at the periphery, and edged closer to eavesdrop.
The elder sibling, shoulders drooping a bit, hair thinning a lot…but still of striking eyes, serene countenance, and startling good looks, was speaking, wistfully.
Throughout his life, mundane details usually eluded the sensors in his head, which was often in the clouds…lost, as Adams said of Jefferson, in philosophic tranquility.
This Christmas, he had been brought down to earth.
“I am glad we are all able to be together this year, especially since this is the first Christmas without either of our parents. I know we lost our father years ago, but now, with Mom gone, the usual holographic visits just didn’t seem right…we needed to be in person.”
The other brother was usually more vivacious, typically energetic in appearance, and always enjoyed or became the center of attention. He strived, as Alice Roosevelt Longworth said of her energetic father, to be the bride at every wedding and the corpse at every funeral.
This night, he retreated off-stage, allotting the spotlight to younger generations around the room, and to memories of those who preceded him…and who had already paid their debt to nature.
“I know. I’m glad we could make this work. I still remember those Christmases in Tampa as kids. Mom always made sure we got the gifts we wanted…or at least the ones we deserved. Then seeing our grandparents, enjoying big family dinners, and having long, funny…sometimes heated…discussions. That was always my favorite holiday as a child.”
Disregarding his ghoulish guide, the adult Mr. Breen remained in rapt attention as his older self reflected on his youngest days, recalling those gift exchanges and dinners with his beloved parents, his incomparable brother, his adored grandparents, an entertaining uncle who stole the conversation as his aunt rolled her eyes, and guest appearances from a supporting cast that would change from year to year.
“I can’t believe how long ago that was”, continued the older brother, “and how recent it seems. Too bad our extended family is so much smaller and more scattered now.”
At that moment a beautiful woman approached, clutching the hand of a young, yawning ten-year-old child.
“Dad, Uncle…sorry to interrupt, but she wants to say good night.”
First one, then the other, of the reminiscing brothers bent down, hugged the small girl, and wished her well as she prepared for the most restless, anticipatory night of any child’s year. They then joined the others in the main room.
Around a few plates of food, assorted drinks, and a soothing fire were the two wives, four children, and several grandchildren of the reminiscing older men.
The adults appeared reflective, while the grandchildren appeared eerily entranced.
“Are they OK?”, the concerned spectator asked the spirit.
“Yes. They are watching videos and playing games… using small, almost imperceptible devices placed behind their ears. By these they can then see images and hear sounds of which those around them are not aware.”
“Wow. That’s amazing. Is this normal activity?”
“Yes. Most children of this age spend their time, or interact with other kids, and with many adults, in this manner. It seems incredible, but this started with the technology developed during your childhood.”
With the kids anesthetized by their unseen electronics, their parents – the sons and daughters and nephews and nieces of the two elders in the room – began asking their fathers about the evolution and traditions of a family of which they were now patriarchs.
“Christmas has always been special to us”, recalled the older brother, “as I know it was to our parents and grandparents. My memory is not quite what it was, but I remember sizable gatherings around the tree…in the morning gifts were unwrapped, and in the evening wine was uncorked, followed by a festive meal and hearty conversation in which all guests indulged…till it was time for those good people to go home.”
“Wine seems to have been pretty common at these gatherings”, observed one of his sons.
“Well, remember”, his father protested, “this was Christmas. The dead of winter…cold and dark. And wine – what Galileo called sunshine held together by water – helped alleviate the dreariness. Under the circumstances, there was really little else that could be done.”
“I guess that makes sense…but…didn’t you say you were usually in Tampa? How cold and dark could it have been?”
His father quickly re-directed his attention to another part of the room…
“Uh…didn’t someone else have a question?”
From the far corner of the couch, his niece pressed her father for more details.
“I remember some of what Uncle describes, and have heard you speak a lot about our grandparents, their parents, and assorted aunts, uncles, and cousins. How well did you know them, and what were they like?”
Her father thought for a moment, smiled slightly, and then responded…almost as if to himself, like no one else was in the room.
“They were wonderful, but would assemble as a group far too infrequently…usually only at weddings…or funerals…or to celebrate milestone birthdays based on some arcane zero-based formula, yet those milestones somehow seemed to arrive with greater frequency as the years passed.
“But rarely did they all gather at Christmas, at least in my lifetime…tho’ I think they did so more in earlier years. And they made the most of it…as if a host of eager Irish squeezed into a single day the Latin American Las Posadas, but with more booze, less guilt, and as much affection.
“More recently, as the extended family diminished in numbers and spread geographically, each sibling, cousin, aunt, or uncle would spend the day with their own immediate families. This of course had always been the case, but I guess the larger size of earlier generations made non-attendees less apparent…tho’ some of those absences no doubt made many of the assembled hearts grow fonder.
“I do miss the idea of a large extended family, which had already begun to be more unusual by the time I was born. Our family has always been blessed with relative prosperity, and for many years in our society that has gone hand in hand with fewer children…who now seem to be luxuries that in abundance only the poor can afford.
“But we had a fun group, full of humor and wit…much of it falling in torrents, some flowing like molasses, all in good fun. Everyone shared a desire to travel and most a love of wine. Some in the family even earned livings providing these pleasures to others!
“All enjoyed discussion and debate. Several wrote books, others patented inventions. Preeminent surgeons, prominent consultants, eminent engineers, accomplished and amateur aviators, Hollywood agents, a noted architect, and expert financial planners all found a footing in our family. Logicians, politicians, and lawyers – professional or otherwise – were all over the place, defining terms, parsing words, and solving any problem the world dared lay at their feet.”
The elder patriarch interrupted his brother’s stream of consciousness, recollecting another fading family trait.
“As I think back, and amazing as it seems now, our family had always loved to read.”
Looks of astonishment filled the room, as if a Vegas stripper had wandered into a Mecca mosque. Even the grandchildren seemed taken aback, finally distracted from their digital isolation zones.
“What…you mean, like…books?”, one of them asked. “I know you said some people in our family wrote books, but they actually read them too?”
“Yes. But regrettably most have long since abandoned the habit, succumbing to the societal tendencies of a country that began centuries ago with someone like Jefferson, who read Homer in the original Greek, but ended up decades ago with someone like Donald Trump, who didn’t read at all.
“And the cultural decline has only accelerated since. But I myself adopted the reading habit late, after college, and I urge each of you to do the same.”
“Dad”, injected the other son, “I am glad you told us about the family you knew, but that we barely did or never would. I wish I could have known more of them…and hope they appreciated the time they had together while they were alive. And I wish they were all here with us tonight, for one more Christmas.”
At that moment the clock approached midnight, and the specter signaled time to depart.
“Must we go?” Mr. Breen implored. “Can we please stay a few moments more?”
The ghost merely directed his cloaked arm toward the window, inviting the man to clutch his ebony sleeve.
He did so reticently, and suddenly found himself amid windswept tombstones in a familiar moonlit cemetery.
“Spirit, why are we here? I do not wish to see this. Please, go no further! I realize no family is perfect, but I am pleased how well-adjusted and happy mine appears it will be. And, I am relieved that I will be old enough to know my grandchildren when they are old enough to remember me. Spare me more visions!”
As he pleaded, the ghost approached a gravesite…and wiped his sleeve across the stone to reveal a surname, which the frightened man shared, and a date of birth, which preceded his by more than thirty years.
“Spirit, I know this grave, but it is not mine.”
“No”, proclaimed the ghost…
…“it is mine.”
The man fell to the ground, cleared more snow and dust from the face of the stone, revealing the first part, but continuing to conceal the end, of an inscription, that read:
JOHN D. BREENBORN: DECEMBER 10, 1968DIED:
Overwhelmed by what he was experiencing and by the visions he had seen, the astonished son looked up from the stone to the paternal presence still standing before him…
“Why do you return to show me these scenes? Is what you have presented irreversible? Can anything change them?”
“What you have seen are images of what might be, but that are not inevitable. When aiming our arrow into the future, we cannot know if it will hit the apple. All we can do is try to keep William Tell pointed in the right direction.
“But”, continued the spectral father, “while the path of the arrow is uncertain, its acceleration is not…and its final destination is non-negotiable. While most images you have witnessed will vary in their outline or details, the grave ultimately awaits…and perhaps sooner than we expect.”
The son responded…
“I understand. We must not take for granted small things that often go unnoticed or unappreciated…the ability to make, and to recall, family memories…clasping your child’s hand, even as he refuses to release yours…putting that child, full of wonder and expectation, to bed on Christmas Eve…and seeing his face as he impatiently and excitedly wakes you the next morning. These are in fact not the small things…these are the big ones.”
Suddenly, with that, he was back in his room…the place, as TS Eliot put it, where he began, but knew it for the first time.
He now noticed the small things. His wife, still slumbering, was beside him…his children remained nestled in their beds…and the next night his mother, brother, and his family would join them, for Christmas dinner.
The phantom had departed, satisfied that he had shared with his son an affection for the family he once had, a new appreciation for the one with which he was now blessed, and a humble anticipation of what now lies fallow in the fertile fields of the Future.
And, after all those years, that he had sent his excited son to bed, one last time, on Christmas Eve.
JD
