I remember my dad reading A Christmas Carol to us as kids. Everyone knows the story, of course, but even knowing how it all goes, I still found myself wondering about old Scrooge and his journey of midnight horror that leads him to warm redemption and the blessings of Tiny Tim.
Perhaps it’s because I’ve been slogging through Dickens’s final work, Our Mutual Friend, as part of my on-going Lost reading project, but when I was filling in for a fellow teacher last week, I noticed a few copies of A Christmas Carol in her room. I started reading it over lunch and found myself drawn in. I finished it over a few lunch breaks and loved every word of it.
Who knew that Dickens could provide such a great respite from Dickens? There’s a special pleasure it rereading those books we knew as kids, in making new sense of the familiar and discovering those things we weren’t then equipped or inclined to see.
It was a great way to start the Christmas season. A tradition, perhaps?