Program note

Last year, when this adaptation was first presented, I included this note in the program:

Ordinarily I don’t write program notes preferring to let the work speak for itself—but these aren’t ordinary times.
Last week, coming into the theater, I was happy to see that the set was up, though it wasn’t yet complete. There was still painting to be done, lights for the show were being hung and focussed, stage management and design crews were hard at work, but the structure was there, under work lights—ghost light it’s called—waiting to be brought to life. Working in the theater that half-lit, half-ready stage is a familiar, comfortable sight. I’ve seen that stage, walked out onto others like it many times in my life, in many theaters in many different places. I hope to walk out onto many more, sometime when we aren’t all wearing masks, keeping distance, doing what we must to get the work done. Though I hadn’t thought of it in such a way before, seeing that waiting stage it seemed that perhaps A Christmas Carol could have a particular meaning for this time. Here we have the story of a man so frozen by grief and rage, living in a solitude so profound—‘Solitary as an oyster!’— that it takes a supernatural intervention to shake him up and open his eyes. Spirits present him with visions of his past, of loving families—his own and others—of strangers brought together sharing the best of themselves, in the process showing him the terrible cost of his self-imposed exile. Though he thinks he’s learned much, it’s only when he’s confronted with the vision of a child’s death and the terror of his own mortality that he forgets himself, begging for time, not for his own sake but for the child’s. Which is what saves him, the desire to reach out, to help another, is what makes him fully alive, able to find love, and the connection that makes us human.

Dickens’ folk-tale has seen many incarnations. I’m honored that Carl Walnau and the Centenary Stage Company have chosen to present this new adaptation of mine to keep their stage alight.

As Scrooge says, ‘If we can’t learn to be kind then we must perish.’

The Stick Theater during technical rehearsal; the lighting designer beginning his work.
Last year, the set is nearing completion; Ed Matthews, the lighting designer starts work.

This year, I adapted and changed; because last year was like no other that I’ve known. The very fact that the play was staged, with so many seats cordoned off, was due to Carl Wallnau’s determination to keep the theater alive. As the Centenary Stage Company’s artistic director, also the director of the play, he found ways.

This year I wrote something different, something that might address why I made changes to Dickens’ story. The finished version includes a few cuts, or excludes some of this text, so it makes a faster read as you wait for the play to start.

A good story is never quite complete, never quite finished. There’s always room for more; room for speculation, speculation that lets it live on in our imagination after the author hits Save. Yes, after many perils, Beauty’s steadfast love—it really is quite admirable, a lesson to us all—changes the Beast back to the Prince. The End. Close the book. Yes. Unless… is Beauty maybe just a little… disappointed? I mean, wouldn’t she miss her Beast? After all, it was with him she fell in love. As the Prince takes her hand—he really is very handsome, and seems very nice, and happily ever after is certainly one option, but… well surely it can’t be the only option? What comes next?

In Dickens’ tale we are presented with a man so frozen by grief and rage, living in a solitude so profound—‘Solitary as an oyster!’—that it takes a supernatural intervention to shake him up and open his eyes. Spirits present him with visions of his past, of loving families—his own and others’—of strangers coming together to share the best of themselves, in the process showing him the terrible cost of his self-imposed exile from humanity. At the half-way mark, desperate to bring to an end the Spirits’ increasingly painful revelations, though he swears he’s learned his lesson, truly he has!, it’s only when he’s confronted with the vision of a child’s death and the terror of his own mortality that he is truly able to look past himself to beg for time, begging that he might be spared, not for his own sake, but so that he might save Tim. Which is what saves him; what erases the future and brings him back to life. Yes. And then what? Because surely there must be more. Good intentions, even the best of them, tend not to last—we all see that every day—and Ebenezer Scrooge is not an old man, he’s forty-five in the story—I know, I was surprised, too—but that makes sense; why would those Spirits—Past, Present, Future—go to the trouble of reclaiming him if he has no time left to use his reclamation? What does he do with his new understanding? And how does the story get told? Who is it he finally tells about that night his eyes were opened? When does he tell it? And why? Because I imagine that wouldn’t be an easy conversation. How could you reasonably expect anyone to believe there was once a Christmas Eve when you were sitting huddled over a miserable, sputtering lump of coal, drinking your customary bowl of gruel—made thin to save on oatmeal—surrounded, engulfed, by the darkness of your own stinginess, shivering, chilled to the bone. And then, the clocks went suddenly mad, and there were noises in the cellar, a fearful heavy rattle of chains coming up the stairs, and then the door was somehow open and Marley was there—and he’d been dead these seven years—and he was covered in chains and had much to say, and nothing made sense, and then he led you to the window and told you to look outside and… and…

We regret the past—we’d all like to get a chance to do it over, or at least some of it, while perhaps keeping hold of what was best—and fear the future: all we really have is the present. But what if we were given the chance to use the present to reshape the future? What would we do? Reclamation can start with opening the curtains. Letting in the light. Looking outside. Buying a goose. Going to Fred’s to beg his forgiveness. And finally meet his wife.

And then what?

Unknown Unknowns

Since I stopped watching TV, among other topics, I’ve been reading histories of the ancient world. In The Spartan Regime,Sparta Paul A. Rahe writes, regarding evidence of the past and how to understand it:

… scholars find themselves in the position of children eager to reconstruct a vast jigsaw puzzle—who are aware that the great majority of the pieces are missing and that many of those which have survived are broken, and who then discover, to their great dismay, that their situation is complicated by yet another, perhaps even graver deficiency: for they have not the vaguest notion what the puzzle would look like if they actually managed to piece it together.



Soon after my seventieth birthday, at an annual checkup which was routine but also not, my doctor, a man who could be thought to lack tact, by way of complimenting me on my general state of good health informed me that I could probably, all things being equal, I could likely expect to enjoy ten good years, cautioning me that as I approached eighty my body would likely begin to show increasing signs of wear and tear, advising me to anticipate that by working on balance and strength; for him that meant yoga. Did I mention that I live near Woodstock, New York? I suppose this conversation might seem grim but I found it liberating. At the time I was recently bereaved after a long marriage, and was ready to start to realign my life now that I’d be living solo. I should make clear, I don’t think of myself as single; after living with someone for forty-eight years you grow into each other, so when that other person is gone the space he occupied remains a tangible, lasting reality; at least, that’s the way it is for me.

Building on my doctor’s advice, given the reality of where I live, in this big, old house, how many years might I want to remain here, how many years could I cope with the garden, do what needs to be done, I was more modest. I think I can count on five years in which I can still function as I have through the years; years in which I’ll still be pretty much me. Or, to put it another way, five good springs. We lived here together nineteen years, Vivian and I; I’ve lived here by myself for three. My first two years solo were taken up with remaking the house, making it mine, getting work done in the garden, while also doing my real work: a new adaptation of A Christmas Carol was staged – it’s being repeated this year – and recently I performed a solo play I’d written, the first time I’ve acted since 2007. And the spring of 2021, the spring that’s long past, I counted as the first. Four more. And then I’ll see where I am.

Here’s where I live. The favorite place I’ve ever lived.

A double rainbow over the drive. My two pugs.
Another spring, 2019


Recovering from my reaction to the Moderna booster shot I’m thinking that now is as good a time to begin as any. Like all of us, I think, I’m anxious to get beyond this pandemic time and into whatever will come after. I’ve been busy over the last year, but now most of that is done and I’m beginning to look forward to what’s next. Winter’s on the way, I still have maintenance to get done to make the house ready, knowing that what’s to come will be spring. The second spring: which brings me to the title.