Christmas was E.B. Scrooge’s favorite time of the year.
For 11 ½ months, Scrooge lied, cheated and stole. Then, for two weeks, he was as sweet as a newly-born puppy, as generous as someone who had just won the lottery, and as responsible as a school crossing guard.
This drove Bob Cratchit crazy.
Cratchit knew Scrooge well – entirely too well, if anyone wanted to know the truth. Cratchit had lived next door to Scrooge for years, and had seen all of it. Scrooge, Cratchit said, was the kind of fellow who parked in the fire lane in front of the Lakewood post office, and then got mad when there was a line at the window. He was the sort of person who made a left turn out of the parking lot at the bank, even though the sign directly in front of him said that left turns weren’t permitted.
“Do you know,” Cratchit asked his wife one day, “what I saw E.B. Doing last week?”
His wife said no.
“He was dropping his bottles off at the recycling bins by Tietze Park. There were a couple of people there ahead of him, and Cratchit didn’t want to wait in line. So he dumped the bags of bottles out of his car at the base of the bins, and drove off. I couldn’t believe it. You should have seen the mess.”
But come Christmas time, he more than made up for his behavior. He chatted with his neighbors – even the couple down the block who were (God forbid) renting. He went to a PTA meeting. He paid his crime watch dues. He thought about attending a town hall meeting.
He even stopped Cratchit one weekend, while the latter was working on his yard. It was all Cratchit could do not to take his hoe to put some furrows on Scrooge’s face.
“Bob,” asked Scrooge, “did you know about this?”
He handed Cratchit a clipping from Dallas’ Only Metropolitan Daily Newspaper. It detailed the City’s plan for balancing its budget on the back of their neighborhood – a cutback in library services, closure of the police storefront, reduced street maintenance, and the like.
Scrooge was livid.
“Is this why I pay taxes?” he asked Cratchit. “We’ve got to do something about this, Bob. Why, if these cuts go through, our neighborhood will be worthless. The tax base will collapse, and there won’t be money to run the schools. Shouldn’t we have a meeting or something?”
Cratchit relaxed his grip on the hoe. “If you really mean it, E.B., our neighborhood group can use your help,” he said. “We’re working on alternatives that we can present to the mayor and the City Council, and I know our budget guys would appreciate your expertise.”
Scrooge shook Cratchit’s hand. “I’ll be at the next meeting. Just let me know when it is.”
The meeting was the first week after Christmas, and Scrooge didn’t show up. When Cratchit saw him in the driveway a couple of days later, Scrooge said he had been too busy to go. “Ah, that’s all politics and stuff, anyway,” he said. “You guys handle it. What do I know about it?”
What Scrooge knew about was evident a week later. That’s when the for-sale sign went up in his front yard.
