Keeping our Memory Green: A Lesson from Dickens's The Haunted Man

Almost a year and a half ago, my wife went for a job interview in Roseville, California. Yes, California. Like, left-coast, backwards, break your bank account California. I had spent my entire life residing in Kansas, one of the seemingly long-lasting bastions of conservative sanity that spreads throughout the central plains, and southern United States. I hadn't directly dealt with too many Californians prior to moving here. However, I had built-up a general distaste for the state and its politics, amiably chiding in with my conservative friends with chuckles and scoffs at the silly and absurd things that Californians believe about middle-America and how out of touch we are. In fact, Governor Newsom's tyrannical and hyperbolic implementation (and the obviously, politically-motivated rescinding) of the COVID rules comes readily to mind. However, this is just the icing on the cake in the laundry list of oppressive policies the ruling class bureaucrats have placed on its citizens, and yet, since voting for Reagan twice in 1980 and 1984 (yes, they went for old man Bush in '88 too, but c'mon, Bush isn't exactly the model of conservativism). California has thrown its fifty-five electoral votes at the Dem candidate in the past eight elections, leaving the rest of us shaking our heads and saying, with a bitter smile, "Yep, those Californians."

This little game is pretty pervasive among conservatives throughout most of the United States. In fact, the good-natured condescension is even present in Roseville, a conservative community on the dividing line between northern and southern California, and perhaps, if one were to look at an electoral map, largely the dividing line between Republican country to the north, and Democrat country to the south. Yes, I could sigh, laugh, and scoff others from my ivory (ahem)--red tower of superiority looking out over the rest of the state and watching the--to put it nicely-- relatively catatonic liberal voters (although continuing to experience hardship, financial troubles, and social turmoil, ultimately contributing to a loss of freedom for of everyone in the state) continuing to double and triple down on voting for people who implement the trouble through inane policy for the past thirty years or more. Again, to the vast majority of the country, this is all good fun--and rightfully so--since they are, on a local level, able to avoid the kind of inanity that Californians--whether they voted for it or not--simply can not. To that end, the only alternative is to hang on and just continue to take it; or move making this train wreck of a place we call California only a memory, which most of us end up doing.

I find myself in the category of the latter, fortunately. But after spending time in the backward state (literally and metaphorically) of California, it's difficult to simply lament the absurdities of the people who live here. In fact, many people who do find the absurdities too numbing to ponder, do so rather justifiably, and again those who don't find it absurd, it's excessively absurd to have to try and justify why we think it's absurd. It's like trying to lift yourself by your own coat collar. Consequently, I find myself aligning with their reservations about the state rather wholeheartedly, and indeed, I haven't had to look hard for proof of the inanity. In fact, the stupidity here finds you--one cannot really avoid it. So, alas, I commiserate with my fellow conservatives on the conclusion about the state, but where my conclusion differs, is that I don't think my experience of living here for a year has been as terrible as one might make it out to be.

In fact, being forced to lock down has made it very easy to save money in a state that this is just not easy to do. True, we rarely patron small or big businesses in this state, but to that end, we save: save time, save the hassle of all the red tape, and ultimately, whether one can believe it or not, save money. Yes, we save money in California, and to that end, I am very grateful. In fact, my wife and I have altered our recreational approach; no, we don't drive fancy cars to enjoy the California sun, no we don't own a three hundred square foot "apartment" in Sausalito, no we don't go to lavish, Hollywood parties, no we don't travel to the deplorable destinations that make California what it is--whether that be viewed favorably or unfavorably. What we do is edify ourselves, save, and engage in the outdoors. When in the late spring we moved here, it was already too hot to go hiking, too hot to sit outside, and so we spent time reading, writing, working. In the fall when it cooled down, we abandoned the desire to meander pointlessly to each go to spot. Instead, we sat on our patio and painted, patroned the home of a cousin and her family (the only family we have out here) walked our dog, took hikes in the beautiful canyons and peaks of the Sierra Nevada foothills. We avoided areas where we we might have been hounded by the hordes of businesses berating us to mask up. In fact, being forced to avoid the California "hotspots," avoiding the inflated sense of importance and ceremony that came with its over-populated, over-priced pomp, I began to enjoy the general landscape of the northern valley, the interminable view of the snow-capped peaks of the mountains we could view from our patio while we painted acrylic landscapes and drank a glass of wine--well, when the air wasn't completely subdued by ash and smoke.

These all helped me formulate a favorable impression of the seemingly God-forsaken nature of this bastien of backwards-thought. By default I was forced to rely on those things that I found made my experience living in Kansas far more preferable to anything that California could have offered; namely, reading, spending time with friends, family, exploring the landscape, and slowing down to take time to do things I loved--to read, to write, to paint, to take time each day to talk to God. Ultimately, these endeavors were both beneficial, and in the year of COVID, a year of seemingly interminable and subversive social unrest, engaging in these constructive and healthy activities served as a sort of repellant to the rampant negativity being gestated by the latter. The juxtaposition of the two social dynamics painted a poignant and clear picture that finding joy and promise in gifts that had been given to me long before the move and the mayhem was the far more preferable and peaceful to anything I was hoping California could or could not offer. I have listed reading as the first preferential activity that I allotted time to, and the peace that I so sought was found in one particular literary indulgence.

Of the ten or twelve books I have managed to absorb over the past ten months--read in between hours of grading papers and otherwise exploring the wonderful, yet scarred California landscape--I had perused my bookshelves over Christmas and stopped on a paperback with Charles Dickens boldly juxtaposed in red ink along the backdrop. Upon recognizing the book, I remembered that this book was a collection of Christmas stories--and, it being Christmas break, it made sense that I could dedicate some time to finishing reading his writings on the season, one of which was another short novella entitled, The Haunted Man. I had heard of the story--only because I had picked it when I had purchased a new copy of his Christmas classic, and decided that, it being Christmas, I thought I ought to tackle the other story.

In many ways I was disappointed. To be honest, the story is strikingly similar to its more-prominent predecessor. The setting is similar, the fastidious character of Redlaw draws a poignant parallelism to the well-known Ebeneezer Scrooge, and even the general internal conflict of the protagonists is similar. But from under the veil of pleasant symmetry in both A Christmas Carol and The Haunted Man, I heard a voice speaking to me beyond the page and reverberating into my monologue concerning the sociological disconnect between Californians and the rest of the U.S. mentioned earlier.

To be frank, John Redlaw, the protagonist in The Haunted Man, is a seemingly reasonable person. An idealist of sorts, in that he has worked hard and enjoyed the success and accomplishments he has procured himself from his life-long career as a chemist, and is, even in his ripened, older twilight days, loved and cared for by his family. Although bitter and regretful in some aspects, questioning whether he has achieved what he has wanted to achieved in his life, he does not come across bitter and jaded, at least in comparison to how Scrooge is portrayed. In that sense, Dickens can create a character that although similar in terms of overall general grumpiness to the world-renowned Scrooge, is so in such a diminished way that you find yourself saying he's as miserable and malevolent as a mini-Scrooge. But the further along you read, and realize that Redlaw is actively attempting to help a distressed young boy whom he comes across, the inherent display of concern and compassion immediately helps you redact your indictment of vileness against him. True, in the long opening scene we do find him self-absorbed, brooding over how his life has unfolded and turned out. He is filled with sorrow and regret, although it's not entirely clear what it is that he regrets, it is a relatable affective state for the reader and we can seemingly take it to mean that he has made choices that, at least he has felt a sort of disappointment and remorse over.

To that end, the remainder of the story sees Redlaw seeking opportunities to make amends for some implied wrong that he's never addressed and, as the story unfolds in his attempt to atone for his carelessness by helping the estranged and orphaned boy, we get a sense that his neglect and lack of compassion is the "sin" he is atoning for. In that sense, the story parallels stave two of A Christmas Carol as we follow Scrooge through his early days, where Dickens collates a list of wrongs for which Scrooge must admit, feel remorse for, and somehow atone for them.

Oddly enough, in the midst of the stinging 100+ degree days and endless veil of smoke and smog from the summer wildfires, adding to the totalitarian subversion of forced mask mandates and interminable lockdowns that I had grown so familiar with the left-wing oppression that I began to oppress myself. I began believing that it was wrong for me to want to enjoy a beer on the patio, to go play ice hockey at the local rink here in Roseville, that dragging my laptop to a coffee shop to write with some local, aspiring authors was selfish. And yet, when I read about Redlaw, sitting in his cold, dark study, staring at the embers that wrought that ghostly remains on the hearth before him lamenting about how he had hidden away in his study, rejected the social invitations of family and friends, that he had lived his life huddled in his literary hovel, wondering what legacy he had left, I was reminded that only I am responsible for creating my legacy; that only I am in charge of making the most of my experiences, whether I am forced to wear a mask, or whether I am required to obey a curfew or not. Did I want to sit and stew, convincing myself that there was nothing I could do? That a concern over an ever-intensifying virus was the death knell to my life? Or could I continue to make memories in a new way. So, I began to read, to write, to go on hikes, I made phones to rekindle relationships with old friends, I went to restaurants and ate on patios, I went with my wife to family barbecues and parties. I realized that a mask mandate can not erase the desire to yearn for human contact, for comradery, for recreation, for a full life. No one can steal your desire to experience life, to live, to seek adventure, to explore, to be free. In the sense that you get past being afraid, to engage in the world and people around you, learning new things, going new places, with new people, and adding them to your list of old things that you love too, always striving, always yearning, making up for the time that COVID had tried to take from all of us. But it will only be a memory, it doesn't have to remain with me, I can just take a new step outside, in another direction, try something new, not looking back, not regretting, but living, with the final prayer of that old and worried Redlaw on my lips--Lord, keep my memory green.