Katy Okrent
If Ebenezer Scrooge had any virtue at all, it was his work ethic, distorted as it was. I first met Scrooge—in book form—the year I’d discovered my own work ethic. I was twelve-years-old, and it was my first employer, Mrs. Wiaduck, who introduced me to both.
She paid me $1 an hour (in 1973, minimum wage was $1.60) to babysit her kids. Six of them. Weekends or, on occasion, after school. They ranged in age from 2 to 10 years old and, having six siblings myself, I was unfazed by the size of the brood. Hers was a particularly charming brood—blond, blue-eyed clones of each other—whose names all began with “J”, which posed a bit of a tracking challenge at times. But I was a sucker for cute kids. My older sister had already given the job a shot and decided a 6am paper route was easier (and more lucrative).
That summer, I was asked to babysit for them three full days a week while Mrs. Wiaduck was at work. It was a temporary job at her father’s business, as I recall, a choice rather than a necessity, or I should say, a financial necessity, although they were by no means wealthy. For her own reasons, she wanted to work outside the home.
By today’s standards, I suppose, it would be considered illegal child labor (and child abuse, leaving six kids with a 12-year-old!), but not then. Looking back, it’s odd that I enjoyed this work that was so physical and demanding. At home, I wasn’t what you’d call industrious. When there was housework to be done, I often hid, reading, in my room, which was habitually a pigsty.
I liked earning money, of course, although even if I was paid to clean my room, I’d still have chosen the books. It was more than that. I knew Mrs. Wiaduck was trusting me with a very adult responsibility. I knew I was making something possible for her. She saw her kids tackle me in glee when I walked in, and it gave her the peace to leave. For me, that made it a job worth doing and worth doing well.
At Christmas that year, Mrs. Wiaduck, knowing my love of literature, gave me a copy of A Christmas Carol. A beautiful 6-inch, red copy that was easy to carry around, and I did. According to the insert tucked inside, it’s a facsimile copy of the original published in 1843. Its gold-edged pages and color illustrations were a lavish expense for Dickens, the insert said. Despite its immediate artistic success, it was a financial disappointment to him.
When I reread this recently, I almost laughed. A disappointment! That had to have been Scrooge talking. The old fool.
The inscription written on the inside cover says Christmas 1973. Fifty Christmases ago. The last two numbers are faded with water stain, barely legible, and they may fade completely someday. Which is okay.
It's a year I’ll remember well.
