Call me Ichabod

If I remember correctly from the Bible bowl days, "Ichabod" means something like "the glory has gone," so actually, just keep calling me whatever it is you've been calling me before you read this post. I simply wanted a means for introducing a great author I know: Charles Dickens. Perhaps you've heard of him.

I reread his David Copperfield recently, upon which I had for many years bestowed the illustrious and much-sought-after title of My Favorite Novel Ever. Quite appropriately, time has a way of making us question things we valued in our younger years, and I found myself granting Mr. Dickens (and especially Mr. Copperfield) no exception to this rule. I am happy to report that after a second reading of this wonderful book my esteem for it has undergone no relapse--in fact, I think it's grown. And though I no longer hold strict categories in my brain for my favorite this and my favorite that, I can confidently report that David Copperfield is among my favorite novels of all-time.

But this isn't meant to be a post about books. One of my favorite things about David Copperfield is the characters. They are simply amazing. I actually read most of the book while traveling about Japan on trains this past weekend--with my friends Travis and John--and on one notable occasion, the cohorts of Mr. Copperfield made me laugh so hard and so long that every Japanese person in the near vicinity stopped their respective conversations to gander at the crazy foreigner sitting there laughing his head off over--all of things--a book. The only other person I know who has discovered fully the beauty of this cast of characters is my older brother Andrew. And if he weren't such an adept conversationalist, I would truly lament only having one other person with whom I could appreciate these treasures. (But how many treasures have only we two been able to appreciate, Andrew?--the "special" seeds in the backyard, the baseball cards, the epic GI Joes battles, and a little thing called Super Shine.)

But this isn't meant to be a post about books. Sorry, I have to repeat myself, or I lose track.

Reading this book, I realized what an amazingly Copperfieldesque bunch of friends and family I have myself. I won't mention everyone who deserves mention, and those left unnamed need not assume themselves minor characters. I'm simply going off the top of my head, and maybe, perhaps, possibly giving special preference to those people who are mostly likely to drop a comment. (And besides, many of a man's best treasures are too precious for a public forum.)

There's Blake, flinging himself to the front of my mind--thrice mangled, disjointed, rent asunder, arm not akimbo and not really even akin (to the rest of his body)--a laugh known and loved by all, save those few snobs who frequent the Art Cinema in OKC--and the most diligent proponent of Pow-Wows known to his race.

There's Dad, hopelessly, boyishly intrigued with myriads of minutiae: plants, cultural oddities, historical tidbits, stretches of road he's never seen--but these mere filler, mere gap-minders, tartar between the broad teeth of life, duty, faith, and the status of his single son's dating life. Jovial, lively (unless he gets too much sugar), and a mind like a steel trap, though sometimes a thing or two gets mangled in the teeth (especially names of young ladies, Starla/Charla, Julie/Joy).

Joy! There's a young lady I'm incapable (or afraid) of writing up properly. Vivacious, pleasantly cunning, a "hoot"--in the lingo of my youth--honest to a faultering breath (yours if you've done wrong). Her rebukes strong, pointed--and sweeter than honey. A compassionate, diligent soul. Rich in faith and good works. A person to trust, and whose trust never to abuse.

Supreme enigma, puzzle beyond rendering, not merely rough at the edges, but amorphous, ungraspable, un-pin-downable--Gabe. Staunch inhabitant of iv'ry'd towers, iconoclast, Kerouac'd, most well-surfed blogger on the web, and SGA President in days of yore. Faithful friend, future brother-in-law (just kidding, Dad), philosopher and thinker, a man of deep, deep sensibilities (and a few that aren't). And above it all--I'm now convinced--the man single-handedly responsible for all remaining usage of the word "postmodern."

I didn't mention that David Copperfield is a very, very long book. Lest I be accused of rivalling Dickens (an empty claim), I shall have to stop there, though I've certainly left some glaring ommissions (including the entire AET group). Send me a comment if you want to be written up! I like to know who's needy.

*Note: In case you're confused regarding the relationship between Charles Dickens and the name Ichabod, let me assure you that all confusion on the point begins with me. For some reason, as I typed up this post late last night, my brain decided upon the first name of Ichabod--rather than Ebenezer--for that famous once-humbumger of Christmas, Scrooge (created by Dickens, as you no doubt know). If the inconsistency continues to bother you, just pretend I put a comma before "Ichabod" (thus "Call Me, Ichabod"), meaning to imply that Irving's Ichabod Crane and the repentant Scrooge were early pioneers of the telephone and that, at this particular point in time, Scrooge was urging Ichabod not to be lax in maintaining their intercontinental verbal correspondence.
Or content yourself with the knowledge that I am, on occasion, an idiot. That is all.