[Nhcoll-l] Seasonal Selection 2022

[Joachim Händel]

Dear John,
thank you so much! It is great.

Yes - this is the curator's Christmas dream (or nightmare).
And somewhere in my insect collection lies the cat - or lies not.
(It depends on the mulled wine in my glistening borosilicate glass)

All the best
Joachim








--  
Joachim Haendel
                                                       
Center of Natural Sciences Collections
of the Martin Luther University
- Entomological Collection -

Domplatz 4
D-06099 Halle (Saale)
Germany

Phone:  +49 345 - 55 26 447
Fax:  +49 345 - 55 27 248

Email: joachim.haendel at zns.uni-halle.de




>>> John E Simmons 14.12.2021, 16:50 >>>
It's that time of year again... here is number 32 in a seemingly endless
series:



St. Entropy Boxes with Boxes

 

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and, all through the collections, 

Were boxes and boxes of unprocessed accessions. 

Nothing was hung by the chimney with care. 

There was no space—just more boxes there. 

When the pandemic hit, and life faded to gloam, 

We locked the front door and sent the staff home. 

But no one remembered, as odd as it sounds, 

That the post office couriers would continue their rounds. 

Sure enough, they pressed on through snow, rain, heat, and gloom, 

Plague, fire, and all other perils that loom. 

As promised, delivery was swift and complete, 

And boxes arrived every day at our feet. 

The result was a backlog that just kept progressing 

Of hundreds of objects, all awaiting processing. 

One crate from E. Schrödinger was left on our mat:  

Did it move? Did we have, did we not have a cat? 

There were boxes with labels in old faded writing, 

And boxes which looked very much uninviting. 

There were boxes that clinked, there were boxes that oozed. 

There were none with directions, and I was confused. 

I sat down at my desk and took out my flask 

(Then realized that I couldn’t drink through my mask). 

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter 

I sprang to my feet to see what was the matter. 

Away to the window I flew—okay, walked—like a flash, 

But tripped over a cat (or I didn’t), and crashed. 

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow 

Was covering even more boxes below. 

It seemed there was no end to the incoming stuff. 

Getting rid of it all was going to be tough. 

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear 

But a miniature sleigh and eight vaccinated reindeer? 

With a little old driver so lively and quaint 

I knew in a moment that it must be the Saint. 

Faster than budget cuts his coursers they came, 

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name: 

“Now Tyvek and Dry Gel, now Poly and Ester, 

On Resistal and Neoprene, on T-Tech and Leicester! 

To the top of the building, get over the boxes! 

Now dash away, dash, just like flying foxes!” 

With his sleigh on the roof, the Saint shouldered his load 

And, very slowly, down the freight elevator he rode. 

He set down his sack, and shook off the snow, 

And said “You expected, what? Marie Kondo? 

Then he looked in his sack, looked again, grabbed his hat, 

And he pulled out and didn’t pull out that same cat. 

“It’s time to get organized! Look smart, be swift!” 

Then he tossed me a bundle of blank deeds-of-gift. 

“I would have brought help, but I’m fresh out of elves, 

So, you fill out the forms while I fill up the shelves!” 

With a wink of his eye and a twist of his head, 

I knew there would be much more accessioning ahead. 

(The cat soon lost interest, and, after cleaning its fur, 

Curled up in a box, where it did/did not purr.) 

As you might expect that St. Entropy would, 

He accessioned all of the objects he could, 

Every form was filled out, to the last jot and quantum, 

(Though I did leave a few small tittles to taunt him). 

The shelves were soon filled, the cabinets were crammed. 

(The Saint’s long-time motto: “Collection policy be damned!”) 

He spoke not a word, but seemed pleased with the job, 

As for me, my poor head was beginning to throb. 

Then, laying his finger inside of his nose, 

He made a rude sound; up the elevator he rose. 

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, 

And away they all flew like a heat-seeking missile. 

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight 

“We got it all done in exactly one night!” 

As I watched them arise, getting darker and colder, 

I saw and did not see a cat on his shoulder. 

 

(John Simmons and Sally Shelton do and do not have anything to do with
cats, saints, or boxes.) 







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