[Nhcoll-l] Its that time of year again...

[John E Simmons]

*In Which St. Entropy Becomes Confounded by Literary Conjunctions*



‘Twas the night before Christmas, with nothing crepusculous

Except for a few daring, tiny *Mus musculus*.

Throughout the museum, from basement to attic,

All was quiet and peaceful, with no hint of static.

The stockings were stuffed in the chimney with care

In hopes of impeding incoming cold air.

The curators were nestled all snug, just like chickens,

As I settled down with my copy of Dickens.

Not *A Tale of Two Cities* or *Great Expectorations*—

*A Christmas Carol* suited my night’s aspirations.

Not a creature was stirring in holly-tree or thicket

(Though, out toward the hearth, I did hear a cricket).

When, out on the drive, there arose such commotion

I sprang to my feet (pure poetry in motion)

And away to the window I flew like The Flash,

Tore open the shutters, and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the newly plowed snow

Reminded me that my car was buried below.

When, what to my watering eyes should appear,

But a Victorian sleigh and eight steampunk reindeer.

More rapid than vultures the coursers they flew

As if food, glorious food, had just come into view.

But… the little old driver… he looked just like Scrooge!

What was the meaning of this subterfuge?

And then in a twinkling (he moved fast for a geezer)

Standing in front of me was old Ebenezer.

“What’s the meaning of this?” I sputtered, afright.

Eb said “You’re due for some visits tonight.

Your museum is in for a strange trip—stand fast!”

And then I saw the spectre of Museums Past.

Such lovely old places! And oh, so attractive!

No bells, no whistles, and no interactives!

The light was all golden. The cases were glass.

So much to see, and so much room to pass.

There were labels aplenty, all tidy and neat.

You had to admit:  it all looked very sweet.

But, before I could dwell on this scene, oh, so pleasant,

It was replaced by the ghost of Museums Present.

The exhibits were spacious, but the objects were few

(and down in the café, there was coffee to brew).

The labels I saw I could not comprehend

But at least they were worded so not to offend.

There were directors, vice directors, vice-vice directors galore,

But the collection care staffing was, well, very poor.

“Where are the specimens?” I asked with concern

As to old Ebenezer I slowly did turn.

He just shook his head, then picked up a hatchet

“They all have to go,” he said, “Sorry ‘bout that, Cratchit.”

The image then changed, and I was feeling quite numb.

It was the much-dreaded specter of Museums Yet to Come.

The hallways were vast, the floors were all sparkling,

And visitors paid for both admission and parking.

It was all automated: there was no need for staff.

Just a couple of robots (they were named Riff and Raff).

The things on exhibit all seemed newly minted

As well they should—they were all 3D printed.

A lone curator appeared, with a face oh, so grim:

The museum had just pink-slipped poor old Tiny Tim!

Something had to be done in this bleak house, indeed,

Hard times or not, the museum was in need.

Was this really the future, with exhibitions so dull,

Trapped in a boring, intellectual lull?

We mustn’t forget what museums are at heart--

Sharing objects with people is our greatest of arts.

This old curiosity shop could not come to an end!

So… I called on the Santaphone to our mutual friend.

St Entropy answered my plea like an ace

And, being all magic, showed up at our place

Within seconds of hearing the chimes of the call,

Bringing with him, not some of our memories, but all!

He brought back dioramas, and returned the text,

And all the collections and curators next.

The ledgers, the labels, the tags, and the cases

Were all instantly back in their long-standing places.

The heart of the museum was restored in the clinch.

(I might have read Dickens, but the Saint read *The Grinch*).

And being a Saint, he gave Scrooge a ride,

To wherever it is that old Scrooges abide.

They sprang to the sleigh and both gave a whistle

As together they flew like the down of a thistle.

I heard them exclaim (as is worth recollection)

“The key to the future is to use the collection!”

And they and their dear deer called out as they flew,

“Merry Christmas to all—and to all museums, too!”



*John Simmons and Sally Shelton wish all two of our supporters the happiest
of holiday seasons on this occasion, the thirtieth of these poems. *

*See what you’ve encouraged?*
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