[Nhcoll-l] Its that time of year again

[John E Simmons]

 *Hi-Yo, St. Entropy! The Loan Arranger Flies Again!*

‘Twas the night before Christmas; though I’m not one to shirk,
It was the first time since Covid I’d been back to work.
I’d Zoomed and I’d phoned, both somewhat precarious,
But now I was weary of meetings vicarious.
The masks were now hung by the chimney with care,
As was hand sanitizer and more viral ware.
It was festive outside (or so I assume;
In collections, no window can brighten the room.)
The museum was aglow with bright lights and wassail,
And some creature was stirring the drink with a fossil.
Wassailed up, the curators were feeling no pain,
Singing odd carols, till they wassailed again.
(We let them do this; it’s all much deserved,
And, post-mortem, they’ll come to us all pre-preserved.)
But I, lacking nightcap, was sitting alone,
Hoping against hope for the Return of the Loan.
Our precious, our pride, had been out of our hands
For decades, away in strange misty lands.
No letters were answered. All dunning—undone.
Our loan was alone, somewhere under the sun.
When, out on the steps, there arose such a racket
That I sprang up at once, wassail now on my jacket.
Away to the door (still no windows) I flew,
Ripped open the deadbolt, and tripped on my shoe.
With wondering eyes I peered into the gloam:
Could this be the return of our overdue loan?
Then, a little old man, not so lively and quick,
Got out of a Lyft—could this be St. Nick?
Where was the sleigh, with the bells all a-jingle?
And the traditional trappings of dear old Kris Kringle?
He trudged to the door, with a large bag in hand.
Somehow I sensed this was not what he’d planned.
His eyes had no twinkle, in fact, they looked bleary.
“Delivery,” he muttered, in a voice sad and dreary.
“I no longer have reindeer,” he said, “nor the elves;
During Covid they all went to work for themselves.
Now it’s just me, and I’m working alone,
Trying to return all these overdue loans.”
I took the box that he offered, and invited him in,
Then called the curators to bring wassail and gin.
They soon had St. Entropy feeling quite merry,
And his nose was beginning to glow like a cherry.
I opened the box, quickly checking inside:
Our loan was returned after one wild ride.
It had been to the tropics, it had been to the poles,
It had been up with the eagles and down with the moles.
More stamps than a passport were all over the sheet,
But our wayward loan was intact and complete.
I could read the fine print by the Saint’s glowing nose,
As I signed it, a huge sigh of relief then arose.
The curators and Santa were now all best of friends,
But he had much to do. Nowhere near his night’s end.
The Lyft was long gone. What was next? What to do?
So they went to exhibits and grabbed a canoe.
It was large, it was old, and it had not been moved
Since Prohibition had last been approved.
With white gloves, they lifted it onto the floor
And guided the Saint and the boat to the door.
They signed a new loan form to last just one night,
Then loaded the Saint and slid him into the night.
Curators piled in on all sides with their oars,
And I threw in his bag as I shut all the doors.
This should not have worked, but the curators rowed
And the whole group shot upward, with all of their load.
And, as the canoe soared up and over the town,
A lone page, the loan form, drifted silently down.
As they rowed and they rose, I heard a faint cheer:
“Wassails in the sunset, and Happy New Year!”

(Sally Shelton and John Simmons believe in leaving well enough a loan.)
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