[Nhcoll-l] It's that time of year again...

[William Shepherd]

Hello,

                A season staple once again!

William Shepherd (he/him/his)
Collections Officer
Swift Current Museum
44 Robert Street West
Swift Current, Saskatchewan, S9H 4M9
Phone: 306-778-4815
In the spirit of respect and reconciliation, we acknowledge that we are on Treaty 4 territory, the ancestral land of the Cree, Anishinabek, Dakota, Nakota, and Lakota Nations and the homelands of the Métis people.
[X]
Museum: https://saskcollections.org/swiftcurrent/
Archives: https://memorysask.ca/swift-current-museum
Websites: http://www.swiftcurrent.ca/museum; http://www.swifthistory.ca
Swift History - Android (Beta): https://play.google.com/store/apps/details?id=ca.swiftcurrent.swifthistory
Swift History - Apple (Beta): https://apps.apple.com/us/app/swift-history/id6475892653

From: Nhcoll-l <nhcoll-l-bounces at mailman.yale.edu> On Behalf Of John E Simmons
Sent: December 2, 2024 10:56 AM
To: NHCOLL-new <nhcoll-l at mailman.yale.edu>
Subject: [Nhcoll-l] It's that time of year again...


When You Look into the Holiday, the Holiday Looks into You
(St. Entropy Goes for the Poe-s)
December 2024―Number XXXV

‘Twas the night before Christmas, a midnight most dreary;
Not a creature was stirring—they all were weak and weary.
The museum lights were out save for one upper story,
Just like a scene drawn by good old Edward Gorey.
The stockings were hung by the fume hood, of course,
And I sipped a warm whisky because I was hoarse.
The party was over, law enforcement was gone,
And most of the staff had passed out on the lawn.
The curators were nestled all snug in their beds
While revision visions danced in their heads,
And happily snored as they dreamed of the day
When Reviewer #2 would be carried away.
I was nearly napping when hark! What a rapping!
As if someone stood at the front door, just rapping.
I sprang from my desk (that much I remember)
And looked out the window at the distinct bleak December.
What was it, I wondered (but could not be certain)
Just past the silken, sad, rustling curtain?
It was a miniature sleigh, and so badly flown
I thought for a minute it must be a drone.
Faster than updates to Windows it flew
But just what it was I had nary a clue.
And then, stray thoughts meeting, as my heart was fast beating,
I thought, “’Tis some visitor, entrance entreating.”
I dashed to the lobby, and tore open the door,
When my wondering eyes saw a great Raven of yore.
The bird was all black, a color most morbid,
A menacing presence and a commanding corvid.
But he was perched on the shoulder of That Man dressed in red,
Which soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
St. Entropy stood there with boxes and bags,
But the fur on his shoulder as ripped into rags.
His eyes, how they shifted; his face was so bleak
As he tried hard to avoid the Raven’s sharp beak.
“What’s with the bird?” I asked, “…seems a bit odd.”
And the Saint, looking wearier, started to nod.
“This bird most beguiling is not at all craven
But new to the team—it’s a real talking raven.”
By the grave, stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
The Raven, sotto voce, croaked out “Nevermore.”
They spoke no more words, but went straight to their work,
And tried to fill stockings (though the bird was a jerk:
Flying off with the shiny things to hide in collections,
And making a nuisance and mess in odd sections).
Once the gifts were in place, though with much melodrama,
And the Raven retrieved from an old diorama,
The Saint laid a finger aside of his nose
(To staunch the blood from the peck of the beak, I suppose).
And, as I marvelled at the fowl on his shoulder,
I was somewhat distracted to see his beard smolder.
It seems that the Saint, when he laughed ho ho ho,
Forgot that his pipe was fully aglow.
The embers had kindled and were beginning to smoke
But the Raven uttered only one word when he spoke.
“Nevermore!” the bird screamed as poor Santa froze
But, quick as I could, I pulled out the fire hose.
I sprayed down poor Santa, and the Raven as well,
Just as the smoke was beginning to swell.
The presents were soaked, the boxes destroyed,
The Saint was still smoldering, and the Raven, annoyed.
Overall, the museum looked as if we’d had a bomb.
Then St. Entropy squelched to his sleigh with aplomb,
Shaking off water and glaring around,
And holding the Raven as the sleigh cleared the ground.
And, as they arose, I could not hear a word,
But I’m certain the Saint had just flipped us the Bird.

(Sally Shelton and John Simmons wish you a holiday that is anything but dark and dreary.)

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