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Of Christmases Past

12/21/2020

My Christmas Gift to Mother Superior...in Days of Yore

Christmas of 2020 will be remembered by those who celebrate for reasons unimaginable just one calendar year ago. And those reasons will be as varied as the breadth and width of the universe itself. More needn't be said.

This year, in a nod toward simpler and more sanguine times, we choose to reprise some of our early Christmas missives of a half-century ago, a time when Mother Superior determined to undermine the concept of the “Christmas Letter,” fast becoming ubiquitous, and clogging mailboxes from coast to coast.

Consider this our effort to distract you from the here-and-now...maybe even elicit a giggle. And the 2020 fringe benefit: we only clog your hard-drive.

In 1972 We Say Goodbye to Fargo and Head East;
Mother Superior Addresses First Christmas in IL

Once Again Toilet-Training Must Needs be Addressed;
Mother Superior Perplexed by Lack of Success

1974 Brings New Challenges; Mother Superior Takes up Guitar, Briefly; Timothy Learns to Break Things with a Hammer at Montessori; and Paddy Gets Much Needed Break

Thus it has ever been; we wish you the very best for you and your extended family. Call, text, email, Duo, or Zoom each other...often; failing that, say a little prayer for those you love...even for those you have some questions about. We all need them (prayers) this year. God Bless. —Mother Superior and the Christmas Goat, 2020--

Basilica of St. James, Jamestown ND, where three generations of Morrisseys attended Midnight Mass for three-quarters of the 20th Century. Photo: Bill Kennedy

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A Very English Christmas

12/3/2019

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Sue and I were married in July of '65. When our first Christmas came we did the expected—we traveled to the bride's family home; there was nothing unusual about that. It was a trip that we made from Fargo to Lidgerwood usually three of four weekends. Routinely, Susan would be greeted like a conquering heroine by her mother, Regina, (I may have been the conquered) and there were enough ancillary benefits to keep me along for the ride. Stocked for our arrival would be Bohemian kolaches from the bakery, a standing rib roast from Vlady Heinie's butcher shop, and an unopened bottle of Jim Beam tucked safely away in the rotating kitchen shelving. It was FIL Pete's standard for mixing whisky sours on poker night in the small community of less than a thousand people. The Christmas setting was warm, comfortable, and inviting, the epitomy of small town USA. Who could want for more? Things would be different the following year....

Sometime in early 1966 we would learn that we were recipients of a Fulbright to the West of England; Bristol, to be precise. We would meet the other eighty-plus American recipients in New York City in late August for a week of indoctrination to all things British; setting sail in early September on Holland America's Statendam. The journey took about seven days, docking at Southampton in the early morning hours. We checked into a convent for a few hours sleep before taking a train to Bristol the next day.

Immersing ourselves into English culture was more of a challenge than we'd expected. All of our personal belongings, in two trunks painted fire-engine red to facilitate our finding them on the dock, were lost by British Rail for ten days. And a simple shopping trip entailed entering five or six shops to complete the list. The plague of the Yankee supermarket had yet to be inflicteded upon the English. And the common language we spoke? Not so common at times. Also, without an automobile we needed to master the mass transit system, paying thruppence or occasionally sixpence for a ride.

Come November we were a bit nostalgic about the upcoming holiday season, so far from family, but we had been taken under wing by Maurice and Vera Chapman, who were active in Bristol Grammar School's Parents' Association. Also, in the spirit of the Season, the English Speaking Union had hied the Yanks up to Dartmouth House, London, to be fed turkey on the traditional American Thanksgiving weekend. 'Twas a mighty feast appreciated by all. In spite of the ESU's best efforts, the turkey was like shoe leather and cranberry sauce nowhere to be found. No memory of marshmallows on top of sweet potato either....

But with the Chapmans' invitation for the 25th in hand, we would soon experience Christmas in a culture far from home. I think the plan for the day might have largely been in Vera's hands. In order to keep us from moping about in our two-room rental of Mrs. Jones' semi-detached house at 57 Birchall Road, Maurice, and son Stephen, were dispatched to take us out sight-seeing while Vera worked feverishly to get all things ready for the Christmas feast. Several of their extended family members had also been invited.

The four of us, with young Stephen commenting upon landmarks great and small along the way, motored over the "new" Severn Bridge (1966), which shortened the travel time from England to Wales considerably.

By the time the road trip was finished and we returned to Bristol, Vera had the heavy lifting finished, the meal prep under control, and guests had begun to arrive. Following the feast, topped off with a traditional English pudding, we engaged in playing games. One I remember well was a series of small packets that Vera hung on a string. Guests were invited to sniff the packet and guess its contents, no touching allowed. Much harder than one might imagine...do you trust your nose? It was also the occasion of a sherry or two, probably Bristol Cream, or the slightly lighter Bristol Milk, homegrown as they were, with a mix of "delicate, dry Finos, nutty old Amontillados, fragrant Olorosos and rare, sweet Pedro Ximenez," sayeth the folks at Harvey's Cellars.

On this particular feast at Maurice and Vera's, or another as the case may have been, I committed what I considered to be my faux pas par excellence of the Fulbright year, although there were several vying for first place. Positioned on the table in front of me, quite proximate to my dinner plate, was a bowl of stuffing. Quite simply, I et it. Turns out that it was the table serving-bowl. That was good for more than a few laughs as we reminisced with M and V at reunions over the years.

"But wait..." as the lame TV ad barker cries...the Christmas celebration was yet to conclude. Even as we were saying "good-byes" following dinner and games, plans were being discussed as to who was going where for Boxing Day, an ages-old English tradition where the gentry presented gifts, or "boxes," to the underclass, my very own ancestors. Stopping in at a neighbor's for tea or a spot of sherry on the 26th seemed a very civilized way of winding down the Christmas celebration... it proved to be exactly thus.

This year, as we anticipate the coming Holidays of 2019, and with Maurice and Vera on the other side of the veil but still in our hearts, we shall toast them this Christmas Day, with a nod to our Very English Christmas.

And to our friends and family, may we wish for you the best of Christmases; may it find you celebrating with those you love. God bless....

~Mother Superior and the Christmas Goat

An Album, Past and Present

Winter Wonderland Out the Back

The Statendam Gets Us to Southhampton

Fellow Last Seen in August '66

Darrell Maltby, Headmaster GBS; Mother Superior-Yet-To-Be; Stephen, Maurice and Vera Chapman...A Very English Picnic Lunch

Paying Homage on Salisbury Plain, With Miss Susan, and Wendie and Terry Wright, Spring of '67

A Field Trip to Camelot With Bristol Grammar School Lads

Looking for Arthur and Guinevere; Where Shall We Begin to Dig?

Professor Leslie Alcock, Renown Welsh Archeologist,
Tells the Lads About the Digs

Looking for Traces of Lancelot...May '67

The Fargo Morrisseys...Dressed to Chop Down a Christmas Tree; Eric asks, "Where's the Axe?

The First Day, and...I Loves Me Big Sister

Miss Megs, She Needs New Shoes!

Actually, She'd Settle for Old Shoes

I Double-Dog Dare 'Ya

Herself With Another Piece of Art in Public Spaces
(Enough, already! cried the masses....)

The Iowa Morrisseys Caught, Amazingly, in the Same Room...Paddy, Graedy, Courtlyn, Brevyn, and Beth

Iowa All-State Bassoonist Graedy Leading the Pack
(Blowing on reeds develops wind capacity.)

Shades of Blue on Day One

Brevyn Sneaks a Goal Under Cover of...Fog!

Courtlyn Beats the Throw to First!

And so it has been, in retrospect and in fact, a very blest year for us...Christmas Tidings upon you and yours....

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A Short Trip Back in Time

11/11/2019

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Usually when I open the upper left hand roll-top drawer I am in a hurry to fetch or store something. Today I noticed that it could hardly be closed. In a moment of insanity I thought, gee, maybe I should clean it out. Mistake! Over the next two hours I reviewed all of my school report cards, K-12. Much was to be learned there. For instance, my kindergarten teacher, Miss Evelyn Pung noted in December of 1945, that my musical skills were somewhat deficient in the first marking period, particularly in the matter of “tone.” However by the time the second marking period rolled around in February, I had managed to move from a “U” to an “S.”

I must inform my current voice teacher that, in spite of what conclusions she may have drawn from our limited time together, the heavy lifting was already done by the time I entered her studio.

I also note with some dismay that in spite of the fact that I managed an “A” in each of the six marking periods in English 12, I was given a “B+” for a final grade. Like, what’s up with that? I suppose it’s too late to lodge a formal complaint…take somebody to court for opportunities lost….

And then I note, as I unfurl a scroll tightly enclosed in a postal tube, from then governor Julian Carroll in 1978, that I am a Kentucky Colonel, and the great unwashed should not take lightly that I am entitled to "...the rights, privileges, and responsibilities appertaining thereunto….” One does wonder lo these many years later, will there be any fried chicken in the offing, to yet come my way.

I would also find that I have seven lifetimes of staples, thirteen different kinds of expired batteries, and a yet-to-be-exposed roll of AGFA Futura 400 film for a smarter-than-average camera that never caught on against the oncoming tide of digital photo-making. The small print reads Für Farb-Papierbuilder. The same to you, Fella.

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Christmas 2018: The Goat Returns...and Returns...and Returns

12/7/2018

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Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, Family and Friends,
One and All

To Own One Was to Love One

Once upon a time there was a young boy who had been studying the new Sears catalogue since its arrival in the post in October. He visited the toy section countless times, in fact until the catalogue automatically opened to the same page when flipped onto its spine. The object of his admiration was a one-cylinder steam engine, a vertical brass water tank with valve and filler stopper, and a two- inch flywheel burnished with brilliant brass. It was, he told his parents, the most wonderful thing he'd ever seen, and he would be the best of boys, if only it could be his Christmas gift.

Having announced his preference he could only wait out the agonizing weeks in the run-up to Christmas. Suddenly one morning there appeared a square box under the tree. He picked it up, shook it, and went looking for his dad. "Dad, Dad, give me a clue...what's in it?"

"Well," Dad said, "It's got some rubber on it." The box was about the size of a basketball. I could only think that a dreadful shopping error had been made. "It's a basketball," I said sotto voce, with gloom all over my puss. Dad registered no response. I put it back under the tree and pouted my way out of the living room.

On Christmas morn, gaily decorated paper was being rent asunder and tossed about the tree. I lingered over the square box that surely contained a run-of-the-mill inflated sphere. Finally there was nothing left for me to open, so I began to rip it apart. No gift was opened with tender care at our house. When the box had been pried open I looked inside. It seemed sort of empty, with a good bit of filler paper inside. Suddenly I saw gold! Or brass as the case really was. "A steam engine! A steam engine! Oh, Ma, a steam engine!" Mother looked on approving of my glee. "Dad, you lied! There's no rubber in here!" "Here, said Dad...let me see it." He took it in hand and gently removed the filler cap. "Here," he said, "See this little rubber washer? It will keep steam in the boiler when the pressure builds up!" The grin on Dad's face told how much he had enjoyed his charade. And the pout on my face? It vanished for months...well, at least for days...as long as a nine-year-old can keep from pouting.

Over the next several years I fired up the steam engine frequently, learning, incidentally, about the ferocity of live steam, and the burns it can inflict along the way. The old steamer is among the favorites of my Christmas memories. Do you have one of your own?

The Obligatory Family Photos, as in My Grandkids are Cuter and Smarter Than Your Grandkids...Probably the Best Grandkids Ever!

This is What Happens When the Genomes Suffer a Collision of Sorts

Apparently the Christmas Goat was wearing inflatable corduroys when this photo was taken. That seems the only reasonable explanation. Although another possibility is that Mother Superior secretly photoshopped the images when no one was looking in an effort provide contrast with Her Svelteness. She's like that, as long time subscribers will recognize from ages past. ("So when did I subscribe to this form of abuse?" I hear you mutter. You didn't...you're locked in...I have your email address. You will have to create a new account to escape.

Of Matters Artistic

Sue's opening at the Spirit Room on Broadway in October was the first time in a zillion openings... over a half century's duration...that the Goat witnessed Herself enjoing a gallery talk...could it be that someone else in the room was the object of derision? Or maybe when you turn 75 you don't really care what people think anymore, and that removes the burden of perfection....

It doesn't hurt to have Kappa Delta sister support on location in case things go south!
(Ginny, Judy, Suzie, Patty)

A Mother Superior Painting was selected by Fargo Art Grand Poobahs to be among several installed as wraps along Broadway. She is so taken by all of this public approbation that she can be found downtown giving it an occasional dusting by day...

...and fiercely defending it from all harm at night as the raucous partiers leave the downtown bars at closing time on Halloween.

Reflections on Christmas Past

Mother Superior initiated the annual Christmas Missive circa 1967, shortly after our return from a year in England. It soon became the anti-Christmas letter, filled with scurrilous fabrications about a certain lodger, and the Christmas Goat was hatched. The first two issues were in purple mimeo, (are you are old enough to remember that process), and continued until around 1978. That year she barricaded herself in a small closet with a large bag of vegetables and refused to come out, repeating "Never again, never again, never again! When promised that her burden would be forever lifted, she re-entered family life holding a sack of apple cores. Since then it has been left to the Goat, he of diminishing capacities too numerous to mention. Below is what Herself was thinking about in 1972, the year our family was complete, and Vietnam a fact of life.

Surely this has gone on far too long, you say. Particularly for anyone trying to read it on a smart phone; or even a dumb phone for that matter. We wish you a Happy Christmas and Blessings in the New Year. Would that we could have the pleasure of your company in 2019. Stay well and God bless....

The Goat and Mother Superior a.k.a. Suzie Baby

And if you want to see where those scribbles above have taken her, she also resides in 1s and 0s at
susanmorrissey.com

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Season's Greetings—2016, Or the Christmas Goat Persists

12/6/2016

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Merry Christmas and Happy New Year

Mother Superior—Always ready for The Season...has already got Pandora tuned in to Bing Crosby. Or is it David Crosby? She keeps that silly hat in her purse, at the ready.

The Christmas Goat
—Never ready for The Season. He even looks like a slacker...probably just got out of bed...certainly looks like it. A bedhead if I ever saw one.

Tragedy

Our old crockpot hath died. It was fifty years old, or just slightly less. I think it cost $15.99 at K-Mart. Given its life-span (dying was a much earned reward) it cost us .00085898 cents per day to own this fine appliance over the span of our marriage. Of course, that's not including the cost of electricity, which I am incapable of calculating. But it strikes me as a pretty good bargain in the era of planned obsolescence.

Now you ask, Dear Reader, where is this all going. Well, just grab on to your britches and rest easy for a bit.

I did what any right-thinking male (or left, in some cases) in the household would do. I tore into it to see if a fix might be found. Alas, it was not to be. The investigation damage was too extreme to be mitigated. So I did the next best thing. I put .00085898 cents in my pocket and went off to Target to sort out slow cookery for the new Trumpustian Era. (I'm working on adjectives that work well with the adverb"bigly." )

Mother Superior, never a big fan of slow cookery, in fact not a real fan of cookery, period, walked over to the island where I was proudly setting up my new cooker whilst taking a quick glance at the two-page, "quick-start" booklet (the message inside the booklet read "Plug in the cooker").

Having consulted her extensive library she pulls out a book and slides it my way. It was entitled 700 Recipes for Your Slow Cooker..."Here," says she, "have at it." And I'm wondering if the "slow" was directed at the cook....

And so I did. With your patience, I will share my first success with the new cooker:

Line the bottom of your cooker with some fairly large carrots. They double in brass as they become both the cooking rack for your 4.5 pound grain-fed chicken, appropriately rubbed with your favorite seasoning (any combination of those little jars seldom used, and always past expiration date), as well as a very tasty vegetable side, post carving. Don't forget to season the inside of the bird as well. Toss a bit of chopped garlic into that ol' birdie. Put birdie on the carrot rack, cover, set 'er on low, and make sure you've got that "quick-start" advice foremost in your mind. Otherwise, 8.5 hours later, that bird will still be raw and you'll be distressed at having to order in Dominos, that pie where you eat the well-flavored cardboard and toss out the pizza.

Next year I'll give you the sausage stuffing recipe that goes with this birdie. Too many of my cooking tips at any one time might cause serious indigestion.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The older I get, the simpler I long for things to be. Let me illustrate—as a kid interested in college football, largely because Dad was, I was filled with anticipation at the prospect of New Year's Day bowl games. There were several, and they were all played on January 1. I remember the Cotton, Orange, Sugar, and Rose Bowls, and later Fiesta crept in, like a cricket sneaking into the garage in late October. It was regarded as a privilege to be invited to participate in these bowls, and brought pride and honor to the campus. Fast forward to 2016.

A quick look at what's coming up this "bowl season" indicates that there will be 35 bowl games, more or less, between 19 December and 9 January. Looking at the offerings this year I am declaring the seven worst possible invitations your favorite university could receive. They are in no particular order here, but you should cower in shame should your school be playing in one of these; it means that your season has amounted to nothing:
(I'm not pullin' your leg here, folks. You can fact- check this.)

—Tax Slayer Bowl
—NOVA Home Loans Bowl
—Auto Zone Liberty Bowl
—AdvoCare V100 Bowl
—National Funding Holiday Bowl
—Camping World Independence Bowl
—Zaxby's Heart of Dallas Bowl

Impenetrable aren't they? In all humility I am proposing that next year there be six bowls to compete with the Worst-of-the-Worst aforementioned bowls:

—Build a Border Wall, Quickly, Bowl
—Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire Bowl
—I Would Be the Greatest Jobs President That God Ever Created Bowl
—Bannon Let's Manufacture Some News Bowl
—Deportation (Win, 'ya Stay; Lose, 'ya Go) Bowl
—Is There Anybody Else in this Toilet Bowl? Bowl

Oh, and let them all played on New Year's Day, s'il vous plait.

The Year in Photos

We are still unpacking boxes from several moves ago, and this piece of the Elizabethtown News Enterprise appeared as if out of the fog, gently preserving a vase from harm. It's clearly from Mother Superior's Circus Jugglers period. Doesn't that Toni Home Perm look great? (If you are under sixty, don't spend any time trying to figure that out.)

Suzy Baby with some of her art...now there's a surprise.

Meditative...or stoned? That is the question... from Suzy Baby's Dancing Bears period, circa 1978.

Other Important Stuff

This year is the 50th Anniversary of our Fulbright (1966-67) spent in the West of England. Helping us celebrate it this past September were Steve and Sue Chapman of Bristol. Steve was, at the time, an 11 year-old at Bristol Grammar School, whose parents, Maurice and Vera, tended to our every need during the course of that year...with the younger Chapmans we visited the Rockies, Glacier, Yellowstone, Big Horns, Mt. Rushmore, and North Dakota's Enchanted Highway. Here we are at NDSU's Memorial Union Gallery, where (and who would imagine—) Miss Susan had a piece of work on display.

This painting, "Sticks and Stones," completed circa 1990 may have been eerily predictive of the Trumpustian Era. Can the locusts be far behind?

The Cedar Rapidians

Graedy O' Muirgheasa took his parents on an all expense paid trip to the National Invention Convention in D.C. this year, as winner of the Iowa contest for his age group. This is "the man" with his working model of a stoplight which changes from red to green when there are no oncoming cars from other directions. The contest finals were held in the U.S. Patent Office.

He was then forced by aliens to have the obligatory White House photo taken—enduring proof of his visit.

The most recent addition to the piano playing Morrisseys in Cedar Rapids would be Courtlyn. Here she is practicing Shostakovich's Symphony No. 5. Without any music, of course. Her first recital is upcoming shortly.

Brevyn driving to goal. I think that guy in blue got his chin in the way of Brev's hand. Don't mess with this guy when he's on a mission. And, this dude also pianos and break-dances.

A mere second in time, but Mom Beth would like it to last forever.

The Fargoans

That look on Meggie's face is pure "Oh, come onnnnn, Grandma." Meanwhile, if you peer closely you can tell that Teddy is casing the place looking for some light switches to throw, some chains to pull, some pocketdoors to worry unmercifully, or things that just plain need fixin' or betterin'.

Molly Wiener Dog ponders why no one else has to wear an inane red thingy on her collar. In fact, where are their collars? They are underdressed for the occasion. Well, maybe not Teddy.

Megs is caught working hard on her first recital piece. It all came together this past Saturday just before we all ran off to Cousin Maddy Haas' wedding. Lots of excitement in the lives of old folks. Here Meggie practices crescendos and diminuendos in the middle of the night, her effort saving a mediocre concert by her virtuosity on Bach's Fugue in G minor.

Methinks Teddy is a bit of a chip off the Christmas Goat's block. Looking back, Grampa can't remember inviting guys to his birthday party either. Well, maybe one. Here we have Teddy being King of Everything. Let the ripping apart of packages begin....

Potpourri

The Goat and Mother Superior out taking the air on a summer's day. We're still doing two wheels, but have reduced from 1700 cc to a puny 250 cc. (The most I can say is that it's better than a walker with two yellow tennis balls on the rear legs.)

We've downsized purely in the interests of mild-mannered folk who travel the biways, as we are no longer found on highways...and, yes, I too have a helmet. But not canary ;-)

Sis Maureen, aka The Redhead, and husband Lou Bushard celebrated their 50th in August. Their kids planned a soirée on the Mississippi. If you look closely you will note that Maura has had some highlites added so as to better match Ol' Louie....I don't want to sound like I'm carrying water for a local pub, but if it's "after-hours" in downtown St. Paul that you are seeking, try the Commodore. Amazing.

For those of you who have insisted that the book must be on pages made from trees, between actual covers, 'tis now a fact. In addition to amazon.com, it is available at Zandbroz in Fargo and Eagles' Nest Book Store in Valley City. It's my tale of several cities and the story of the immigrant ancestors as I am able to ferret them out. It contains three errors...if you can find all three, you get your money back. However, my judgment of what constitutes an error is final and not subject to appeal. As an added bonus, anyone placing an order for 25 or more copies will get a colored wiring diagram of Gradey's prize-winning stoplight.

A snippet follows:

"One evening during the spring of my eighth-grade year, a knock came at our front door. I opened it, and to my great surprise, standing there was the Rev. James Dawson, Pastor of St. Catherine Church. While I had spent countless hours kneeling on the hard terrazzo in the sanctuary staring at his back while serving Mass—pre-Vatican II—he had, to my knowledge, never visited our home. I invited him into the living room where he was greeted by our mixed-message furniture and slightly threadbare area carpets, and my parents. I was about to escape whatever was going to take place and headed in the general direction of the kitchen.
'Mick, come back in here,' said Father Dawson. I turned on my heel and returned apprehensively to the living room, taking a seat on the couch.
'Mother Albertine and some of your other teachers and I have determined, after careful consideration, that you have a vocation to the priesthood,' Father Dawson began, 'and we want to support you in whatever way we can,' he continued.
Ad Deum qui latificat juventutem meam. Adjutorium nostrae in nominee Domine rattled about in my head. I was stunned. While I had been serving Mass since the third grade, and had taken great pleasure in participating in the rituals of Holy Mother Church, I was not prepared for this!" (tbc)

And so, Dear Family and Dear Friends, Pax Vobiscum for 2017 —may our paths soon cross.

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It's All Fat Tuesday's Fault

2/14/2016

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It Was Fat Tuesday's Fault! For normal people Shrove Tuesday is pretty much like any other day leading up to Lent. Except for a couple of obvious differences...like stuffing oneself with pancakes at the end of the day knowing that fasting (only old people remember) will begin on Ash Wednesday. And then, if you plan to give booze the cold shoulder for the next six weeks, well maybe then you could give yourself permission for more than one Manhattan before midnight comes to the Big Easy.

That's for normal people. Allow me to tell you, Dear Reader, how my Shrove Tuesday went.
Mother Superior had decided that our first two weeks in the Barrio (read Mesa) had seen me engage in very little meaningful activity, save chasing off to the Verizon store to try to remediate our desperate lack of broadband (It is important to know the hour-by-hour temperatures back on the old home front. That way one can know precisely when to remark on the consistent mid-eighty degree temperatures in the Valley of the Sun.)

But I digress...Mother Superior had determined that she would work out a plan of sacrifice and pain for the old goat so as to improve him on both the physical and intellectual side. Hastily scanning through the 280 activities planned for the barrio residents for the week, she selected three activities deemed suitable. First there was "Learning to Play the Harmonica" at 9:00 AM followed by "Stained Glass for Beginners" at 10:00. That was to last three hours. But just in case something went awry, I was directed to "Core Balance" class at 11:00.

In any case I was anxious by the entire schedule because the "tiny little water pill" generally savages me for three hours post consumption. I could just imagine myself having to put up my hand: "Teacher, teacher, can you wait a minute before you begin that instruction on how to blow an F# on a "C" harmonica? I deign to be excused."
In spite of my trepidation, things seemed to fall into place nicely. When I got to harmonica class there was only one other person there, a woman who announced that there probably wouldn't be a lesson today because of the Mardi Gras parade which would soon make its way through the barrio. And then she left, leaving me looking at an empty room full of music stands.

Well, this is good, I mutter to myself, and make my way to Mother Superior's "back-up plan as directed. Reaching the stained glass laboratory, I wander in and a somber looking woman glances at me. I glance back at her and say, "Is this where the three-hour introduction to making stained glass is held?" "Yes," she replies. "What is your name?" I have to think a bit about that...ah, "Mike Morrissey," I say. "I don't see your name on the list anywhere," says she. "This class is full, as you can note for yourself that five people have signed up. There'll be another introductory class on the 27th." "Great," say I, skipping out the door.

There is bit of time before I am due at "Core Balance," the just-in-case-something-runs-amuck class so I ramble off in search of a donut, always an admirable pursuit.

At precisely 11:00, I burst through the door of the large activity room only to find what seems like 300 women and one other man ready to balance. I quickly procure a chair, a necessary part of this business for those of you who have never balanced your corpus.

In walks a twenty-something young woman whose body ripples in places previously unknown to me. She seems to look every person in the eye as she gives her instructions. When her smiling eyes lock on mine I read "What the hell is he doing in here?" I'm asking myself the same question. I hang on for an hour of this stuff and then stagger back toward the humble abode in which we live.

As I arrive, I am in search of something cold, and wet, like, say a beer. And I ask myself "Is my core balanced now?"

"Hey, I can't even balance my checkbook."

And that was my Fat Tuesday.

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Boxing Day 2014

12/26/2014

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Boxing Day 2014

As I set pen to paper today, it is Boxing Day. It doesn’t mean anything to most Americans. Some have a passing acquaintance because of an English association of one sort or another. Briefly summed, it is a public holiday in England, the day after Christmas. It grew out of an 1800s tradition of the upper classes bestowal of “boxes,” or gifts upon the servant class. Think Downton Abbey. Nearly a half-century ago Miss Susan and I, married for one year, were spending our first Christmas away from home and family. Engaged in the Fulbright scheme, I was teaching young lads at Bristol Grammar School in the West of England, founded under a charter from Henry VIII in 1532. Maurice and Vera Chapman, parents of one of the students at the school, Stephen, and officers in the Parents’ Association, had taken the young Americans under their wings to make sure that we were not left alone at Christmas. We were amazed to discover that we were invited back again the next day for Boxing Day. Two days in succession of mirth and merriment—good food and wine—just the style the Young Goat would strive to emulate over the years.

During that Christmas Holiday the Chapmans took us on a number of day trips. We visited Wells Cathedral, Glastonbury Abbey, Cheddar Gorge and Wookey Hole, Devon (yes, clotted cream on scones with strawberry preserves, thank-you). We visited Cardiff, Wales...all about Gloucester and Somerset. On one of the day outings we went south to the sea at Bournemouth where we had tea and then to a quaint place—I remember it being more village like—Christchurch. As we window-shopped I was magnetically drawn in to a place filled with shiny brass objects, many with a nautical purpose. It was a very expensive place to be, particularly on a three hundred dollar a month expense allowance. As I pondered the pricey pieces of brass, I looked for something we might take back to the States as a memento of this particular visit to the south coast of England. I spied a hefty doorknocker beautifully done in the shape of a lion’s head. Everybody’s seen one. It seemed massive—at least three pounds. It was a bit dear, as the English are wont to say. But I was not about to leave without it. How practical was this little memento? It would be well not to misplace it because it would be six years before we owned a front door on which to mount it, much less a house.

Christmas Eve 2014

This past August Mother Superior and the Goat set out on a journey to Bloomington, Indiana, home of that fount of knowledge, Indiana University. At the urging of some of my classmates in the early 1970s doctoral program I had organized a two-day reunion for those of us who survive and can remember who we are (minimally four or five times a day). We celebrated our successes (largely fantasies) and couldn’t recall any failures, toasted Old IU, and went our various ways. Because we were so far south, She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed suggested that we must proceed further in that direction to Elizabethtown to where the lads were educated through the elementary schools. And so we did. Staying next door to where we lived, with the Coxes, we had a chance to visit the old neighborhood and remark upon how the saplings we had planted were now mighty oaks.

In a bit of irony, our visit to E’town, as E’tonians spell it, coincided with a social/political event that was taking place on one of the evenings we were out and about. Son Timothy’s best friend, Jim DuPlessis, and a good friend to Son Patrick as well, (although there is some urban legend that he is directly responsible for four of PJ’s ten broken bones...I’m only repeating what I hear...have no direct knowledge....) was having a fund-raising pie-fest to support his run for the KY House of Representatives. Because we were in the immediate area of the DuPlessis For House Pie-Fest we stopped in to pay our respects and engage a few hugs with Jim and his wife Marcy. Jim sort of lived at our end of the street; there was a bit of a crowd at his house with four other siblings. During the course of the evening I told Jim that we had been up and down the old street looking closely at the houses and such and that I still retained deep regrets about not taking the old doorknocker off the front door when we sold the house. Jim suggested that I just go up to the house and ask the owner how much it would take to get the knocker. “Everybody has a price,” was how he put it. I put myself in the owner’s place and figured how much I’d want if I had to repair the holes in the door, sand, prime and repaint it, and figured the number wouldn’t compute for me. We did have a good laugh over it.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The USPS truck pulled into the driveway about 3:15 PM Christmas Eve, the driver running, not walking, no signatures required on this last delivery day. I walked out to the front stoop to pick up the package and bring it into the house where Mother Superior was putting the finishing touches on the gifts the Grands would be ripping apart tomorrow afternoon. Gosh, there is something here from “The Dupe,” I said. “Er, I mean, Representative, DuPlessis.”
Mother Superior hefted the box. "It's heavy," says she. "I think Jim's sent us a Christmas fruitcake.
Yup, feels like a fruitcake."

The doorknocker from Christchurch, Dorset, England had found its way to Fargo from whence we left to travel to England in August of 1966...the Chapmans’s son Stephen has begun retirement from an architectural firm of his creation in Bristol...his and wife Sue’s son, Philip, an Oxford graduate, now works on a PhD at Imperial College London researching the effect of fragmentation of the rainforest on animals...Mother Superior is claiming credit for some of Philip’s formation as when he was a young lad, she smuggled bits of rodent skeletons from the US into the UK hidden in her luggage, encouraging his scientific pursuits.... Sue and I have always been amazed and humbled by the circles of life, sometimes as actors; others as spectators, and often with no chance to make the choice as to which.

The Goat has rambled enough! It is the state of his mind; little can be done but to smile and humor him. If you happen to find yourself in his company, offer him a pint. An English ale will do nicely, a Bass, or maybe a Whitbread.

The Season’s Best to you and yours, and Happy New Year as well. We send our love and affection, and hope to hear of you in 2015. Below you witness the greatest joy in our lives...God bless....

Brevyn Beth Courtlyn Pat Graedyn Tim Rhonda Meggie Eric (Teddy)

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Chapter 30

3/8/2014

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Miss Susan The Artist

Finished Chapter 30 today, entitled "Miss Susan the Artist." Great fun stepping back and looking at her career over a 50 year period. Lots of fun memories and hilarious events flow through the mind. A good example: on one occasion Sue joined with a couple of Chicago artists to mount a show at an Elston Avenue gallery. The area, called Bucktown, was then just emerging as home to new industrial loft spaces. Hanging art in that neighborhood was breaking new ground. Anyway, each artist was responsible for bringing a share of the table food and wine. We dutifully slogged up a couple of flights of stairs with large bags of bread, chips, dips and box wine. After we finished our part of the setup, we began to enjoy the setting, the art, and the people who were passing through, all strangers to us save for a Chicago relative or two.

I had noticed a young unaccompanied Asian lad who wandered over to the snacks table on more than one occasion and seemed to study it more than eat from it. He would then wander off a few steps and engage a piece of art or two, and then back to the table.

I watched until his behavior bored me and looked about in other directions. When my eyes next returned to him he was once again over by the table, this time bending over at the waist and appearing to study the underside of it. I continued to watch.

All of a sudden his plan was put into action. In one continuous movement he pulled out from below the table two of the shopping bags that we had carried in, supplies still in them. He then swept a number of items off the table and into the bags. Finished with the filling, he grabbed a bag in each hand and dashed for the exit, bounding down the stairs three steps at a time. Out into the night he went, his weekend grocery shopping finished. Chasing him seemed like a feckless adventure. He needed the food more than we did. I poured each of us a new glass of wine and we toasted his d

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First Employment

1/20/2014

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The Wide, Wide World of Work

“—Opening of a new barbershop on Main Street, just west of Lind’s Cafe, has been announced by L.A. Smith and K.M. Wisted. The two had operated a barbershop in the basement of the David George Hotel building until recently.” From “Fifty Years Ago, 1952,” Valley City Times Record, July 9, 2002.

It was in 1952—I was 12—when Dad decided it was time for me to enter the world of work. He had come home from the barbershop that afternoon, resplendent in the smell of lilac aftershave. “Mickey,” he says, “How would you like to have a little job to earn some spending money?”

“Doing what?” says I, quick on the uptake, and wary of where this conversation was going. I was fond of the carefree life that had come to be mine. I had managed to grow a few inches in the past year, and the girls in my class were no longer towering over me. And this new skyward movement had discouraged a few of the perennial schoolyard bullies happy to take a swipe at me.

“Shining shoes,” says Dad. “Smitty said if you come down on Friday nights and Saturdays you could make pretty good money. Smitty’s got a shine stand with three chairs and all the brushes you’ll ever need.” In those days, “pretty good money” was a standard used by older folks who had known a period in their lives when it was damn hard to acquire two dimes to rub together! I thought about it for a moment, perhaps thirty seconds, and then gave my studied reply—“Naw, I’d rather play with my friends on Saturdays.” I raised my eyes up from their focus on kitchen floor and looked at Dad rather sheepishly. He gazed back, his eyes betraying no emotion whatsoever.

“You start Saturday morning. Smitty said all you have to do is furnish your own polish.”

With a heavy heart I trudged off toward East Main the following Saturday morning. My friends were still lagging behind in bed—exactly where I wanted to be. When I arrived at the barbershop I was hesitant to go in. It was not a place that I chose when sent by Mom to get a haircut. I knew it to be peopled by a certain strata of our small town society, people with whom I did not identify. In my immature view of the world they were largely unkempt people, severely working class. Never mind it was into this class I was born! They were farmers, blacksmiths, plumbers, tradesmen of all sorts. It was not a place mothers and daughters would get their hair cut.

I, on the other hand, wished to be shorn amid that other society who frequented the barber shop on North Central Avenue—men in suits, bankers, lawyers, merchants, shopkeepers and doctors. It was there I went when Mother gave me fifty cents and booted me out the door with directions to “get it cut.”

The pleasantries soon over, Smitty introduced me to the other two barbers as Bill Morrissey’s kid, and I was standing in front of my work station wondering what came next. At the back of the shop stood an old-fashioned shoeshine stand, three tiers, with the customer occupying the top shelf, as it were. It took two fairly steep steps to get to one of the three chairs perched on the top. An assortment of brushes, rags, and old polish tins littered the space beneath the chair legs, untouched in God knows how long; an assortment of dyes used for coloring the edges of the soles of shoes stood in bottles whose applicators had long since dried up. All of this embodied the tools of my new trade. I stood with my mouth hanging open, wondering what my next move would be.

Smitty seemed an old man to me. He might have been in his late sixties at the time, with a white mane and stubble of the same color. It was his shop; the other two barbers were tenants. He was affable in a formal sort of way and told me I was welcome to use the shaving lather to clean my clients’ shoes before shining them. I wanted to slink into the woodwork and disappear. As I sized up my situation, it was clear to me the most difficult part of this job would be soliciting clients—asking this motley collection of scuffed shoes and boots waiting for a haircut if they would like a shine.

I approached an old man reading a newspaper while waiting for a cut. “You wouldn’t want a shine while you wait, would you Mister?” “Nope,” came the answer.

“That’s not what you say—you say, ‘How about a shine, Mister?’ It’s only two bits,” was Smitty’s advice to the apprentice. And so I tried again. Eventually a farmer in high tops, feeling sorry for the skinny rag-tag towhead said "yes," and a career lasting two years was launched.

My father’s intention in leading me to employment was honorable. He wanted me to learn about the world of work, and where the money I wanted for spending actually came from. But there was a dark, make that shady, side to the employment to which I had been conscripted—one that I would greet with mixed emotions. Among the stacks of dog-eared magazines that had come to their final resting place in the space beneath my newly acquired shoe shine chairs were titles I had never seen before, never even imagined existed: True Detective, Crime, Saga, Cavalier, Esquire, and others, the Playboy wannabes of the 1940s and ‘50s were stacked in random fashion, many with their covers long gone from heavy use. The magazines opened readily to those pages or sections dog-eared from frequent visitation.

Soon my presence in the shop was no longer a curiosity to the regulars, and banter ensued which had a particularly sexual content. It was a new world to me, one of which my father would not have approved. I whiled away long periods between customers, fascinated with the pictures and new information, and there were new stirrings in my body—stirrings not well understood, but I was quickly getting the hang of the cause/effect relationship. One slow Friday night I happened upon a magazine that was all photos—black, white, and gray tones. There were women with bare breasts, and even more forbidden, full frontal nudity. Something I had only imagined before. Ah, sweet mysteries of life....

I soon began to reap the benefits of the employed. On a good Friday night, plus the nine-to-five Saturday, I sometimes went home with twelve dollars in quarters. Tips often equaled the price of the shine. I spent the money in outrageous fashion: hamburgers and cherry cokes, comic books, and Pearson’s Nut Goodies®. Once I bought a dozen and took them home and stashed them in my sock drawer. I took my sister Maureen to see them and her eyes opened wide. “Boy, you must be rich,” she said, the look on her face reflecting envy of the nouveau riche!

Into my thirteenth year I began to loathe my employment situation. Friday nights found my friends at football games or dancing at the Teen Canteen. I hated missing the action but knew that I wouldn’t be permitted to quit the job without good reason. Suddenly it came to me as I walked home past a baseball diamond. Athletics would be my ticket out. If I could play, I couldn’t be at work at the same time. In August I informed Smitty I had to quit. I had donned football pads and cleats.

One’s first job probably teaches the most. Little could Dad have imagined that in addition to throwing open the doors of employment and experiencing the relative value between work and money, he had managed also to open the shutter slightly to the salacious and the titillating, the exotic and the scatological. I had sneaked a peak at the world of soft porn, such as it was a half century ago. Over the next several years jobs came and went. Reasons for being hired and quitting have faded into the mists. Somehow I managed to stay employed for the next forty years. The details of many of the jobs I held now escape me, but the memories of first one are still crystalline. (From a family history/memoir still in the birthing process entitled A Long Way From Tipperary.)

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A Night at the HoDo

8/17/2013

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Sue and I were overnight guests at the HoDo (Hotel Donaldson, downtown Fargo) this past Wednesday evening at a ten-year anniversary bash thrown by owner Karen Stoker. She always manages a fabulous party, without ostentation. Yummy eats and plenty of variety in the libations served. As a focal point to the affair, the 17 artists whose work adorns an individual suite were onboard to talk about their work and answer questions. I haven’t seen any numbers on attendance, but I suspect 200 people toured the hotel and its surrounds. Later that evening it was SRO in both of the dining areas until about 9:30.

Also, in addition to the suite artists, many other talented artists have their work displayed in the public spaces in the hotel. All whose work is displayed were invited to attend. Miss Susan's work graces Suite 5 at the top of the stairs, and if you ever want to stay in a really nice suite, this is the one ;-)

The main dining room currently houses a magnificent show of work of all artists who have pieces hanging someplace in the HoDo.

It was a great evening, and a wonderful opportunity to renew acquaintances with friends from the tri-state area.

Both Karen, and her ex, Doug Burgum, have done so much to enhance downtown Fargo, turning it into a destination that draws folks across ND, MN, and SD, as well as the timeline of life. I’m not sure if they are given sufficient recognition and thanks for their efforts. From my little corner of the world here in South Fargo, thanks for all you do and have done. You have raised the bar on model citizenry.

Why HoDo you ask? Well, I once heard Karen say that that’s what the guys swinging hammers and tucking brick called their workplace and she liked it. It used to define the lounge, but now it defines the destination. I am so ancient that when I was a junior/senior in high school we stayed at the HoDo for three dollars a night during State Class B basketball tournaments. The rooms were large enough to accommodate a single bed or two and a large box of Hi-Ho crackers, jar of peanut butter, and a six of whatever we could talk one of the denizens on NP to buy for us. Life was good....

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Morrissey is a retired school superintendent who is now content to scribble, swim laps, make wine, and do genealogy. His wife calls it chasing dead people...he can almost keep up with them.

​In 1972 We Say Goodbye to Fargo and Head East;Mother Superior Addresses First Christmas in IL

The Obligatory Family Photos, as in My Grandkids are Cuter and Smarter Than Your Grandkids...Probably the Best Grandkids Ever!

This is What Happens When the Genomes Suffer a Collision of Sorts

Of Matters Artistic

Reflections on Christmas Past

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year

Tragedy​

The Year in Photos​

Other Important Stuff​

​The Cedar Rapidians​

The Fargoans​

​Potpourri​

​And so, Dear Family and Dear Friends, Pax Vobiscum for 2017 —may our paths soon cross.

Miss Susan The Art﻿ist

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In 1972 We Say Goodbye to Fargo and Head East;
Mother Superior Addresses First Christmas in IL

Tragedy

The Year in Photos

Other Important Stuff

The Cedar Rapidians

The Fargoans

Potpourri

And so, Dear Family and Dear Friends, Pax Vobiscum for 2017 —may our paths soon cross.

Miss Susan The Artist