Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, Family and Friends,
One and All
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?
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....
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It doesn't hurt to have Kappa Delta sister support on location in case things go south!
(Ginny, Judy, Suzie, Patty)
(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
susanmorrissey.com
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