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« on: January 04, 2020, 1232 UTC »
So, while those who celebrate Christmas have taken down the tree, many ethnicities/countries see January 6, Little Christmas (Feast of the Epiphany, Three Kings Day, Women's Christmas), as an equal or greater holiday to celebrate. For, the Italians, La Befana (a witch-like character) delivers gifts to children, the Three Kings arrive in Hispanic-centric camel parades bearing gifts, doors are chalk marked in Northern Europe, men do the housework in Ireland, and special bakery items are created throughout the world upon to fest. This is a big food holiday.
So, I thought it appropriate our HFU community that attempts to receive the world note a holiday widely celebrated outside the United States. With apologies to Clement Moore, Chris Smolinski, those mentioned, those who wanted to be mentioned, those who had handles that would not rhyme, and the aquatic mammal population 🙃. I give you an Ode (perhaps, Odd) to Little Christmas:
Twas the eve of Little Christmas and all through the house,
not a receiver was glowing, not even the Strauss.
The antennas were all strung up with flair,
in dreams that The Relay Station I would snare
The tubes were all secured in their own socket
In hopes that an Icom would be on the docket
Mama in her 'kerchief, and I in my headphones
Had just settled our brains with the lucid Redhat tones
When out in the shack there arose such a clatter
I had thought the dipole was all in a tatter
Away to window I flew like shortwave
Tore open the sliders, ran to the cave
The glowing avatar sent by SSTV,
Gave a lustre of midday light for which to see,
When what from aloft should query "How do you do?",
But a manatee, her keeper, and eight HFU,
With a little old poster so twisted and worrisome,
I knew in a moment he must be Al Fansome.
More rapid than HF his coursers they came,
And he chortled, and snorted, and called their pen name:
"Now, Skipmunk! now, MDK3! now Josh and AC!
On, Pigmeat! on, Dimbulb! on, Radiostar and DaveP!
To the top of the shack! to the top of the stick!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away quick!"
As signals that before the wild hurricane unfurl,
When they meet with interference, they tend to curl;
So up to the housetop the coursers turned deep blue
With the sleigh full of QSL's, and Fansome's girl too—
And then, come the rattle of my cookie tin
The bellow and howl of a manatee grin.
As I switched on the Zenith, turning the knob,
From the panty, Al Fansome and his sidekick blob.
He was dressed in red Nehru, from his head to his toe,
And his clothes were all garnished with manatee roe;
A bundle of tubes he had flung on his back,
He looked like a dealer displaying some crack.
His eyes—how they watered! the whites, how they bled!
Her feet were like flippers, she had to be fed!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a sow,
The beard on his chin, as an old dairy cow;
The stump of her flipper he held tight in his teeth,
And the stench, it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a narrow little mind, was seeking a deli
She started to clamor, no cares but her belly.
She was chubby and plump, a right jolly old fish,
And I laughed when I saw her, "this is Al's dish?";
Al drank all my gin and twisted her snout
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to doubt;
He spoke not a word, but just spun the dial,
Filed all his loggings; then turned with a smile,
And laying his finger aside of her dorsal,
Giving a kiss, but not even a morsel;
He sprang to his sleigh, to his bloggers shouted pleas,
All soared like Radio Illuminanti's lady trapeze.
But I heard him exclaim, through the yelling and fight—
“Happy Little Christmas y'all, she wants Chicken Delight!”
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! He sounded even better on Christmas. Thanks for the East Haven play, Bon Natale and Bon Anno.