A rewrite of A Visit from St. Nicholas with sincere apologies to Clement Clarke Moore
T’was the night before the Picnic, when all through the town
Not a politician was stirring, not even an aide;
The aprons were hung by the door with care,
Knowing that the next morning they’d be grabbed with other fare;
Jay weighing mutton
The visitors were nestled all snug in their beds;
While visions of mutton danced in their heads;
And mamma in her One Mile T-Shirt, and I in my Fancy Farm cap,
Had just settled our brains for a short night’s nap,
The current generation of Elder’s being watched by generations before.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
The moon on the leaves of the newly topped tobacco,
Gave a lustre of midday to objects below,
Steven Elder politic-ing from the meat stand
When what do my wondering eyes did appear,
But a pickup truck loaded with eight yard signs in the rear,
With a little old driver so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment he must be Steven Elder, with a kick.
Katie Elder working a BBQ window
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
“Now Katie!, now, John!, now Carilynn and Jay!
On, Dad! on, Sue, on Mariah and Ben!
Eli scooping sawdust to catch the grease from the BBQ port and mutton (yes, we start them early)
Where’s Peggy and Eli and Macy?
Clint’s already out there, we must be hasty
To the front porch! and out the door you all!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!
Family, friends and generations all working together. That’s what the Picnic is all about.
So out of the house the coursers they flew
With the sleigh full of knives and hatches, and a memory of Uncle Danny too –
And then, in a twinkling, I heard in the driveway
The slamming of car doors and revving of each little engine on their way.
Uncle Jimmy holding the next generation under the watchful eye of his Dad, John Elder.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
In flew Uncle Jimmy with a bound
He was dressed like he was going to the field, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all stained with tobacco gum and sweat;
Knives, hatchets, scales & aprons have been in the family for generations too.
Hunting of hatchets and scales that he had flung in his arms,
And he looked like a butcher just moving from the farm.
His eyes – how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
Steven & Curtis boning pork and chopping the meat.
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the day’s beard on his chin was as white as the snow;
The determination he held in his gaze,
Digging underneath the steps to make sure he had everything he’d need;
The Elder’s have sold BBQ by the pound for generations.
He had a broad face and a little round belly
That shook when he laughed, like a bowl of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right old self,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
George and Annie Elder had 12 children. We are blessed that many of their descendants are still in the meat stand every year.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And got everything he needed; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, out the door he flew, forgetting to make sure it closed;
He sprang to his truck, barking orders like a whistle,
And away they all drove like bats out of hell in a hustle.
The lines are normally up the hill until the meat is sold out.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight –
“There’s a line already started and lots of pork and mutton to sell into the night!”