Corners

A friend who owns a small farm in Maine amuses and instructs with his posts about his adventures and lessons learned on his farm. Today he wrote about corners on the farm and inspired me to write about corners in life.
     

Corners are to be turned. They make us change direction but not turn backwards so they are useful. When we turn corners, we can be avoiding something unpleasant or avoiding an obstruction yet staying on course. When we turn a corner, we change direction; perhaps we are being smart to shift direction so we can continue our journey to our original destination. It may be necessary to turn that corner so we do not become stuck. Turn and continue. That is growth.

You cannot see around a corner so it may take some courage to turn it and move on. Life’s corners are like that. It may be scary to keep moving when you cannot see what is coming, but it is necessary to swallow the fear and move on. Progress isn’t always a straight line.

 So corners can  imply progress: “My life turned a corner when I graduated”, or “when I got my new job” or “when I had my first child.”  These are positive corners allowing us to move on to our next step in life.  It’s funny to think that a life that doesn’t turn corners but progresses in a straight line, may not be interesting or may not be developing and moving forward.  So, perhaps we need corners?

We don’t want to paint ourselves into a corner or be forced into a corner by a person or by life’s exigencies because then we may have to fight (or think) ourselves out of the corner back into freedom. That will require flexibility in thinking and an embracing of something new. Our plans will have to change to get out of the corner, and we may have to try different techniques or several attempts before we escape the two confining walls that have come together and temporarily stopped us. When we successfully escape the corner, we have grown.

So corners can serve as challenges and lessons. They can force us to change and grow and think differently. They can lure us onward to see what is around each one. They serve as milestones in life, either negative or positive. We need corners. And we need to negotiate them, not become stuck by them. So we shouldn't be afraid of corners; we should embrace them, grow because of them, and use them to learn new ways of moving through life.

Langston Hughes has a thought about corners.

Final Curve

When you turn the corner
And you run into yourself
Then you know that you have turned
All the corners that are left 

Langston Hughes

 

Do We Build our Own Pens?

   I was thinking about traps the other day. About how we can trap ourselves slowly and subtlely and don't even know it. Do you know the story about how you catch a wild pig? If you set out food in a pen, of course he will not go for it. But if you put it in the open, he will come to eat it after a time.  When he gets used to finding and eating the food in the same place, you put up one section or line of fence nearby. Later on you put up another part of the pen so you have two connected pieces of fence. A bit later, you put up the third side of the pen. Piggy still will come for the food.  After a while, you just put up the last part of the pen but leave an opening. Piggy saunters right in and you close up the fence while he chows down.  Now, that takes some time, but it is effective.
    Sometimes, I think we do the same thing to ourselves. Well, I was really thinking about celebrities, but I think regular people trap themselves also.  First, let's take a celebrity who has more money than sense. Maybe she is a Kardashian.  I only see a Kardashian once in a while on those TV shows whose purpose is to celebritize celebrities. Anyway, I have noticed that, according to those shows, the Kardashians now have an empire encompassing many products that bring in lucre for the family.  In order to sell more stuff, the sisters K have to go places where they are seen dressed in expensive, if not tasteful, clothing. They produce much-publicized weddings that last about five minutes, but they get to put on one hell of a wedding and party, complete with incredible dresses, presents, food, ambiance, wide-spread publicity and lots of other celebrities. If their brand seems to be losing its luster, they create a story that goes viral and garners them more publicity. They have to be seen. They have to do outlandish things to continue getting publicity. They have to live up to their brand. It is a self-perpetuating cycle and sooner or later they will want off the merry-go-round. But if they jump off, all the fun is over, not to mention the money. So they are trapped in a construction of their own making. When the reality show started, they thought that fame and fortune were all they wanted. But after a time, doesn't it seem a bit empty? Too late - if they want to continue to live in the style which they have created and which they have become accustomed to, they must maintain the madness. Trapped. And they are not the only ones in this state.
   How do normal people trap themselves? They allow themselves to live in a rut. They do the same things, eat the same foods, associate with the same people. They believe they are good at some things but that they cannot do other things. They allow themselves to live within barriers of their own creation. This can take an infinite variety of forms: "I am a good mother.  A good mother never lets  her children down." This kind of mother will neglect her own needs for her children. How noble, but how unhealthy.  Or "I am a great bread-winner for my family." This man (or woman) needs to be seen as providing everything needed or wanted by their children and spouse. Work, work - make money.  Make more money. This means they cannot be with the family for much of the everyday activities that make up their children's lives. They miss out on their kids' activities, accomplishments, recitals, sports games. Too late, the provider understands that he/she has placed him or herself inside a pen. He is simply the provider, not the loving parent or spouse. How does he get himself out of this?
   We are all subject to trapping ourselves whether it is the trap of the mind or of action. I hope we can recognize the signs before we become too ensnared. That takes vigilance, doesn't it?

Emily Dickinson knew something about captivity.


I never hear the word "escape"
Without a quicker blood,
A sudden expectation
A flying attitude!

I never hear of prisons broad
By soldiers battered down,
But I tug childish at my bars
Only to fail again!

An Open Mind - All I Want is an Open Mind. Or do I?

Well, it has been a long time, blog of mine. Don't even know if I can figure out how to post in this new format, but I will try. Nothing much to say, no injustices to set right, no big issues - uh oh... Maybe there is one tiny little thing I'm upset about.
Upset? That's not the right word. Livid. Yes, livid is better. You see, I am so fed up with the political process during this Presidential election that I could just take a big stick to the ad writers, campaign managers, smarmy-voiced announcers, mean-sounding announcers, actors, (yes, I know it's their job, but how could they say the horrible things those ads make them say?), writers - anyone having anything to do with the lying, exaggerating and misinforming of the campaign ads.
Livid with the campaign, but what am I feeling for the American populace? The ones who vote based only on the above-mentioned lies, and the ones who just vote their party without thinking about the people running or the issues or the party platform. The word for what I am feeling about these people is...stupid. We are stupid, stupid, stupid. Our system is broken and we are trapped in it. It seems that money buys elections; voting machines can be rigged; elections can be jiggered; and the wrong candidate can win.
My, my, listen to me. It must be late at night on the eve of campaigning door-to-door for the candidate that my neighbors in this county do not like. And why don't they like him? Because they have drunk the poison cool-aid of his opponents. They have listened to the lies and misinformation because it is easier to do that than to find out what really is going on. But I'll be out there anyway trying to influence those who haven't made up their minds yet. Those who have open minds. I wonder if I will find any - it seems that people don't want open minds. Facts might find their way into an open mind. An open mind might think instead of just react. The possessor of an open mind just might figure out who to vote for based on his record and what he says he wants to do in the future for the citizens of his country.
So yes, it's late and I have heard too many awful political ads because I live in - the saints preserve us - a SWING state. Yecch. The candidates show up in this state every other day. Rich people have $20,000 a plate dinners for them often. The TV ads are disgusting and non-stop. What a joy to live in Ohio during a national election. Everyone will be united the day after the election no matter who wins because we all will be so relieved to not be forced to listen to the ads bought by outside money - lots of outside money. Boatloads of outside money. So much money that it could probably reduce the national debt significantly.
Some people say they hate politics and stay away. They don't listen or pay attention to what is going on in Washington. I hate politics but can't stay away. And that is my problem, my curse - the cause of the little black cloud above my head tonight.
But tomorrow is another day and I will go talk to people, many of whom won't want to listen to me. But I will feel better knowing that I have tried. I have taken action in a small way, the only way I can. And I will take more of these small actions so that I can feel like I put my money where my mouth is - or more accurately, walked the talk. And I won't turn on the TV for the entire weekend so I can be surprised by the new ads on next week.

Here is a poem about an ideal candidate.

Exquisite Candidate


by Denise Duhamel and Maureen Seaton

I can promise you this: food in the White House
will change! No more granola, only fried eggs
flipped the way we like them. And ham ham ham!
Americans need ham! Nothing airy like debate for me!
Pigs will become the new symbol of glee,
displacing smiley faces and "Have A Nice Day."
Car bumpers are my billboards, billboards my movie screens.
Nothing I can say can be used against me.
My life flashes in front of my face daily.
Here's a snapshot of me as a baby. Then
marrying. My kids drink all their milk which helps the dairy industry.
A vote for me is not only a pat on the back for America!
A vote for me, my fellow Americans, is a vote for everyone like me!
If I were the type who made promises
I'd probably begin by saying: America,
relax! Buy big cars and tease your hair
as high as the Empire State Building.
Inch by inch, we're buying the world's sorrow.
Yeah, the world's sorrow, that's it!
The other side will have a lot to say about pork
but don't believe it! Their graphs are sloppy coloring books.
We're just fine—look at the way
everyone wants to speak English and live here!
Whatever you think of borders,
I am the only candidate to canoe over Niagara Falls
and live to photograph the Canadian side.
I'm the only Julliard graduate—
I will exhale beauty all across this great land
of pork rinds and gas stations and scientists working for cures,
of satellite dishes over Sparky's Bar & Grill, the ease
of breakfast in the mornings, quiet peace of sleep at night.

Are Our Shoulders Broad Enough?

The other day I read a poem that I cannot keep out of my mind. I shared it on Facebook and received some positive comments on it. The more I think about it, the more I feel that the central point of this poem may be the most important concept for the survival of the civilized human race. Let's forget about global warming for the moment as that may cause the ultimate demise of humankind at some point, but this poem raises the possibility in my mind that something else may beat this particular kind of global destruction.
The poem makes its point in a poignant situation involving father and child - one that any parent who loves his or her children will feel deeply. The poem plays upon the care and protection a father affords his young child, but then makes the point that we all will have to behave in this way to each other if we want to survive.
In the face of the political polarization of Congress and our populace, this poem's premise is particularly astute. When Congress can't or won't pass bills to ameliorate the economic debacle that is our status right now; when Democrats and Republicans cannot compromise enough to prod a Congress mired in distrust and dislike for each other into action; when attack ads are the norm in any political contest; when millions are out of work and losing their homes, it is obvious that we are not taking care of each other, let alone, business. Far from it.
I have felt responsible for others for most of my life. Maybe it's because I was the first child of four. Maybe it's because I'm an Aquarius. Perhaps it is because I had the parents I was lucky enough to be born to. I feel that we are all in "this" together and that in order to make the most of "it" (read "life"), we need to help each other deal with life. We need to lend support when others need it. We need to open doors when someone has burdens that make it hard for them to do so. We need to recognize when others are weak and help them rediscover their strength. The "no man is an island" idea speaks to me. We are only as strong as our weakest link has its appeal, but to state it simply, we are all in this together and to mix metaphors even more, a house divided cannot stand. The world is our house. All the peoples in it are the house. Our neighbors across the street and the Ethiopian orphans in Africa are the house. Even the Wall Street millionaires and the crooked mortgage brokers are the house. We are all in this together. It's about time we acted like it. But do we have shoulders broad enough to bear the responsibility?
Here is the poem that is still chasing me:

Shoulders
by Naomi Shihab Nye

A man crosses the street in rain,
stepping gently, looking two times north and south,
because his son is asleep on his shoulder.

No car must splash him.
No car drive too near to his shadow.

This man carries the world's most sensitive cargo
but he's not marked.
Nowhere does his jacket say FRAGILE,
HANDLE WITH CARE.

His ear fills up with breathing.
He hears the hum of a boy's dream
deep inside him.

We're not going to be able
to live in this world
if we're not willing to do what he's doing
with one another.

The road will only be wide.
The rain will never stop falling.

"Shoulders" by Naomi Shihab Nye, from Red Suitcase. © BOA Editions, Ltd., 1994. Reprinted with permission.

What Surgery Has Taught Me

It's been a long time, oh blog of mine. Nine weeks ago I had shoulder surgery and really couldn't type much until now. Even now, my hand and wrist hurt after a minute or so, but it beats typing with my left hand only.
So what have I been doing since my surgery? Learning a lot about pain, mostly. Oh, and getting pneumonia and then pleurisy. It's been fun - not. And I have been learning about myself:
1. I don't like pain and would probably tell bad guys or the FBI or whomever whatever they wanted to hear after about a minute of torture. Or maybe 15 seconds. Which isn't a good revelation because I always thought I'd be able to withstand pain and save the world by not breaking down and squealing.
2. Even though I don't like pain, I haven't shirked my physical therapy, going three times a week and doing my routine twice a day every day. Except for the day I was driven to the doctor to find out I had pneumonia after several days of dragging around and coughing like a 30 year chain-smoker. So, I still do my therapy even though it still hurts. I guess I'm not as much of a wimp as I thought.
3. I am also more of a wimp than I thought. As an athlete my whole life I am used to pain - the pain of pushing past physical barriers and continuing to run, cycle, lift. But I have learned that is a different kind of pain than forcing my shoulder into external rotation that feels like my arm is on the medieval wrack of the Inquisition. I complain about this pain and the constant pain that is with me - a lot. I am sorry that my spousal equivalent has to hear me groan and whimper. He asked me yesterday if I complained when he wasn't here and I had to admit that I do.
4. Nine weeks after surgery I am tired of all this physical therapy, the tightness, the forcing the arm to move in ways it doesn't like. Every day I wonder if I will stop doing my therapy moves although I know that I have months left.
5. Even though I wonder if I will stop, I don't.
6. I've learned not to compare myself with others who have had the same surgery because people are all different and each surgery is different even if it was on the same body part.
7. I fear that I will never be "normal" again. That I will feel weak and sloppy and fat and flabby for the rest of my life. That I will deteriorate physically until I slide down the slope of old age and become a shade of my former self, unable to do all the things I want to do - the things I could do before the surgery.
8. In short, I have learned that this is a test and I do not want to fail because I want my range of motion and my strength back. I want to ride my bike long distances. I want to lift weights. I want to pick up my younger grandchildren who are growing every day. I want to be myself again. And that thought is interesting because it shows me that I think of myself as a healthy, fit, strong, vital person. That is who I am. That is my identity and I want it back.
So I won't give up. I will keep pushing. I will do what my surgeon told me yesterday. I will persist.

Linda Pasten knows what I am talking about.

After Minor Surgery
By Linda Pastan


this is the dress rehearsal

when the body
like a constant lover
flirts for the first time
with faithlessness

when the body
like a passenger on a long journey
hears the conductor call out
the name
of the first stop

when the body
in all its fear and cunning
makes promises to me
it knows
it cannot keep

Were you a mean kid?

Not much to say tonight except that this poem makes me glad that bullying in school is finally getting some attention and teachers are being taught some techniques to deal with it. Of courses kids are getting this kind of info also and it is about time. I don't know why kids have to be so mean sometimes - it seems like a rite of passage for some. For other kids, the rite is being on the receiving end of cruelty, heartless torture and terrible loneliness. Parents would not believe how cruel their young children can be to a those who show any kind of weakness or display a behavior that can be interpreted as weakness.
Perhaps the ability to be cruel to another living being, person or animal, is inborn and resides deep within only to be awakened in a social environment such as school.Perhaps the bullies perceive their own weaknesses and are acting out ahead of any bad treatment that might be coming their way. Perhaps there are just some scared, abused kids who must abuse others in order to make sure their psyches survive. And perhaps some kids are just twisted and mean and dark through no fault of their parents or anyone else. They are what they are and no amount of teaching, role playing and interference technique will work with them. Many bullies grow out of it, but not all. Have you ever worked for a bully? Be honest, now - have you? Yes, they exist in the adult world too, using skills that were honed in school hallways and playgrounds all over the world.
Bullies of any age are hard to deal with until we take that first step to finding out their fears and move on to letting them know we see their weaknesses. My dad always said to stand up to a bully because bullies are just empty air and insecurities. In my experience, he was right on that. It is unfortunate that pain may be involved in deflating the bully: pain for you and for him or her. But deflate them we must in order to survive ourselves.
In this poem the tables are turned and the narrator learns what it is like to be on the other side of bullying.


Sins of the Father

by W.D. Ehrhart

Today my child came home from school in tears.
A classmate taunted her about her clothes,
and the other kids joined in, enough of them
to make her feel as if the fault was hers,
as if she can't fit in no matter what.
A decent child, lovely, bright, considerate.
It breaks my heart. It makes me want someone
to pay. It makes me think—O Christ, it makes
me think of things I haven't thought about
in years. How we nicknamed Barbara Hoffman
"Barn," walked behind her through the halls and mooed
like cows. We kept this up for years, and not
for any reason I could tell you now
or even then except that it was fun.
Or seemed like fun. The nights that Barbara
must have cried herself to sleep, the days
she must have dreaded getting up for school.
Or Suzanne Heider. We called her "Spider."
And we were certain Gareth Schultz was queer
and let him know it. Now there's nothing I
can do but stand outside my daughter's door
listening to her cry herself to sleep.

"Sins of the Father" by W.D. Ehrhart, from The Bodies Beneath the Table. © Adastra Press, 2010.

"Greeting the barefoot child"

Babies are very, very special entities.I haven't had one in a long, long time, but I remember vividly the deliveries of my two children as I'm sure all women remember theirs. After all, it's a pretty cool thing to bring life out of your own body. Humbling and thrilling and scary and painfully wonderful all at once. Yes, pretty cool. But now, in my advanced non-childbearing age, I appreciate babies on another level.
When I look at a baby, I see "intimations of immortality." I see a being that doesn't communicate with words, but simply with its presence. I see eyes that really look. I don't know what babies see, but they surely see something and maybe that something is not just its physical surroundings. Somehow, I think a very young baby sees and knows much more than we think. Just because they can't verbalize, doesn't mean they don't know what is happening on some level. Perhaps they know more than we do.
I don't know why I feel this way, but looking at babies makes me think that anything is possible. For them, for me, for the world. My jaded sensibilities are suspended for a few moments and I see pure love looking back at me. Not necessarily from only babies that I know, but any baby passing by in it's father's arms or ensconced in a stroller. It doesn't matter.
Maybe I'm a silly old lady. Maybe I just want every child's life to be filled with love and I'm projecting that onto these wee ones. It doesn't matter, I love looking at babies and hoping they stay as wonderful as they are at that moment for the rest of their lives.

Here is Linda Pasten's poem about birth.


Notes from the Delivery Room

by Linda Pastan

Strapped down,
victim in an old comic book,
I have been here before,
this place where pain winces
off the walls
like too bright light.
Bear down a doctor says,
foreman to sweating laborer,
but this work, this forcing
of one life from another
is something that I signed for
at a moment when I would have signed anything.
Babies should grow in fields;
common as beets or turnips
they should be picked and held
root end up, soil spilling
from between their toes—
and how much easier it would be later,
returning them to earth.
Bear up ... bear down ... the audience
grows restive, and I'm a new magician
who can't produce the rabbit
from my swollen hat.
She's crowning, someone says,
but there is no one royal here,
just me, quite barefoot,
greeting my barefoot child.

"Notes from the Delivery Room" by Linda Pastan, from Carnival Evening: New and Selected Poems 1968-1998. © W. W. Norton & Company, 1999. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)

Oh, Christmas Tree

Ah yes, 'tis the season, fa la la, ringing bells and all that. And it even snowed today to make it seem more like Christmas. So why an I not in the mood? No mystery there - it's time to get a Christmas tree. For the 17th year, the pressure is on once again. You see, by a fluke or perhaps a warp in the time-space continuum, the first year in our new home I found a tree that was very tall, very pretty - distinctive even, and very cheap. That set the bar for all subsequent Christmas trees: they had to be tall, pretty or distinctive (and boy have we had some distinctive trees), and cheap.
A tall tree is somewhat hard to find, but with a modicum of diligence, one can be found without driving 60 miles round trip. If it is tall, it cannot be skinny. We usually err on the side of fat because many times we have traipsed out to a farm waaaaaay out in the country even farther than we live. The farm tree we pick is about a mile from the little tree house where they wrap it for you and we have to drag it there. Snow helps. Mud does not.It is usually an older tree that hasn't been trimmed since it was one year old and looks like it needs to go on a diet. But it's tall - the primary requirement - and it isn't too expensive, the second prerequisite. We have had some trees with great personality, if you know what I mean. That's right, no one else wants to date this tree because it is too tall and too weird, but it does provide great conversation stimulus as we wrap a rope around it and ourselves and drag it up to the little house, providing no little entertainment for the people hoisting normal trees on shoulders and marching briskly to their cars.
Getting such a tree through the wrapper-machine is usually sketchy. The guy at the big end gets big eyes and the man at the small end of the tube has "Oh no" written all over his face. Smart wrapper-guys don't even try to push this tree through the wrapper. Those who like a challenge grin, grab the tree and stuff it in causing me to worry about breaking the spirit of our charming new friend. Usually, the tree comes out wrapped and ready for the car. Of course, because of requirement number one (remember, it has to be tall - 10 feet at least), the tree sticks out the back of the Element and we have to ride with the hatch up. It is a long, cold ride. Where is the hot chocolate? If we are feeling particularly skinny, we indulge when we get home. But I digress.
So far, we have been able to find tall, charming, not-too-expensive trees, but every year I dread the pressure. It is getting harder to find tall trees at anything like a reasonable price. I refuse to pay a lot of money for a dead tree. And even though I love the odor of a fresh tree, I am moving closer to the artificial camp every year. I don't want to trek out to the hinterlands to find our tree anymore. I just want to buy the thing and get it home quickly. And there's the rub. If I find a tree close to the house in a tree lot, and if it isn't painted that ridiculous blue-green color, and if it is tall and lovely, or tall and with personality, it is way too expensive. Like you wouldn't believe how expensive. Over $100 expensive. Out of the question.
So here it is, December 5th and tree-time is here. The lot guy I spoke to yesterday said after this weekend, most of the trees would be gone. He had 10 foot trees for only $100. I was not amused. My Sweetie has a bad cold so this weekend's hunt for the perfect tree has been postponed. Next weekend I will be gone visiting my newest grandson (and his parents too), far away so no tree search then. That leaves us just one weekend before Christmas to find our tree, have our family decorating party, and be ready for the big holiday. If all the good trees will disappear this weekend, imagine what will be left the week before Christmas.
This situation reminds me of what my father did when we were little. He would wait until Christmas Eve to buy our tree because he didn't like paying for a dead tree either. You can guess what he brought home most of the time. My mother would sigh and get out the decorations as he tried to make a crooked tree with multiple gaps in the branches stand up and look good.
I live in fear that this will happen to us and we will lose our position as the possessors of tall trees with true character. These trees usually come with great stories of the searching for hours, the chopping down, the aforementioned dragging, the wrapping and the freezing ride home. I know that some Christmas soon we are going to end up with a Charlie Brown tree. And worse yet, we will have paid a lot of money for it. Truly, that is the beginning of the slippery slope - an artificial tree cannot be far behind. Well fa la la la la and Merry Christmas to all. If our usual search is fruitless, I do know where the perfect tree can be located - at KMart with twinkling lights already installed.

Robert Frost has a different perspective on this tree issue.

Christmas Trees by Robert Frost

A Christmas Circular Letter

The city had withdrawn into itself
And left at last the country to the country;
When between whirls of snow not come to lie
And whirls of foliage not yet laid, there drove
A stranger to our yard, who looked the city,
Yet did in country fashion in that there
He sat and waited till he drew us out
A-buttoning coats to ask him who he was.
He proved to be the city come again
To look for something it had left behind
And could not do without and keep its Christmas.
He asked if I would sell my Christmas trees;
My woods—the young fir balsams like a place
Where houses all are churches and have spires.
I hadn’t thought of them as Christmas Trees.
I doubt if I was tempted for a moment
To sell them off their feet to go in cars
And leave the slope behind the house all bare,
Where the sun shines now no warmer than the moon.
I’d hate to have them know it if I was.
Yet more I’d hate to hold my trees except
As others hold theirs or refuse for them,
Beyond the time of profitable growth,
The trial by market everything must come to.
I dallied so much with the thought of selling.
Then whether from mistaken courtesy
And fear of seeming short of speech, or whether
From hope of hearing good of what was mine,
I said, "There aren’t enough to be worth while."
"I could soon tell how many they would cut,
You let me look them over."

"You could look.
But don’t expect I’m going to let you have them."
Pasture they spring in, some in clumps too close
That lop each other of boughs, but not a few
Quite solitary and having equal boughs
All round and round. The latter he nodded "Yes" to,
Or paused to say beneath some lovelier one,
With a buyer’s moderation, "That would do."
I thought so too, but wasn’t there to say so.
We climbed the pasture on the south, crossed over,
And came down on the north.
He said, "A thousand."

"A thousand Christmas trees!—at what apiece?"

He felt some need of softening that to me:
"A thousand trees would come to thirty dollars."

Then I was certain I had never meant
To let him have them. Never show surprise!
But thirty dollars seemed so small beside
The extent of pasture I should strip, three cents
(For that was all they figured out apiece),
Three cents so small beside the dollar friends
I should be writing to within the hour
Would pay in cities for good trees like those,
Regular vestry-trees whole Sunday Schools
Could hang enough on to pick off enough.
A thousand Christmas trees I didn’t know I had!
Worth three cents more to give away than sell,
As may be shown by a simple calculation.
Too bad I couldn’t lay one in a letter.
I can’t help wishing I could send you one,
In wishing you herewith a Merry Christmas.