Smithshire Methodist Episcopal
The Christmas Grudge
I was glad I caught it
Had set my trap so well
built with all those slights
slung by oafs with whom I dwell.
Slights that bruised my ego
made me sore made me swell
Carefully I opened my trap
In my hands held it tight
Then I stealthily stored it away
kept it where none could see
it captured me always to stay.
Everyone knew what had been done
It should have been plain to see
I knew they saw it, in how they treated me.
People vacuously chanting “have a nice day.”
In daily life everyone knew my presence is tense.
Words overheard: touchy, prickly, keep away.
my warm heart viewed cold, an ice tray
The grudge I trapped was hidden
Buried very deep within,
forgotten by all, but one.
It was prickly, jabbing like a pin.
Duty ruled me,
while others failed their post.
Everyone kept a distance
warned my stare could turn them toast
Others hugged and laughed
Others had all the joy
I longed for a soft wind, a touch
But spring never came.
Winter had its hold,
I must remain resolute
to survive this cold
Often I heard the call,
At the table set, rest lay it down
Kneel, pray, give it away
Not a drop spilt on my gown
rude slobs without dignity
undeserving; claiming grace.
ignoring their disgrace
Christmas was especially daft
Forced tramping into malls
Forced to march to joyous parties
Far too many cattle stalls
Ostentatious displays without craft
Materialism under a gaudy tree
All their foolish toys
All about me not Thee
An unwanted invitation we receive
Obligation with dreadful family
another boring Christmas Eve
Going to that little church
as if, they really believe
Gramps and Granny insist,
so glad to feed their tribe
Welcome the losers and their spawn
I think neutering would be better
Or possibly just quartered and drawn.
First the church, that same old music
A tired carol sung by trying voice
Out of fifty or sixty surely some one
Why this guy, is he their first choice?
Once a tenor, please on pitch, sing in time.
Don’t they watch American Idol
know he’s not worth a dime?
Pitchy would be my critique
Next year a Quaker service
or drown him in the creek.
The dreadful droning ended
Before altar couple and baby-sat
I looked at program to see their names
A familiar family all poor and fat
Different names; were they married?
Probably not, trash like all her kin
just drew some pagan sign
These people who preferred to live in sin
I felt a nudge a whispered lean in,
info from my spouse
they are coming to dinner.
At Gramps and Grannys house?
I thought in quizzical silence
As Luke’s old story was read
By stammering boy unused to jogs
Once people maintained standards
Next they’ll invite mongrel dogs.
So we went to chaos unending
Great food in amounts to feed thrice our number
Little savages, dullards, gob smacked with ugly sticks
Teeming, screaming, weight enough to strain the lumber
I sat quietly displaying all graciousness, while enduring.
Suddenly, the young mother “watch him just a sec”
placed the baby in my lap, in a way carelessly brash
“I want to lend a hand; your family is so special”
Oft she dashed, as I held her little bundle of warm trash.
The babe smiled and chuck-gurgled
Thoughts from the service all my pew time floated back
Gift of love, great sacrifice, grace given, limitless forgiveness
Love left for a cold world, my trap opened just a crack
I felt my old friend move, lift a little
Should I free my Christmas grudge?
He had been such a faithful companion
Cruel to kick him out in the cold of Christmas Eve
I paused, smiled back at the babe, who beamed
One small moment of Christmas joy I did receive
The grudge could comeback tomorrow it seemed.
Forgottonia is a place where you can endlessly wander the lonely roads, and never once miss the fast lane. The name Forgottonia captures an image of a region, off the beaten path, which is very true of Western Illinois.
Story behind the Story 
