I hope everyone had a lovely Christmas. I can’t think of a better place for the holiday than Oneonta. So, on this, the day after, I’d like to share this Hill City-centric version of a familiar poem, titled “A Visit from St. Oney Claus” (with apologies to Clement Moore):
‘Twas the night AFTER Christmas, when all through the city, The snow had been falling. It looked mighty pretty. The lights had been hung by our workers with care, so the streets and the plaza had sparkle to spare.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds, while visions of downtown still danced in their heads, of Santa in his cottage, the menorah and tree, and gingerbread houses in windows to see.
The parade and the horses and dancers and elves, the art, crafts and treasures that filled all the shelves, and as Mama closed her book, and I my device, we pondered delivery of a cold cheese slice.
When out in the street there arose such a clatter, I spang from the couch to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like the Flash, (or Batman, or some other super-rehash).
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow, made crystal that DoorDash had nowhere to go. When what to my wondering eyes did appear, but a salt truck and snowplow, and street that was now clear.
With DPS drivers so lively and quick, I thought for a moment, it must a trick. So fast had they come, so thorough their pass, the lane was now empty of snow that amassed.
Now pizza, now sushi, now burgers, and stir-fry! On sub rolls, on tacos, on bagels, and fruit pies! To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall! Just leave your delivery, I’ll pay for it all.
As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky; so up to my doorstep the coursers they flew, with a car full of savories, and St. Oney there, too.
And then in a twinkling, I heard at the door, a pluck, and a twang and a musical score. Then reaching the doorknob to give it a turn, down the chimney dropped something, and a cry — “Do not burn!”
A banjo, a snare drum, a sax, and kazoo, a bass, and a keyboard, and more passed the flue. The hearth filled with tools of a musical craft, and I thought to myself that I must have gone daft.
But then, through the doorway a combo of seven, and each one held pizza — our cold cheese from heaven. Their leader… the dimples! His hair in a spike! His little round belly! In his hand was a mic.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, and I danced with his singing, in spite of myself. A wink of an eye and a twist of his hand, soon gave me to know I should follow the band.
To the Foothills, to B-Side, to NAGS and to Wise Guys … they’d play at the Black Oak and CANO in tie-dies. In the summer they’d play at the new Muller stage, named for Al Gallodoro, the icon and sage.
The band launched one more, an encore of sorts, then left us abruptly, with this simple report. “All’s well in our city and hills we hold dear. We’ve so many blessings! Enjoy the new year!”
This coming year will be chockfull of potential and challenges. I have confidence that together, we will make 2024 memorable! Happy New Year!
