Final 'stack of the Year

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Last Thursday morning, my mother had a hard fall in her Carmel home. My children and I were visiting when it happened, and were at her side in seconds – but not quite swift enough to prevent a broken hip.

On Friday morning, mama had a partial hip replacement. On Saturday afternoon, the children and I visited her in the hospital. She was alert and cheerful and needed only a very little prompting to recite once more what she has recited to me every December of my memory.

King John’s Christmas is perhaps the greatest of the 35 poems that appeared in Now We Are Six, A.A. Milne’s 1927 collection that has only just now passed into the public domain. Mama memorized it long before I was born, and though at 87, one forgets many things, poetry sticks.

In 2000, mama recited the poem to a gathering that included the woman who was soon to be wife #3. Elizabeth enjoyed hearing it very much and remarked that it was a warning to young and old not to be like King John. I was floored. I was nearly 34 years old and had grown up just assuming that every listener would hear it and assume that, of course, King John is all of us. To not identify with the title character – as I had done since I was tiny -- was strange indeed, and (almost) disqualifying from romantic consideration.

The poem follows below. I can say that mama is now in a wonderful rehab facility, and we have every expectation she will be able to return home in the new year. In the meantime, this is my last post of 2024. I am grateful to my readers, and I wish you all a very Merry Christmas, a Happy Chanukah, and a wonderful New Year.

King John was not a good man—
He had his little ways.
And sometimes no one spoke to him
For days and days and days.
And men who came across him,
When walking in the town,
Gave him a supercilious stare,
Or passed with noses in the air—
And bad King John stood dumbly there,
Blushing beneath his crown.

King John was not a good man,
And no good friends had he.
He stayed in every afternoon …
But no one came to tea.
And, round about December,
The cards upon his shelf
Which wished him lots of Christmas cheer,
And fortune in the coming year,
Were never from his near and dear,
But only from himself.

King John was not a good man,
Yet had his hopes and fears.
They'd given him no present now
For years and years and years.
But every year at Christmas,
While minstrels stood about,
Collecting tribute from the young
For all the songs they might have sung,
He stole away upstairs and hung
A hopeful stocking out.

King John was not a good man,
He lived his life aloof;
Alone he thought a message out
While climbing up the roof.
He wrote it down and propped it
Against the chimney stack:
“TO ALL AND SUNDAY—NEAR AND FAR—
F. CHRISTMAS IN PARTICULAR.”
And signed it not “Johannes R.”
But very humbly, “JACK.”

“I want some crackers,
And I want some candy;
I think a box of chocolates
Would come in handy;
I don't mind oranges,
I do like nuts!
And I SHOULD like a pocket-knife
That really cuts.
And, oh! Father Christmas, if you love me at all,
Bring me a big, red india-rubber ball!”

King John was not a good man—
He wrote this message out,
And gat him to his room again,
Descending by the spout.
And all that night he lay there,
A prey to hopes and fears.
“I think that's him a-coming now,”
(Anxiety bedewed his brow.)
“He'll bring one present, anyhow—
The first I've had for years.”

“Forget about the crackers,
And forget about the candy;
I'm sure a box of chocolates
Would never come in handy;
I don't like oranges,
I don't want nuts,
And I HAVE got a pocket-knife
That almost cuts.
But, oh! Father Christmas, if you love me at all,
Bring me a big, red india-rubber ball!”

King John was not a good man—
Next morning when the sun
Rose up to tell a waiting world
That Christmas had begun,
And people seized their stockings,
And opened them with glee,
And crackers, toys and games appeared,
And lips with sticky sweets were smeared,
King John said grimly: “As I feared,
Nothing again for me!”

“I did want crackers,
And I did want candy;
I know a box of chocolates
Would come in handy;
I do love oranges,
I did want nuts.
I haven't got a pocket-knife—
Not one that cuts.
And, oh! if Father Christmas had loved me at all,
He would have brought a big, red india-rubber ball!”

King John stood by the window,
And frowned to see below
The happy bands of boys and girls
All playing in the snow.
A while he stood there watching,
And envying them all …
When through the window big and red
There hurtled by his royal head,
And bounced and fell upon the bed,
An india-rubber ball!

AND OH, FATHER CHRISTMAS,
MY BLESSINGS ON YOU FALL
FOR BRINGING HIM
A BIG, RED,
INDIA-RUBBER BALL.