‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the Hills

Not a bobcat was stirring, they had gotten their hunting fills;

The road barricades were lined with care,

In hopes that the debris would have no flair;

Presidential debates this fall struggled forth,

visions of The Donald as president didn’t stay north;

And Brenda in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,

Tried our best to keep the Hills on the map.

When at the museum there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my office to see what was the matter;

Away from Facebook I flew like a flash,

Sped down a new Saguaro and hoped for a bash.

The lens on my camera did reflect

A public frenzy inside and out the River of Time;

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But our own newspaper publisher so dear.

With a Times paper in one hand and hiking stick in the other,

I knew in a moment it must be Mr. Cruikshank, aka St. Alan.

The long-time publisher with many edits did came,

And he pleaded, and cajoled, called the staff by name:

“Now, Kip! Now, Duke! Now Brent and John!

On, Linda! On, Bob, Ryan, Barb, Tammie, David and Tangie! Also Maria!

Now let’s all try to reduce those typos!

Let’s keep up the ad revenues!

Now, print away! Print away! Print away all!”

As page counts climbed and full-color ads flew,

The museum changed some exhibits right on cue,

But that old manual typewriter sat intact,

Honoring the publisher who pecked away on that.

And then, at the Italian dinner, I heard on the street,

Complaints about bright park lights to greet.

As I took a picture, and was turning around.

Down newspaper-lined streets St. Alan was affably bound.

He was dressed in a Santa Elvis suit,

from his head to his foot.

And his clothes were sparkly,

Hoping for kisses from girls gone wildly.

A bundle of note pads and proof sheets he had flung on his back,

Ready to use some blue markers for editing slack.

His head – how it glowed! His dimples, how merry!

His cheeks appeared to be plump, his gyrating hips none too wary!

His droll little mouth was ready for a quote,

Wishing a deep-fried peanut butter sandwich was of note…

A copy of the weekly paper he held tight in his teeth,

And story ideas circled his head like a wreath.

He had a fair face, and special publication plans to boot.

That glowed, when he met, with staff members mute.

He was jovial, earning a museum’s name; a right jolly Fountain Hills original elf;

And I quoted, when I met him, true to my original self.

Promoting photo ops, and a twist of his head,

Soon gave St. Alan a new battery pack instead.

He spoke many words in his weekly column, went to fewer meetings.

But filled the pages with much news and greetings,

And giving a nod, up the new boulevard he sped.

He sprang to his ride for the day, to his paper staff team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew, down a road called Thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he rode out of sight,

“Happy Christmas to all! and to all a good night!”

(With my annual huge apologies to Clement Clarke Moore…)