United at Last

You know, as I look forward to the arduous task of roasting a turkey in my modern oven, I can’t help but think of poor old Mrs. Cratchit on Christmas morning expecting to cook a small goose that was barely big enough for her family and then suddenly taxed with the job of preparing a turkey that was “twice the size of Tiny Tim” in her humble hearth in the home of a poor clerk making four shillings a week. And just what were they supposed to do with the leftovers? The refrigerator wouldn’t be invented for another seventy years. Is it any wonder Scrooge sent the thing anonymously? Oh well, it's the thought that counts. Merry Christmas everyone. God bless you and yours and ours and theirs and everyone else's too.