FAMILY LINES

When my mother, Katharine White, in her sixties, had to spend a Christmas Day confined in the Harkness Pavilion of Columbia Presbyterian Hospital, I tried to cheer her up with a fresh version of the hoary Clement Moore jingle. She enjoyed it, even while exclaiming, “But they told me to avoid any laughing!”

THE NIGHT AFTER CHRISTMAS

T’was the night after Christmas in the Pavilion called Harkness:

The patients were lying in pain and in darkness;

The interns were nestled all snug in their beds

While visions of catheters danced through their heads;

And Mama in her traction and I with my piles

Had just settled our heads for a night of brave smiles,

When down through the airshaft there came such a whining

From an ungrateful patient they were trephining,

Away to the window I flew like a gull—

Tripped over the bedpan and fractured my skull!

And what should appear in response to my curses

But a miniature quack and six surly nurses—

Miss Frowner, Miss Jouncy, Miss Middle-Aged Pixie,

Miss Coldhands, Miss Sphincter, Miss You-all from Dixie.

Their smiles were so starchy, so plain their frigidity

That I almost smiled back, despite my rigidity.

They said not a word but went straight to the task,

Took sputum and fluids and blood in a flask;

“Any record of madness, TB, croup, or others?

Give names and birthdates of both your grandmothers.”

The doc checked my Blue Cross, the girls checked reflexes

By chanting a mantra to my solar plexus.

More happy surprises! More cries a cappella

When they tapped out some sambas upside my patella.

The doctor then sighed and gave his diagnosis:

“This poor fellow’s suffering mild acidosis

I foresee some CCs of antibiotic—

Let’s try this free sample, it looks quite exotic.”

He bade me farewell as he smoothed my pajamas:

“They’ll fax me your look-see in the Bahamas.”

And ignoring the clots on the back of my head

The Nightingales bundled me back into bed.

They turned out the light with a cheery last warning:

“Be ready for bed-baths at five in the morning!”

My lawyer father, Ernest Angell, was chairman of the board of the American Civil Liberties Union from 1950 to 1969. When he stepped down from the august post the A.C.L.U. gave him a festive dinner. One of the entertainments was my rewrite of W. S. Gilbert’s “I Am the Very Model of a Modern Major-General,” from “The Pirates of Penzance,” bravely performed by a chorus of staffers, law professors, and judges.

I AM THE VERY MODEL OF A CIVIL LIBERTARIAN

I am the very model of a civil libertarian,

I favor equal rights for Capricorn and Sagittarian.

I am a big defender of each gender in the picket lines,

I like to see some G.O.P. in dirty-movie ticket lines.

I’ll fence the board that’s evidenced creationist proclivities;

I’m wise to guys with cries of un-American activities

I tout the outed Seminole or fallen seminarian,

For I’m the very model of a civil libertarian.

I am a bold upholder of American amenities,

I cede the budding playwright’s need to write in pure obscenities.

I know the lowly portion of the Mexican agrarian;

I share your rage at wages of the sexagen librarian.

I’ll read you your Miranda in a minute, but, more latterly,

I gotta spring this Dalton kid caught reading “Lady Chatterley.”

I’ll fix your nanny’s visa in a style egalitarian,

For I’m the very model of a civil libertarian.

There were two or three more stanzas, but this brief is running long.