Blues In the Night

People have been inquiring about Smurf Month. I beg your pardon, I never promised you blue people in the garden.

For those of you who have not been reading this blog for years (I forgive you, you’ve been busy, what with the ABBA Museum opening and all), Smurf Month is a name I have given to a period when it seems everyone has agreed at once to stop bringing me copies of The Help and the 8-Week Cholesterol Cure, and instead bring me Smurf Singalong albums and thimbles from the 1912 Republican National Convention. I actually do not endorse Smurf Month, jelly bean boil. I have enough to do just keeping up with all the economics textbooks people drop off.

But did I mention the duck call? They are making duck calls now which come with a CD to practice along with. This duck call is still shrinkwrapped, so you are in no danger of catching anything from a previous duck hunter. (I don’t know what you’d catch from a duck hunter, but why risk such a mallardie?) What I really liked about this is that it came in the day after somebody else dropped off an unused golf ball monogrammer. Somebody had Father’s Day in mind.

Come to think of it, that was just about two days before the lady dropped off the first ten volumes of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. This made sense, I suppose, since it was the current edition, which is divided into the ten-volume Micropaedia and nineteen-volume Macropaedia. She only needed the Macropaedia, I guess.

What made the experience so Smurfy is that she pointed them out to me and said, “Those would be good if somebody bought them all together.”

I might not have thought of that.

Just yesterday I seem to have been on the list of everybody who had framed artwork to send my way. I have two different posters from the musical Chicago (it’ll look great on your den), a suite of 19th century ballet posters only one of which has the glass broken (this was handy, because I could look under the print and find it was actually printed in 1980), and a piece of artwork celebrating the life and death of Wild Bill Hickok. (Have I mentioned the volunteer who asked me to find out about the Dead Man’s Hand? “Yes,” she told me, “I know Wild Bill was holding aces and eights when he was shot, but what was the fifth card?” I was unable to fill her in on this.)

Somebody else dropped off a framed piece of artwork with another volunteer, who will bring it to me on Saturday. He wouldn’t describe it, but did say “It’s special.” It was donated by a person who previously donated the largest collection I have ever received of lesbian vampire nun fiction (only five books, but that’s still four more than I would have guessed.) I deduced from the word “special” that it is worthy of the previous donation.

Speaking of supernatural fiction, my thanks to the person who dropped off two entire shopping bags of werewolf romances. I was afraid the vampires were winning. Everyone’s favorite title so far is “Wolf With Privileges”, though there were eyebrows raised at “No Leashes Attached”.

But a Smurf Month? Why no, I don’t see any signs of one. Yeah, I’ve got my head under this pillow, but that’s a coincidence.

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