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Ho ho ho, ‘tis the Season to be Jolly and what could make me Jollier than receiving a gift of hard cash from you, a contributor to our Annual Season Forgiving at the Oxburg Historical Hysterical Commemorative Something or Other Entrepreneurial Foundation Collection Fund Drive?

Nothing.

Nothing could make me happier.

YOUR NAME— that’s right— through the wonders of data science, YOUR NAME will be exhibited in the space below. In caps if you want it. Or bold. Or both, caps and bold text,

__________________________________________________

holy mackerel you can’t beat that!!! For a measly contribution of $50.

For $100, I personally will get down on my knees and say a prayer or two in your honor.

Oxburg, Beloved Oxburg, named for our Founding Father John Ox, a Calvinist who settled in Catholic Maryland during the Colonial Period.

Your gift will help maintain and preserve the memory of our historical past: Oxburg Courthouse as depicted in memory and photographic image— alas, not audio— torn down in 2006 to build the Royal Guardian Apartments. Or Haley’s Crossroad, scene of the Haley Country Store and Gas Pump, a scene of nostalgic yarn and Oxburgian humor. Where Old Cyrus Haley held the Annual Turkey Shoot in preparation for Thanksgiving in what today is Natalie Woods. Falling down drunk. Demolished in 1964 to build the Annex to the Town Hospital. The store, not Cyrus.

In these difficult times— unrest in the Middle East, war in Ukraine, I stubbed my left big toe— may a blessing be upon you for pulling out that old plastic card and contributing. Contributing ‘till it hurts. Contributing more than ‘till it hurts.

The story of Oxburg is the story of America. Our country wouldn’t be what it is today— MAGA hats and angry mobs, armed militiamen in tactical gear hovering over election day drop boxes, multi-billionaires screwing up on social media, Chinese apps and Italian sausage— if not for the hard sweat and aching backs of our Founding Fathers who tilled the fields and husked the corn and baked the bread that sustained many a pilgrim through a hard, cold winter, snow knee-deep against the walls of rustic cabins, the smell of spruce wafting through the night air from the brick chimneys of our forebears.

I could go on, but who needs to???

Just send cash.

Kevin Feingold, Esquire