Alice and I recently celebrated our 42nd anniversary. And while I know there are folks who have been married longer than that, I decided to mention it.
NOTE: The following column was written in January of 2012. When I wrote it, I was entering the second semester of my sophomore year at the University of Arkansas.
Yep, it’s a new year, all right. How can I tell?
The year is almost over. I think I speak for many when I say we’ve seen better. And a quarter of America’s beloved celebrities would likely agree.
Okay. All my seasonal singing gigs are over, as are all the parties except New Year’s, and there isn’t a caroler in sight. Looks like I’ve survived another Christmas.
There are a number of Christmas programs that have withstood the test of time and remain a fixation within many family holiday traditions. For me, it wouldn’t feel quite like Christmas if I hadn’t yet watched “How the Grinch Stole Christmas,” “Home Alone,” or “A Muppet Christmas Carol.” For others, it may be “It’s a Wonderful Life” or “The Miracle on 34th Street.” Regardless of which you prefer, so many of these programs have found themselves rooted into Christmastime culture.
NOTE: I’ve run this column for years as my last column before Christmas, and I see no reason to change now. True, a lot of changes have taken place in my life since the first time this column appeared. Shucks, I’ve even retired. But I think it still works. Besides, some folks have actually told me they look forward to it. Bah, and humbug.
Change is headed for the White House. This much is certain. What kind of change we’ll see, however, is not as easy to predict. All year long, I heard supporters of then-candidate Donald Trump saying they had faith in him because, at the very least, he loved America. Trump, I was told, will put America first. And as one of my favorite critics recently pointed out, his administration will make America’s needs his goals.
Christmas seems to be a time for folks to get nostalgic. So I think I’ll try that out, and see if it can take some of the edge off my Scrooginess.
Jill Stein’s Midwest rustbelt recount was dead on arrival. Who would’ve guessed?