Mark R. Hunter's Blog, page 63
January 3, 2017
New Review of The No-Campfire Girls
Authors live off reviews—we sure can’t live off our writer’s income!—and I got a really nice one of The No-Campfire Girls, to usher in the new year:
http://minothouseatpoohcorner.com/201...
This novel, along with Smoky Days and Sleepless Nights, are our books that support good causes beyond my retirement fund. You can, of course, find them in places such as:
http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/Mark-R.-Hunter...
https://www.createspace.com/4726915
Remember, every time you leave a book review, an angel gets his wings … then he flies away and no longer leaves a carbon footprint. Save the planet: Leave a review.
http://minothouseatpoohcorner.com/201...
This novel, along with Smoky Days and Sleepless Nights, are our books that support good causes beyond my retirement fund. You can, of course, find them in places such as:
http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/Mark-R.-Hunter...
https://www.createspace.com/4726915
Remember, every time you leave a book review, an angel gets his wings … then he flies away and no longer leaves a carbon footprint. Save the planet: Leave a review.
December 31, 2016
2016 Was Weird
This first appeared in the 4CountyMall online. It was written, by the way, before Carrie Fisher passed away.
http://www.4countymall.com/single-pos...
SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK
It was a strange year.
In many ways 2016 was a crappy year, even if you weren’t a Democrat. The weather was so awful that even The Weather Channel had to interrupt its reality programming to report on it. So many celebrities died that it could take YouTube years to replace them all. Even the Cubs winning the World Series was a bad thing, if you’re a goat, or live in Cleveland.
(If you don’t know about the goat curse, then I despair for our education system.)
I was so upset about celebrities dying that I tried to call Doctor Bombay for a sedative, but the guy who played Doctor Bombay died! Then I had to explain to everyone that Doctor Bombay was a character from Bewitched. Then I had to explain that Bewitched was a TV show. Then I went into a week-long funk about getting old, which made the year even crappier.
But at least I survived 2016, which is more than I can say about half the famous people in the world. On January 8th the first woman to compete in a Formula One car race died, and on December 8th John Glenn passed away. Talk about pioneer bookends.
In between, the world population took a detectible dip. I mean, R2D2 died. Come on. I won’t mention the other deaths that made me gasp, because if I have to explain who they are it’ll just put me into another depression.
But mostly 2016 was … weird. Here’s an example: In early December my wife talked me into shoe shopping, which is something men hate almost as much as holding a purse while their wives goes shoe shopping. My previous size 11’s had been demoted to lawn mowing shoes, and now had so little tread that I could ice skate across the grass. Which sounds like fun, unless you’re behind a running lawn mower.
Meanwhile my “good” size 11’s had spent the summer hiking around various state parks … okay, two summers. I told you I hate shoe shopping. It was time for another demotion.
But there was a problem. We spent an hour jamming my feet into new size elevens, then 11 ½, then twelves … until I left the store with size thirteens. My feet had grown two sizes. That certainly explained my puzzling foot pain.
I can’t help thinking such a thing could have only happen to a post-adolescent in 2016—a weird, weird year.
In no way am I suggesting 2016 was all about my feet; they’re just an example. 2016 was also partially about my wife’s foot, which got broken in a car accident. Eventually she got it back, which is more than we can say for the car.
This led to us buying our first ever Electronic Age car, a very strange thing indeed after a nine year old Ford. The new one has a computer screen. And a camera. It tells you how many miles you can go before running out of gas, and it has two of what we used to call cigarette lighter ports, where you can plug in all your other Electronic Age stuff. The other day a voice came out of the seat and told me I needed to lose a few pounds.
The car can also tell you what the temperature is outside, something I used to accomplish by sticking my finger out the window. If it turns blue, it’s too cold; if it gets wet, it’s raining. If I pull it back in and find an icicle, I should have known better. The other day our new car told me it was zero, and also said that on a related note, I should get that garage door fixed.
Welcome to the 21st Century Teens.
I already mentioned the weather, but conversations always get back to that, anyway. Here in Indiana 2016 started with a mild winter and ended with “Ohmygosh just shoot me now”. In between we had summer in spring; fall in summer; summer in fall, and as I write this winter times three.
What do you expect from a year that started with a skyscraper in Dubai burning up while revelers rang in the New Year around it?
Or a year when a 70 year old Indian woman gave birth? When Bob Dylan gets a Nobel Prize for Literature? Or the Cubs? I mean … The Cubs!
I can’t even mention the election … half my readers would boycott me by the second paragraph.
So, yeah, 2016 was weird, and as I write this we still have a couple of more weird weeks to go. Usually in January I come up with a list of predictions for next year, but who could have predicted this year? About all I can say about 2017 is that some people will get paid too much, some too little, everyone who cares about politics will hate everyone else, and the weather will suck.
Which, come to think of it, brings us full circle.
http://www.4countymall.com/single-pos...
SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK
It was a strange year.
In many ways 2016 was a crappy year, even if you weren’t a Democrat. The weather was so awful that even The Weather Channel had to interrupt its reality programming to report on it. So many celebrities died that it could take YouTube years to replace them all. Even the Cubs winning the World Series was a bad thing, if you’re a goat, or live in Cleveland.
(If you don’t know about the goat curse, then I despair for our education system.)
I was so upset about celebrities dying that I tried to call Doctor Bombay for a sedative, but the guy who played Doctor Bombay died! Then I had to explain to everyone that Doctor Bombay was a character from Bewitched. Then I had to explain that Bewitched was a TV show. Then I went into a week-long funk about getting old, which made the year even crappier.
But at least I survived 2016, which is more than I can say about half the famous people in the world. On January 8th the first woman to compete in a Formula One car race died, and on December 8th John Glenn passed away. Talk about pioneer bookends.
In between, the world population took a detectible dip. I mean, R2D2 died. Come on. I won’t mention the other deaths that made me gasp, because if I have to explain who they are it’ll just put me into another depression.
But mostly 2016 was … weird. Here’s an example: In early December my wife talked me into shoe shopping, which is something men hate almost as much as holding a purse while their wives goes shoe shopping. My previous size 11’s had been demoted to lawn mowing shoes, and now had so little tread that I could ice skate across the grass. Which sounds like fun, unless you’re behind a running lawn mower.
Meanwhile my “good” size 11’s had spent the summer hiking around various state parks … okay, two summers. I told you I hate shoe shopping. It was time for another demotion.
But there was a problem. We spent an hour jamming my feet into new size elevens, then 11 ½, then twelves … until I left the store with size thirteens. My feet had grown two sizes. That certainly explained my puzzling foot pain.
I can’t help thinking such a thing could have only happen to a post-adolescent in 2016—a weird, weird year.
In no way am I suggesting 2016 was all about my feet; they’re just an example. 2016 was also partially about my wife’s foot, which got broken in a car accident. Eventually she got it back, which is more than we can say for the car.
This led to us buying our first ever Electronic Age car, a very strange thing indeed after a nine year old Ford. The new one has a computer screen. And a camera. It tells you how many miles you can go before running out of gas, and it has two of what we used to call cigarette lighter ports, where you can plug in all your other Electronic Age stuff. The other day a voice came out of the seat and told me I needed to lose a few pounds.
The car can also tell you what the temperature is outside, something I used to accomplish by sticking my finger out the window. If it turns blue, it’s too cold; if it gets wet, it’s raining. If I pull it back in and find an icicle, I should have known better. The other day our new car told me it was zero, and also said that on a related note, I should get that garage door fixed.
Welcome to the 21st Century Teens.
I already mentioned the weather, but conversations always get back to that, anyway. Here in Indiana 2016 started with a mild winter and ended with “Ohmygosh just shoot me now”. In between we had summer in spring; fall in summer; summer in fall, and as I write this winter times three.
What do you expect from a year that started with a skyscraper in Dubai burning up while revelers rang in the New Year around it?
Or a year when a 70 year old Indian woman gave birth? When Bob Dylan gets a Nobel Prize for Literature? Or the Cubs? I mean … The Cubs!
I can’t even mention the election … half my readers would boycott me by the second paragraph.
So, yeah, 2016 was weird, and as I write this we still have a couple of more weird weeks to go. Usually in January I come up with a list of predictions for next year, but who could have predicted this year? About all I can say about 2017 is that some people will get paid too much, some too little, everyone who cares about politics will hate everyone else, and the weather will suck.
Which, come to think of it, brings us full circle.
December 29, 2016
cover reveal: "Radio Red"
So far only people who signed up for our newsletter, or visited our last book signing, have gotten any more than a tease about my upcoming novel. Well, it's time for the rest of you to take a gander at Radio Red:
http://markrhunter.blogspot.com/2016/...
Our last two books were non-fiction: Images of America: Albion and Noble County, and Hoosier Hysterical: How the West Became the Midwest Without Moving at All. The latter was in conjunction with Indiana’s bicentennial, so it moved ahead of other projects. Emily and I worked hard on it, and we’re very proud of our baby.
But I started out in fiction, and now I’m going back: Torrid Books accepted my new novel, the romantic comedy Radio Red. Set in northwest Lower Michigan, it’s scheduled to come out March 7, 2017. We’re very excited! This is my first published work of fiction not set in Indiana (or in the Storm Chaser universe, although … it could be, who knows? After all, it’s another state. Never thought about that.)
Torrid accepted the book on September 20th, and I went by industry standard, assuming it would come out around a year later. But in very short order I filled out all the necessary paperwork, worked with artist Kelly Martin on the cover art, and got the galleys--the actual formatted manuscript, which I had to check line by line for errors. Much to my surprise, the book is due to come out on March 7th, a full six months earlier than I expected.
This will be our ninth published work! Wow.
http://markrhunter.blogspot.com/2016/...
Our last two books were non-fiction: Images of America: Albion and Noble County, and Hoosier Hysterical: How the West Became the Midwest Without Moving at All. The latter was in conjunction with Indiana’s bicentennial, so it moved ahead of other projects. Emily and I worked hard on it, and we’re very proud of our baby.
But I started out in fiction, and now I’m going back: Torrid Books accepted my new novel, the romantic comedy Radio Red. Set in northwest Lower Michigan, it’s scheduled to come out March 7, 2017. We’re very excited! This is my first published work of fiction not set in Indiana (or in the Storm Chaser universe, although … it could be, who knows? After all, it’s another state. Never thought about that.)
Torrid accepted the book on September 20th, and I went by industry standard, assuming it would come out around a year later. But in very short order I filled out all the necessary paperwork, worked with artist Kelly Martin on the cover art, and got the galleys--the actual formatted manuscript, which I had to check line by line for errors. Much to my surprise, the book is due to come out on March 7th, a full six months earlier than I expected.
This will be our ninth published work! Wow.
December 27, 2016
Author Carrie Fisher
Farewell to fellow author Carrie Fisher … of course, she was much more than that, but I personally believe writing a good book is way harder than acting. She wrote four novels and memoirs; she also had a great reputation as a script doctor, working on movies such as “Hook”, “Lethal Weaon 3”, “Sister Act”, and “The Wedding Singer”. Reportedly she also worked on the “Star Wars” prequel trilogy, but no writer is perfect. I believe Fisher was the youngest cast member of the original "Star Wars" … and less than ten years older than me when she passed away.
https://www.yahoo.com/tv/mark-hamill-...
https://www.yahoo.com/tv/mark-hamill-...
Author Carrie Fisher
Farewell to fellow author Carrie Fisher … of course, she was much more than that, but I personally believe writing a good book is way harder than acting. She wrote four novels and memoirs; she also had a great reputation as a script doctor, working on movies such as “Hook”, “Lethal Weaon 3”, “Sister Act”, and “The Wedding Singer”. Reportedly she also worked on the “Star Wars” prequel trilogy, but no writer is perfect. I believe Fisher was the youngest cast member of the original "Star Wars" … and less than ten years older than me when she passed away.
https://www.yahoo.com/tv/mark-hamill-...
https://www.yahoo.com/tv/mark-hamill-...
December 24, 2016
How the Scrinch Loved Christmas ... Songs
I haven't had time to write a Christmas column this year, so this is a shorter and greatly modified version of a column I first wrote back in 2009 or so. It's a confessional column ... I confess.
SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK
Years ago I DJ’d part time at a local radio station (which figures into my next novel, but we’ll cover that later). I happened to be on duty when the boss decided it was time to start the Christmas season with the Gift of Music.
He produced a card file and a stack of CD’s. On each card in the file (no computers -- it was that long ago) was the name of a Christmas song, which we shuffled into randomness. As soon as I saw what happened to fall as the first one, I had my intro.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time to get the holiday season under way with WLNB’s selection of Christmas music, and I’ve been chosen for the honor or starting it out. I’m perfectly okay with that, as long as I don’t have to play ‘Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer’. Now, let’s see what’s on top of our play list ... no. It can’t be. Not that -- anything but that!”
Ah, but it was. And so I started out the Gift of Music with a redneck song about a reckless driving Santa Claus murdering elderly pedestrians.
Hey, I never said I was a good part time DJ. Note that I’m no longer employed there.
I’ve made it a practice to be the best combination of Scrooge and Grinch that I can possibly be. For the uninitiated, Scrooge is the old time British fellow who gets scared by ghosts into loving Christmas. The Grinch is the green guy who goes down to Whoeville to steal Christmas, but ends up returning everything when the Whoeville people start singing happy carols. This begs the question: if the people in Whoeville were happy anyway, why didn’t the Grinch just keep the stuff, and sell it on Ebay?
Yep -- two great stories, two bad endings. Just call me the Scrinch. Or Grooge, that would be okay.
I base most of my attitude on either out of control commercialism or people who, themselves, act like Grinches. Yes, I get upset when I see giant plastic Santas on display at Wal-Mart -- in September. But don’t we all get mad when some scumbag burglar steals the Christmas presents right from under someone’s tree?
I’ve mentioned this before, and recently: Christmas all year round might seem like a good idea, but in reality it would make the holiday cheap and ordinary. Put a friggin tarp on the decorations until mid-November, okay? I once went shopping for Halloween clearance items, and turned the corner to discover a plastic Frosty giving me a ... well, a frosty look.
As for stealing gifts, vandalizing decorations and such ... not that I haven’t wanted to vandalize decorations, but only when the outside ones are turned on in October. For everyone else, a public whipping on New Year’s Day should beat the holiday spirit into them.
My point is this: Although I get as angry as everyone else when “Let it Snow” starts playing in the store while people in shorts and tank tops stumble in, wiping sweat from their brow --
I don’t know if I should say it. It might ruin my reputation, and where am I without that? Next thing you know, people will discover I really like animals. But ... okay, complete honesty, here ...
I love Christmas music.
People may never look at me the same way again.
Christmas is the only thing I look forward to through the months of bitter cold, with nothing but driving snow and black, dead foliage. I never said I was big winter fan. I hate cold, I hate snow, I hate heating bills, I hate bulky clothes that never warm me up, I hate that some people like all that stuff -- but I love Christmas. Colored lights shine through the dull twilight of winter. People actually cheer up a little. Well, some people. And of all the things about Christmas, I love the songs the best.
It doesn’t matter if they’re old or new. Sure, the barking dog Jingle Bells thing grates on me, and I’ve heard versions of “Santa Baby” that make me want to hurry down a chimney. But from Frank Sinatra to Christina Aguilera, nothing perks me up more. What they’ve done elsewhere in their lives, or what other people think of them, doesn’t matter -- I’ll listen to it if it’s Britney Spears, or Barry Manilow.
Old or new? I love “Carol of the Bells” and “The Hallelujah Chorus”, which my choir sang in high school. They didn’t have new Christmas Songs back then. But I’ve got songs in my Christmas library by Faith Hill, the Trans Siberian Orchestra, the Eagles, and, yes, Hannah Montana.
Type of music? It’s all Christmas to me. Doesn’t matter whether it's the Bryan Seltzer Orchestra, Jessica Simpson, or Andrea Bocelli. Or that other fella, Tchaikovsky, and his Nutcracker thing. Still, nothing will ever beat the classics, and Bing Crosby is the king of the classics. I may not like white winters, but “White Christmas” will always be close to my half-frozen heart.
So that’s it -- my big confession. I love Christmas music ... almost all Christmas music. As long as the lyrics aren’t being “sung” by pets.
I don’t even mind that great tribute to holiday violence, “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer”.
Much.
SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK
Years ago I DJ’d part time at a local radio station (which figures into my next novel, but we’ll cover that later). I happened to be on duty when the boss decided it was time to start the Christmas season with the Gift of Music.
He produced a card file and a stack of CD’s. On each card in the file (no computers -- it was that long ago) was the name of a Christmas song, which we shuffled into randomness. As soon as I saw what happened to fall as the first one, I had my intro.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time to get the holiday season under way with WLNB’s selection of Christmas music, and I’ve been chosen for the honor or starting it out. I’m perfectly okay with that, as long as I don’t have to play ‘Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer’. Now, let’s see what’s on top of our play list ... no. It can’t be. Not that -- anything but that!”
Ah, but it was. And so I started out the Gift of Music with a redneck song about a reckless driving Santa Claus murdering elderly pedestrians.
Hey, I never said I was a good part time DJ. Note that I’m no longer employed there.
I’ve made it a practice to be the best combination of Scrooge and Grinch that I can possibly be. For the uninitiated, Scrooge is the old time British fellow who gets scared by ghosts into loving Christmas. The Grinch is the green guy who goes down to Whoeville to steal Christmas, but ends up returning everything when the Whoeville people start singing happy carols. This begs the question: if the people in Whoeville were happy anyway, why didn’t the Grinch just keep the stuff, and sell it on Ebay?
Yep -- two great stories, two bad endings. Just call me the Scrinch. Or Grooge, that would be okay.
I base most of my attitude on either out of control commercialism or people who, themselves, act like Grinches. Yes, I get upset when I see giant plastic Santas on display at Wal-Mart -- in September. But don’t we all get mad when some scumbag burglar steals the Christmas presents right from under someone’s tree?
I’ve mentioned this before, and recently: Christmas all year round might seem like a good idea, but in reality it would make the holiday cheap and ordinary. Put a friggin tarp on the decorations until mid-November, okay? I once went shopping for Halloween clearance items, and turned the corner to discover a plastic Frosty giving me a ... well, a frosty look.
As for stealing gifts, vandalizing decorations and such ... not that I haven’t wanted to vandalize decorations, but only when the outside ones are turned on in October. For everyone else, a public whipping on New Year’s Day should beat the holiday spirit into them.
My point is this: Although I get as angry as everyone else when “Let it Snow” starts playing in the store while people in shorts and tank tops stumble in, wiping sweat from their brow --
I don’t know if I should say it. It might ruin my reputation, and where am I without that? Next thing you know, people will discover I really like animals. But ... okay, complete honesty, here ...
I love Christmas music.
People may never look at me the same way again.
Christmas is the only thing I look forward to through the months of bitter cold, with nothing but driving snow and black, dead foliage. I never said I was big winter fan. I hate cold, I hate snow, I hate heating bills, I hate bulky clothes that never warm me up, I hate that some people like all that stuff -- but I love Christmas. Colored lights shine through the dull twilight of winter. People actually cheer up a little. Well, some people. And of all the things about Christmas, I love the songs the best.
It doesn’t matter if they’re old or new. Sure, the barking dog Jingle Bells thing grates on me, and I’ve heard versions of “Santa Baby” that make me want to hurry down a chimney. But from Frank Sinatra to Christina Aguilera, nothing perks me up more. What they’ve done elsewhere in their lives, or what other people think of them, doesn’t matter -- I’ll listen to it if it’s Britney Spears, or Barry Manilow.
Old or new? I love “Carol of the Bells” and “The Hallelujah Chorus”, which my choir sang in high school. They didn’t have new Christmas Songs back then. But I’ve got songs in my Christmas library by Faith Hill, the Trans Siberian Orchestra, the Eagles, and, yes, Hannah Montana.
Type of music? It’s all Christmas to me. Doesn’t matter whether it's the Bryan Seltzer Orchestra, Jessica Simpson, or Andrea Bocelli. Or that other fella, Tchaikovsky, and his Nutcracker thing. Still, nothing will ever beat the classics, and Bing Crosby is the king of the classics. I may not like white winters, but “White Christmas” will always be close to my half-frozen heart.
So that’s it -- my big confession. I love Christmas music ... almost all Christmas music. As long as the lyrics aren’t being “sung” by pets.
I don’t even mind that great tribute to holiday violence, “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer”.
Much.
December 20, 2016
Holiday Pops on Emily’s Birthday
I'm not sure we'll be able to make the holiday pops concert at the school in Albion tonight, due to some (by which I mean a lot) of illness in the family. Still, I hope everyone else will go and support the Fort Wayne Philharmonic coming to our little town. It starts at 7:30, they sell tickets at the door, and the Facebook event page is here:
https://www.facebook.com/events/10979...
Meanwhile, happy birthday to my lovely wife Emily, whose birthday means the days will now start getting longer! She's been feeling under the weather for, oh, the entire month of December--in fact, this whole autumn has been one thing after another for our family. Here's hoping winter will go better, even if it isn't my season.
https://www.facebook.com/events/10979...
Meanwhile, happy birthday to my lovely wife Emily, whose birthday means the days will now start getting longer! She's been feeling under the weather for, oh, the entire month of December--in fact, this whole autumn has been one thing after another for our family. Here's hoping winter will go better, even if it isn't my season.
December 15, 2016
Making the Holidays More Holiday-ish
SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK
I always feel a little disjointed when the holidays arrive. I’ve never ready for Thanksgiving, which is followed within hours by Christmas, and minutes after that by New Year’s Eve, followed immediately by several months of miserable winter. I’m never ready.
And yet, the holidays come every year. So, what’s my excuse?
“Gee, I thought for sure it wouldn’t happen this time. Why was I not warned?”
My mother calls every year to find out when we want to celebrate Thanksgiving. We never celebrate Thanksgiving on Thanksgiving—that would be too easy. But many of us work in the service industry. In my 911 center, we almost never close down for the holidays. Okay, we took a few hours off when the Cubs won, but otherwise …
Many of my other relatives work in the more difficult service jobs, the ones where you have to work a register and deal with customers face to face. They don’t take 911 calls, but they often make 911 calls. I think I’d rather be on the receiving end. It’s because of their jobs that we can’t celebrate a holiday on a holiday. It used to be they were busy on Thanksgiving, setting up for Black Friday; now they’re busy on Thanksgiving, having Black Friday.
If you’re old, like me—I always feel old when the days get shorter—you’ll remember a time when everything shut down for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Go out for Thanksgiving dinner? What a turkey of an idea. Go shopping that same evening? There are ball games to watch, people. But these days we’re thankful for our alarm clock, so we can get up at 3 a.m. to work our part time job in riot control at Best Buy.
Don’t worry, ma’am: A little ventilation will get that pepper spray right out of your new flat screen TV.
So mom calls, and want to know if we want to have Thanksgiving the Sunday before, or the Saturday after. “But mom,” I say, “Why worry about that in August?”
“It’s November, dear.”
“But what happened to Halloween?”
“Your cardiologist ordered us not to say you missed it until November 7th.”
“But—the full sized candy bars!”
The irony is that there are plenty of reminders that the holidays are approaching. This year I saw my first store Halloween display in August, and my first Christmas display in September. It was 90 degrees. Nothing says Christmas like watching a plastic Santa melt like the Wicked Witch.
“Ho ho oh noooooo!!!!”
Nothing left but a bubbling pool of liquid on the floor, smelling faintly of peppermint and gingerbread. It’s enough to make you hit the eggnog.
Maybe my denial about the approaching holidays is an unconscious response to the cheapening of those same holidays, the way they come earlier and earlier. It’s not special any more. One year, on January third, I started poking through Christmas clearance items when I was stopped by an employee:
“Sir, those aren’t available for purchase yet—we’re putting up the store display tomorrow.”
It gets confusing. The Valentine’s Day cupid wears a fur lined red hat, and instead of a bow carries a little bundle of fireworks. Every time you pass him he says, “Happy Easter!” and tries to give you pumpkin shaped candy, while waving a sign advertising a President’s Day sale. On Thanksgiving.
The underlying meaning of all holidays has blurred into one unmistakable message:
“Give us money, and we’ll give everyone ‘free’ stuff that will make us all happy.”
Which they stole from politicians, but never mind.
Thus my idea for a new federal law: No holiday can be mentioned more than six weeks before the actual date. No holiday decorations can be put up longer than the time between Thanksgiving and Christmas. No special sales can be held on an actual holiday, with the exception of President’s Day, which is a lost cause.
One exception: Christmas lights can be put up outside while the weather is still good, as long as they’re not turned on before Thanksgiving. If they’re lit (or inflated) earlier, it’s open season for anyone with a rifle, paintball gun, blow gun, lawn darts, or snowballs. Or bazookas. No, that’s overkill—literally.
Our aim should be to make holidays special again, and you can’t do that if the holiday never goes away. If you go to the party store and can’t remember if your decorations are supposed to be red and green, or pink, or red, white and blue, then you’re doing it wrong.
How do you know if you’re doing it right? Well, I suppose you’ve got the right attitude if you’re thankful. If you’re giving. If you’re getting along with people, or at least trying to. You know, the good will thing.
And if that doesn’t work, you could try giving me some of your Halloween candy.
For Christmas.
I always feel a little disjointed when the holidays arrive. I’ve never ready for Thanksgiving, which is followed within hours by Christmas, and minutes after that by New Year’s Eve, followed immediately by several months of miserable winter. I’m never ready.
And yet, the holidays come every year. So, what’s my excuse?
“Gee, I thought for sure it wouldn’t happen this time. Why was I not warned?”
My mother calls every year to find out when we want to celebrate Thanksgiving. We never celebrate Thanksgiving on Thanksgiving—that would be too easy. But many of us work in the service industry. In my 911 center, we almost never close down for the holidays. Okay, we took a few hours off when the Cubs won, but otherwise …
Many of my other relatives work in the more difficult service jobs, the ones where you have to work a register and deal with customers face to face. They don’t take 911 calls, but they often make 911 calls. I think I’d rather be on the receiving end. It’s because of their jobs that we can’t celebrate a holiday on a holiday. It used to be they were busy on Thanksgiving, setting up for Black Friday; now they’re busy on Thanksgiving, having Black Friday.
If you’re old, like me—I always feel old when the days get shorter—you’ll remember a time when everything shut down for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Go out for Thanksgiving dinner? What a turkey of an idea. Go shopping that same evening? There are ball games to watch, people. But these days we’re thankful for our alarm clock, so we can get up at 3 a.m. to work our part time job in riot control at Best Buy.
Don’t worry, ma’am: A little ventilation will get that pepper spray right out of your new flat screen TV.
So mom calls, and want to know if we want to have Thanksgiving the Sunday before, or the Saturday after. “But mom,” I say, “Why worry about that in August?”
“It’s November, dear.”
“But what happened to Halloween?”
“Your cardiologist ordered us not to say you missed it until November 7th.”
“But—the full sized candy bars!”
The irony is that there are plenty of reminders that the holidays are approaching. This year I saw my first store Halloween display in August, and my first Christmas display in September. It was 90 degrees. Nothing says Christmas like watching a plastic Santa melt like the Wicked Witch.
“Ho ho oh noooooo!!!!”
Nothing left but a bubbling pool of liquid on the floor, smelling faintly of peppermint and gingerbread. It’s enough to make you hit the eggnog.
Maybe my denial about the approaching holidays is an unconscious response to the cheapening of those same holidays, the way they come earlier and earlier. It’s not special any more. One year, on January third, I started poking through Christmas clearance items when I was stopped by an employee:
“Sir, those aren’t available for purchase yet—we’re putting up the store display tomorrow.”
It gets confusing. The Valentine’s Day cupid wears a fur lined red hat, and instead of a bow carries a little bundle of fireworks. Every time you pass him he says, “Happy Easter!” and tries to give you pumpkin shaped candy, while waving a sign advertising a President’s Day sale. On Thanksgiving.
The underlying meaning of all holidays has blurred into one unmistakable message:
“Give us money, and we’ll give everyone ‘free’ stuff that will make us all happy.”
Which they stole from politicians, but never mind.
Thus my idea for a new federal law: No holiday can be mentioned more than six weeks before the actual date. No holiday decorations can be put up longer than the time between Thanksgiving and Christmas. No special sales can be held on an actual holiday, with the exception of President’s Day, which is a lost cause.
One exception: Christmas lights can be put up outside while the weather is still good, as long as they’re not turned on before Thanksgiving. If they’re lit (or inflated) earlier, it’s open season for anyone with a rifle, paintball gun, blow gun, lawn darts, or snowballs. Or bazookas. No, that’s overkill—literally.
Our aim should be to make holidays special again, and you can’t do that if the holiday never goes away. If you go to the party store and can’t remember if your decorations are supposed to be red and green, or pink, or red, white and blue, then you’re doing it wrong.
How do you know if you’re doing it right? Well, I suppose you’ve got the right attitude if you’re thankful. If you’re giving. If you’re getting along with people, or at least trying to. You know, the good will thing.
And if that doesn’t work, you could try giving me some of your Halloween candy.
For Christmas.
December 14, 2016
Holiday Pops On Top
The Fort Wayne Philharmonic is coming to Albion for a holiday pops concert, and that’s pretty cool.
So … let’s go! It’s where I’m taking my wife for her birthday, because I’m a cheap date. Come to the Central Noble High School auditorium on December 21st, from 7:30-9 p.m., and get in the spirit with some honest to goodness great music, of the classical/seasonal variety.
Here’s the Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/events/10979...
Remember, whenever you miss a holiday pops concert, an angel loses its wings. Then he wanders around in the snow, cold and depressed, and aren’t we going to see enough of that in January?
So … let’s go! It’s where I’m taking my wife for her birthday, because I’m a cheap date. Come to the Central Noble High School auditorium on December 21st, from 7:30-9 p.m., and get in the spirit with some honest to goodness great music, of the classical/seasonal variety.
Here’s the Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/events/10979...
Remember, whenever you miss a holiday pops concert, an angel loses its wings. Then he wanders around in the snow, cold and depressed, and aren’t we going to see enough of that in January?
December 10, 2016
An orange, frosty appearance
It’s the last book signing of the year! And a cover reveal! And the day before the snowstorm, so don’t you want to get out for awhile?
Okay, with only a few weeks left in the year that first part’s not so remarkable—but still. Hope to see you all between 1-5 p.m. today at the Noble Art Gallery in downtown Albion—and while you’re there, head across to the courthouse square and get some oranges and grapefruit from the Lions Club. Pick me up a mix box, would you?
Remember, every time you miss an author appearance a snowman melts. Save Frosty.
Okay, with only a few weeks left in the year that first part’s not so remarkable—but still. Hope to see you all between 1-5 p.m. today at the Noble Art Gallery in downtown Albion—and while you’re there, head across to the courthouse square and get some oranges and grapefruit from the Lions Club. Pick me up a mix box, would you?
Remember, every time you miss an author appearance a snowman melts. Save Frosty.
