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I would occasionally view some Ricochet essays that tiptoed on the lighter side of life in a less than interested mood; until, that is, I submitted one of my own ditties that explored the profundities of Blazing Saddles, which is surely a great representation of modern artistic sensibilities. But much of the time, it has been a matter of trying to break free from a “Most liberals are fascists!” mentality, and that’s hard to do, especially since the comparison increasingly seems unfair to fascists.
Then Christmas came along, a time of great joy and celebration, of course, when all thoughts of politics, culture, and the frequent nastiness of things in general needed to be put aside. It was an occasion to immerse oneself into a sugar-plums-dancing-in-your-ears, Jack-Frost-roasting-on-an-open-fire, Hillary-free day, to be enjoyed by everyone in the household ranging in age from seven months to seven decades or so. Christmas music hummed in the background, red and green lights twinkled everywhere, peals of laughter and mirth rippled through the air, a 90-pound black Labrador imitated a lap dog, trying out one lap after another — things didn’t get better than that. Until, that is, the first present was opened, in this case, by one of the grandchildren.
First, an explanation. Our household Christmas gathering isn’t exactly like the one depicted in A Christmas Story, which explored Ralphie’s angst — fully justified, in my view — over whether or not he would get a Red Ryder BB gun, but some memories come close.