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For the past few weeks my wife has been after me to get our annual Family Holiday Newsletter written. She can be kind of funny that way; she wants me to get them printed up so that she can have all the Christmas cards in the mail before Memorial Day. My problem is that the editors at my syndicate are more demanding about deadlines than she is. So for this week's column I thought I'd get real creative and kill two birds with one stone. Here is:
The 2008 Ball Enquirer
Well, 2008 has been a long and sometimes difficult year. So far we have managed to hang on through the Summer Olympics, the Presidential Election, and a global Recession sparked by the total meltdown of the American financial system. The Olympics were cool, and we are really happy with the way the elections turned out; I can hardly dare to dream what it will be like to have a Leader of the Free World who knows how to pronounce "nuclear."
On the other hand, the Recession hasn't been all that much fun. In the past two months alone our retirement fund has lost more than half it's value – nearly $11.53!
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O Holy night, The stars are brightly shining.
It is the night of our dear Savior's birth.
A soft coating of pure white snow blankets the countryside. Stars twinkle in the cold winter sky. The welcome-home aroma of wood smoke drifts from my neighbor's chimney. Somewhere in the neighborhood, cookies shaped like angels are just coming out of the oven. Santa is finishing up his last couple of shifts at the Mall, and all my credit cards are toast.
Christmas is here at last!
In the spirit of the season, I thought it would be fun to take a quick look at how MasterCard's favorite holiday came to be what it is today.
First off, it is pretty certain that December 25 is not really when Christ was born. In fact, we probably don't even have the year right. The best guess of bible scholars is that he would more likely have been born on September 29, in the year 5 BC. That, or maybe sometime in March, a month which is considered holy among many people to the present day, as commemorated by the NCAA basketball tournament.
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Every year about this time I get to spend some quality time with Santa Claus, taking the official photographs of the Right Jolly Old Elf's encounters with terrified four-year-olds and their stressed-out mothers (who still have to get the kids to ballet class and hockey practice, plus figure out where to pick up a spiral sliced ham and something nice for their husband's secretary, but first they need to get a decent Santa shot for that way-past-deadline Family Newsletter).
Every picture I snap represents a micro-documentary dealing with hopes, dreams, fears, fantasy, avarice, redemption, and the human condition. That, and the effects of a leaky diaper on red velvet pants.
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