COMMENT: I have been rebuked, gently and with love, for not providing a special-occasion column last Sunday that was full of heart-warming, blessing-counting references to Christmas, served up on a steaming bed of festive cheer.
I thought this was in readers' best interest, predicting – all-too accurately – that there would be no shortage of seasonally themed pieces by other columnists to sate the appetite for all things yuletide.
I had a secondary agenda, too. I've long considered that the belief that all news ceases and that the weeks around Christmas are a "silly season" is a self-fulfilling prophecy. My comment to some colleagues just a few days prior that there would almost certainly be a tsunami somewhere to fill the media vacuum proved unpleasantly accurate.
I probably should be more careful about these throwaway remarks. On Christmas Eve two years ago, while Last Christmas by Wham! was playing in the house, I said out loud: "Wouldn't it be weird if this really was George Michael's last Christmas?" And lo, it came to pass the very next day, on December 25, 2016. I've resolved to choose my words more carefully and would like to conclude 2018 by hoping that next year President Trump gets everything he deserves.
I have one more excuse for neglecting seasonal references, which is that one of our hens has taken it upon herself to turn the liturgical calendar upside down. It's Easter around here thanks to our black hen Penny and the nine eggs she hatched on Christmas Day.