Why Christmas Cards Still Matter

Christmas 2025 is less than a week away and we have received three--yes, three--Christmas cards. Each year I tape these greetings to a prominent door or wall, making a pretty display. But three cards doesn't make much of an impact. 

Not long ago we would receive about 20 cards from family and friends at this festive season. Then the numbers started to drop. The trips to our mailbox became increasingly anxious, fearing that this would be another day without a card, as the 25th of December got closer and closer. 

I myself delight in sitting down to address envelopes to folks who matter to us in states all over the country as well as close to home. A short message, a stamp, and off it goes to remind these friends that we remember them and are grateful for them.

Many people now seem to think that posting a Merry Christmas message on their Facebook page is as good as handwriting their best wishes to people they know. Maybe they'll just send out a text with a photo. Or they feel it's okay to simply tell people, "Yeah, I didn't do cards this year; nobody really does anymore. And have you seen the price of stamps?" 

Yes, I paid 78 cents for each stamp I stuck on an envelope, and that's too much. But once a year it's worth it. I cannot tape your text message to my wall, nor your Instagram post. Taking the time to send cards says "You matter to me." And each time I pass by the collection of pretty Christmas scenes on my wall it reminds me that some people out there are thinking of me and want good things for me in the new year.

Loneliness in our country is at an all-time high. Somehow, although we can "communicate" with one another faster and more cheaply than ever, we feel disconnected and alone. This is why we need Christmas cards. They pay tribute to the greatest event on the calendar, that birth in Bethlehem from which date we count the very years. And these pretty cards remind folks that we have not forgotten them; that they are important enough for us to buy a box of cards and a sheet of stamps; even important enough for us to skip a couple of nights of TV to write a few words that will remind them of that.

Merry Christmas to you all, and best wishes for the New Year.

 

"I'll take Death, and make it a double"

Just the other day my husband and I passed a Liquid Death truck for the first time. I did a triple-take and snapped a picture, all the while exclaiming to my husband (don't worry, he was doing the driving), "What was THAT? Who would name a beverage Death? Not very assuring for the consumer." 

So of course I looked up this bold product when I got home only to find that it is a wildly successful new beverage (hence the huge delivery truck we passed). Maybe these drinks are downright delicious, but I won't be ordering one. 

 I myself have grown tired--not to mention somewhat alarmed--at the growing popularity of death and damage in fashion and personal "style." Since when did a handshake with the Grim Reaper become something to celebrate ahead of time? Are we supposed to be growing more casual about dying as about so many other things?

 Don't get me wrong--it's all right to joke about death as we humans do about most serious things ("Two guys walk into a funeral parlor ..."). Humor helps us process and prepare for scary aspects of life.

But in general we're supposed to avoid death. That motivates us to keep living, to keep getting necessary things done in society and for our families, to enjoy more beautiful experiences that this life offers, and to grow in wisdom before we have to leave Earth. In other words, while we are alive we are meant to embrace life.

Death is monumental. We pass from one way of living into a totally different one, one most of us cannot picture clearly enough to feel completely comfortable with that mysterious crossing over. And we traditionally have little to no control over when death comes for us.

However, for those who deeply doubt the existence of an afterlife, death becomes terrifying, and no one likes to live terrified. I suppose the antidote for those who see nothing after death is to feign an embrace of it, almost to the point of mockery, and try to control its parameters. Some modern ways to do this involve:
--Decorating your clothing and even skin with skulls ("See! Death does not scare me!").
--Holding your own faux funeral, maybe on your birthday, as a sort of dress rehearsal, where you control everything from your gown to the refreshments and even get to hear the eulogies about yourself (read more about this in the New York Post article)
--Starting a beverage company that adopts death as a branding strategy

Once upon a time, skull and bone images meant something very concrete. A pirate ship of the late 1700s flew the skull-and-crossbones flag to announce that they were willing to kill you for a mere barrel of hard tack. The flag also shouted that they, the pirate crew, had no fear of death or judgment, so you could never tell what awful and reckless things they might just do. To wit, they deliberately inflicted pain on themselves with body piercings and tattoos. But today we apparently are expected to ignore the darkness of such symbols and treat them as mere emojis.

But death demands respect. It is bigger than you and more deeply meaningful than we can properly put into words. Consider saving your black wardrobe for important occasions and times of mourning, when people you love are suddenly gone--not for your every-single-day-of-the-week outfits. Take death seriously and give it the respect and distance it deserves until its time comes around, as it naturally will. 

In short, it comes down to preparing rather than posturing. That is no small task, and you have my best wishes.

 

Drag Queen Shows: The New Blackface

[First of all, let me mention that we are back home in northeast Florida. Let it suffice to say that Arizona did not work out for us. Who knew that an elevation of 5,000 feet can wreak havoc with us high-blood-pressure people? Or that they often let forest fires burn in the Arizona mountains, blanketing little towns with particulate that can revive a person's asthma after 40 years of dormancy? Ah, the things you don't know until you actually move all your kit and caboodle to some exotic place.]

Okay--Naples, Florida. Just the other day the city won a case brought against them by the never-resting ACLU on behalf of the group Naples Pride. As part of "Pride Month," these people wanted to entertain their town with a drag queen show outside in a public park. The City of Naples said no; as in past years, you'll have to do that show indoors and restrict it to adults. Now this makes some sense, especially given the overt sexuality displayed in a modern drag queen routine. 

But I see another towering problem with such performances. For what is a drag performance but an outlandish mockery of women? A person who is a man pretends to be something he certainly is not (a woman) with the help of heavy makeup, wigs, and harlot-style clothing; he then "entertains" the audience with an absurd impersonation of something approximating a female that is at best laughable but in fact disturbing and offensive.

Compare this to the now universally banned blackface routine. In a blackface show, a white person pretends to be of a race he is not (that is, black) by smearing his face and all visible skin with heavy black makeup, outlining his grinning mouth in bold white paint and donning a curly wig. He then struts or dances about the stage in grotesque imitation of some type of black person that simply does not exist--just as the bizarre rendering of a woman portrayed in drag queen shows is a complete mockery of real women.

I hear no one expressing outrage at these degrading caricatures of women. It is about time we did. I have written about this before but people don't seem to be catching on. Women are very special and complex creations. We come loaded with a challenging biology that demands extra attention each month and also makes us the bearers and caretakers of children to keep this race going. We are by nature teachers and nurses and the ones who keep track of birthdays and dreams and unspoken needs. These great and arduous tasks deserve honor and respect rather than the derision of a carnival side show. 

For a man--who labors under none of a woman's constraints and responsibilities--to play exaggerated dress-up and pretend to be a woman in the most sex-saturated and nonsensical way possible is a deep insult to all women. Permitting such shows makes women again the butt of the joke and denies them the respect that they richly deserve. It is time to shut down such public mockery, just as we did long ago with blackface. Who's with me?

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Photo by unknown photographer, source not available. 

   

7 States Later . . .

Spring desert poppies in Arizona

Last February we said goodbye to our home in St. Augustine, Florida, and drove across lots of states until we reached the snowy forests of central Arizona. I am still trying to adjust to this new home--which explains the nearly eight-month absence from this blog.

Old as I am, it became clear soon after the moving van dropped off our stuff and left that my flexibility for so much change ain't what it used to be.  Everything is different in this town we chose: 

• Elevation (we went from 36 feet above sea level to 5000 feet [and there are consequences to that])
• Summer, spring, winter, and a fall
  
• An appalling lack of bagel shops
• Most major retailers don't seem to know about this place
  
• Limited medical services
• Five trash collection companies you have to somehow pick among and hire one
  
• Jaw-dropping panoramas along any highway
• Friendly people
• Lots and lots of dogs
• Granite-based soil you can't push yard decorations into without power tools
• Troops of elk that roam the town and help themselves to your roses and pear trees
  

When we left St. Augustine we lost our right to brag about living in America's oldest city. I knew I was going to miss that. But now we live in a town that hosts the country's longest-running rodeo, which of course we went to see last week. Few shows can match the spectacle of women racing their agile steeds around barrels in the dark brown dirt or young men hanging on desperately while thrashing broncos try to throw them to the ground.

We are beginning to learn the politics of the place and the layout of the local Walmart, but we have a long way to go. All of you who have moved a long, long way to a very different home know what I mean. 

More later from the Grand Canyon State.

 

In Praise of Dracula

I speak not of the creature, but of the book. If you have not yet read the original tale by Bram Stoker, first presented to the world in 1897, then you can be sure you do not know the story at all. I thought I did, having enjoyed Bela Lugosi's famous portrayal of the fiend, as well as Frank Langella's mesmerizing interpretation of the bloodthirsty count. 

But none of this Hollywood mishmash presents Stoker's actual tale of knee-buckling terror, courage, and faith. It's an important story for our time, as evil seems to loom larger than ever today over what we were used to calling normal life. Daily we hear of dark goings-on at a scale we can hardly grasp, frightening machinations hidden in the shadows, unholy deals struck behind a screen of deceit. 

Halfway through Dracula, Dr. Seward records in his diary a conversation with Dr. Van Helsing, the one man who understands fully what they are up against with the vampire:

"Dr. Van Helsing, are you mad?" [I asked]. He raised his head and looked at me, and somehow the tenderness of his face calmed me at once. "Would I were!" he said. "Madness were easy to bear compared with truth like this." 

Have we not felt the same at discoveries we make while reading the morning's news (and I am not referring to stories found in the mainstream misinformation media)?

While Dracula is a masterful tale of terror, it is much more. It is a story of heroic bravery in the face of incomprehensible darkness, of men joining forces to defend their women from ruin, of the triumph of this solidarity, armed with the sword of Christian faith, against terrible odds. Sound relevant?

Stoker tells his story in a collection of diary entries, letters, and other writings all penned by the various characters as their adventure unfolds. This intricate account of their contest, the struggle for the very souls of their loved ones, offers as many lessons today as it did more than a century ago.

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Pictured: The Barnes & Noble Classics edition of Dracula by Bram Stoker, 2003. Quote, page 209.