Yearly Archives: 2024

•  Last week, I went to our local library and checked out the six-disc set of The Civil War  by Ken Burns.  The librarian told me the set was due back in seven days, and I thought, “Seven days?  For a war that lasted four years and a film that was made 30 years ago?”

The librarian reassured me that I could renew it online, which led me to ask my spouse after the first two discs, “Do you want me to renew The Civil War?”   That is when it hit me that Donald Trump no doubt wondered exactly the same thing.

•  I want to share something I never told my children:  TV sets once had knobs (!) that let viewers adjust vertical hold and horizontal hold to try to improve picture quality.  Before you start getting nostalgic about exotic TV controls, I should point out that the knobs were always located in the back, where only The-Man-of-the-House was authorized to reach.  My theory is that vertical/horizontal hold knobs didn’t do that much for picture quality but were a big selling point for the self-important men who bought the family’s television sets.

•  The most mysteriously-gotten human trait is resiliency.  Many who have experienced bad times (and who of any age hasn’t?) claim that their resilience is the product of those bad times, the “what-doesn’t-kill you” take on life.  Nietzsche, 1888: “Was mich nicht umbringt, macht mich stärker.”

I’m surprised that Nietzsche made such a logically weak claim — and in German, no less.  Life’s challenges can’t selectively build resilience in some but not others without a second, random factor coming into play.  So I call bullshit on those who glamorize struggle and self-reliance while denying vulnerability and hurt, all so that some self-honorees may feel proud of themselves.

Resilience is not a pass/fail test or some life badge of honor.  It’s not something we should automatically expect of each other.  And it’s not something we should celebrate, as if those who have less resilience are somehow lesser people.  It’s a coping mechanism, period.

•  Shifting gears, here’s some data on the response time of cops.  In movies, the response time of the authorities is usually minus 10 seconds — that is, we are already hearing sirens when the bad guy raises his weapon and delivers his rant-against-humanity soliloquy.  Whereas the average response time of real-life cops to active shooter situations is 14-15 minutes.  The obvious TrumpWorld answer is to get shooters to deliver more soliloquies.

•  In social settings involving atheists and believers, it typically (and ironically) falls on the atheist to make nice when the believer gets the urge to profess the tenets of his/her faith.  For harmony’s sake, I make a point not to challenge believers when they make assertions that I don’t buy into — whatever lifts your spirits, is my attitude.  However, when a believer tells me they are going to pray for me — while fully aware I don’t believe in it — what is this atheist supposed to say?  (A) Thank you!  (B) If you insist!  or (C) Don’t waste your time, I’m well down the road to Perdition!  I waver between (B) and (C).

Seriously, I don’t understand how I seem to care more about the sensibilities of believers than they care about mine, but that’s the perverse thing about American evangelists.

•  I’ve pretty much given up on pointing out hypocrisies.  Thanks to Donald Trump, being labeled a hypocrite is hardly more consequential than failing to cover your mouth when you yawn.  Acting in a way that contradicts what you say is now viewed as a survival skill, not a sin.  In recognition, I hereby declare 2025 to be the Free Pass for Hypocrites Year.

In the Free Pass for Hypocrites Year, all Amish people will be allowed to wire their homes for telephone and electricity, so that they no longer have to search for phone booths or ask neighbors if they can store food in their freezers.

In the Free Pass for Hypocrites Year, Republicans will be allowed to embrace Blacks while making it harder for them to vote, and Democrats will be allowed to embrace Hispanics while insisting that they should call themselves Latinx.

In the Free Pass for Hypocrites Year, Trump supporters who claimed they voted for lower prices and a better economy will be allowed to admit that what they really voted for was the brown-people-won’t-get-my-stuff stuff.  And in that spirit, Vivek Ramaswamy will also get a free pass.

•  We received several Christmas cards from old acquaintances expressing their sympathy about the effects of tropical storm Helene in our hometown of Asheville.  Helene brought its destructive winds and rains to Asheville on September 26, 2024, a full three months before Christmas.  We lost power and communications for 16 days.  We lost water service of any kind for 19 days and potable water service for 52 days.  But for the most part, our household has been “operational” since the week before Thanksgiving.

I’m trying to reconcile how some of our acquaintances could have serious concerns about our well-being, and even the existence of our address, but wait until it was time to send out their Christmas cards to reach out.  Just saying.

•  It feels like for the past ten years I’ve been wishing that the new year will be better than the one that just passed, simply because it has to.  Just for the record, I think my score on this account is 0-10.  So even though the captain has turned on the Happy New Year sign, we advise that you keep your seat belt fastened in case of unexpected turbulence.

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It is taboo in American culture for a parent to admit they have a favorite child, or for a grandparent to single out one of their grandchildren, or for an aunt or uncle to dote on a certain niece or nephew, even if may be quite evident to others.  But oddly, the flip-side does not seem to be taboo: ask anyone on the spot to name their favorite uncle or aunt, grandparent, possibly even parent or sibling, and they may answer without hesitation.  (Probably more freely expressed after those concerned have passed.)

I had eight uncles with unique personalities and distinctive nicknames: Art, Bing, Boots, Chill, Irk, Jim, Red and Paul.  My eight uncles were enough to populate two pewfuls of ushers and deacons, one pew which tippled a bit, the other which vilified those who did.  As the title of this post suggests, Art was my favorite uncle — not because he tippled but because he was way too nice to take a seat in the finger-pointing pew.

My Uncle Art (and my Aunt Pearl, more on her in another post) was the most affable and generous person I knew growing up.  I always had fun when we went to Uncle Art’s house for Thanksgiving or Christmas, even though there was nothing particularly entertaining for kids to do there — Uncle Art’s smile and hospitality were that infectious.

Uncle Art had a bar in his finished basement which, in best Western PA tradition, served as the gathering place for his relatives and friends.  It was fun to sit in the tall, swiveling bar chairs where Uncle Art would serve me a Squirt (grapefruit soda, for the unfamiliar) and then offer the grown-ups a gin-and-Squirt or a beer.

I never understood why adults ruined Squirt — which in the 1950s-60s had real grapefruit pulp — by putting booze in it.  To this day, the Squirt of my youth is my favorite soft drink, but that version no longer exists:  Jarritos grapefruit soda, which has way more bite but not a speck of pulp, is the closest approximation I’ve found.  Excuse the tangent, but my testimony on grapefruit sodas was important to get on the record.

When I was in grade school, Mom would often take me along to shop downtown where we would invariably visit Uncle Art (her brother) at his florist shop overlooking the mighty Neshannock Creek.  Art would acknowledge me and chat with my mom but kept working, snipping stems, stripping thorns off roses, plunging chrysanthemums into funeral vases, and all the while chuckling and smiling.  I would usually walk out of the store with a flower in my hand or one tucked into my shirt.

What a treat it would be to visit Uncle Art at his workbench one more time and watch him put together an arrangement.  Art had somewhat pudgy hands, and unless you noticed his blackened thorn-scratched fingers, you would never figure him to be a floral designer.

• • • 

Uncle Art’s sense of design was, shall we say, not subtle.  His holiday arrangements made generous use of glitter spray, and he always figured out some way to incorporate gold.  His own Christmas tree was an artificial snow-white colossus with gold satin balls as I recall.  He wrapped his outdoor lamppost with a red ribbon and accented it with pine boughs, just like those you see on Christmas cards.  And that was only the start.

I think Uncle Art’s gift for finding the most pleasure in everything carried over into his design sense, and so there could be no such thing as over-decorating.  He was fortunate that he lived in a predominantly Italian-American town that shared this aesthetic.

That said, Uncle Art did design a beautiful and elegant flower crown for my wife to wear on our wedding day fifty years ago.*  Not a speck of gold or glitter in it that I recall.  So he knew the right time to rein it in.

• • • 

Holiday parties at Uncle Art’s and Aunt Alice’s house usually concluded with a round of penny-ante Michigan Rummy if there were six or more players, or a few hands of pinochle otherwise.  (Either was best accompanied by a beer or a schnapps.)  A Michigan Rummy session lasted until each player had a turn to be dealer; whereas pinochle games ended with Uncle Art getting frustrated, uttering his trademark string of expletives that started with turdy furdy and ended with shitty cat, and tossing his cards across the room.

Legend has it that when Art and Alice remodeled their kitchen, they found a deck’s-worth of playing cards underneath and behind the refrigerator.  This story may be apocryphal, but I can bear witness to the flying objects.

Art Hartfelder

Art passed away in his sleep three decades ago, shortly after his 76th birthday.  I miss his humor, generosity, human kindness, and the many Christmases that he filled with fun.

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* Uncle Art played a contributing role in getting my wife and me together for our first date.  In high school and college, I often worked as a holiday delivery person/driver for Uncle Art’s flower shop — and so it was on a late December afternoon that I had finished work and was waiting to catch the bus to go home, when Sue happened to walk by.  She spotted me, said hello and offered me a ride home, and the rest, as they say, is our story.  Best Christmas memory ever.
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Cartoon featuring classic comic strip characters, half of whom are silent

A holiday hello to classic comics aficionados.

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