“The three words that best describe you are as follows, and I quote: Stink, stank, stunk!” — From the song, “You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch,” in the Dr. Seuss’ holiday classic, How the Grinch Stole Christmas! After 12 months, 52 weeks and 365 days, here’s my breakup letter to this stinkin’ year. You won’t need Kleenex for this one. *** Dear 2020, I hope this finds you well. Of course, I’m lying. Honestly, I hope I never see you again. And to think we started out so well back in January. Despite a typical Michigan winter, we ventured out often. Lunch with old friends. Dinners at crowded restaurants, movies at…
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Let’s play nice
Fair warning, dear readers: This post is about … politics. So, if you’re up for it, that’s great. If not, then have another sugar cookie. Maybe take a stab at this later. *** Last week, for more than half of American voters, there was a collective sigh of relief heard around the world when the Electoral College met and cemented Joe Biden’s presidential election win. Now, there’s just one more step before the 46th president can be sworn in January 20. Congress, which is ultimately responsible for counting and certifying the electoral votes cast, will do so January 6. Indeed, for me it will be a fitting end to the drama,…
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Spit and snot
I think there’s something wrong with me. Sadly, my post-retirement chillax attitude, which took a good bit of time to re-learn, has quickly devolved from hopeful optimism to growing skepticism. Sometimes, I swear, I am downright cynical. Old journalist habits die hard. For example, I’m starting to believe a good chunk of people from 2020 will be remembered as the “Un-greatest Generation.” A far cry from the “Greatest Generation,” coined by TV newsman Tom Brokaw for his 1998 book of the same name. Those upstanding American citizens born from 1900 to the 1920s lived through and experienced hardships of the Great Depression. They fought in World War II or worked…
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Thankful
For those partaking in a traditional Thanksgiving Day dinner tomorrow, let’s hope you don’t have to witness this from the family comedian as they walk maskless through the door: “Hellooo, I brought yams. Or maybe the plague.” Better to stay home in your own bubble. As my friend Dinah said this morning during our writers group Zoom, think of the last Thursday in November 2020 this way: “It’s just a meal.” She knows of what she speaks, after losing her husband, the ever-sweet William, to COVID-19 in April. Gone too soon like so many others who have been ravaged by this deadly virus. And she was sick with it, too.…
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The clash
Should I stay or should I go now?Should I stay or should I go now?If I go, there will be troubleAnd if I stay it will be doubleSo come on and let me know – “Should I Stay or Should I Go” by English punk band The Clash, 1982 They say it’s not drinking alone if your dog is home. Always makes me chuckle, whether those words are embroidered on a tea towel, etched in a wine glass or printed on a fridge magnet. No doubt the familiar saying has been particularly apt for some during the COVID-19 pandemic. Myself included. I must admit, lately our crystal decanters on the…
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The last one
I’ve been trying to write something – anything – since Saturday. Not happening. I’m completely blank. It isn’t for lack of topics. Presidential election. Global pandemic. COVID-19 resurging. The sorry state of Michigan football. As in, the entire state. Maybe there’s just too much going on, and my brain is on overload unable to process everything. Doesn’t matter. None of that matters to me right now. We received some sad news Monday night. My Aunt Nores died at her home in Pittsburgh. She was 96. The last one. If you believe in that sort of thing, which I do, the three Guella sisters – Enea, Elia and Nores – are back together…
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Decision 2020
A day after the presidential election, I can still feel the fear all the way down to my, well, toes. And it’s not because we still don’t know who will lead our great nation for the next four years. The cause for my concern on Election Day had little to do with polling, electoral votes or MSNBC’s Steve Kornacki pushing one-too-many interactive map buttons. (The guy never sleeps!) On Tuesday, I saw my life flash before me while awaiting a pedicure at Happy Nails in a nearby strip mall. I know what you’re thinking: You got your toes done on Election Day? Yes, because we had to. Heck, the last one was…
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Good grief
It’s another dreary October afternoon in Michigan, and I’m longing for the good ol’ days of 2019 when we turned down autumn dinner party invitations because it was raining and not because we might die. I hear it’s going to be a long, hard winter. I have no reason not to believe that. While I’m grateful to be safe and healthy, my heart still breaks for those who have lost loved ones to COVID-19. To add grieving to everything else this hellish year has wrought is unimaginable. Sometimes, I swear, 2020 itself feels a lot like grief to me. If this seven-month-long pandemic were treated as a loved one’s death,…
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Expected findings
It’s October and time for post-season baseball, so I thought I’d open with this anecdote about our national pastime. A safe choice, perhaps, since unlike presidential elections, there’s no crying in baseball. While breaking up a double play in the 1934 World Series, St. Louis Cardinals’ pitcher Dizzy Dean was struck in the head by a wildly thrown ball. The brash and colorful Dean later told reporters, “They X-rayed my head and found nothing.” Ah, to have been a sports copy editor back then and write that headline! Speaking of headlines, since the news broke last week that the guy in the White House tested positive for COVID-19, we have received a…
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100 years
Often, when Italians raise a glass of wine, they say “Saluté,” and then sometimes add the words, “Cent’Anni,” a traditional toast. Loosely translated, it means “May you live 100 years.” Pronounced in some regional dialects as “gen-DAHN,” the phrase is meant to imply a hundred years of health. We should all be so lucky. My mother would have turned 100 today. Not sure what she’d make of becoming a centenarian, but you can bet she would be flabbergasted that her youngest child was 60. Elia Marie Guella was born September 30, 1920, in Biella, a small city in the northern Italian region of Piedmont, about 50 miles northwest of Milan.…
