My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Saddling Santa
We have saddled Santa with traditions without much substance, diluting the value of what these new things are proposing to join. They are the traditions generated by television or by music from rock to Rudolf, an unfair burden for so kindly a gentleman. An example, perhaps, of our further abuse of the elderly.
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