The Associated Press published an article warning of the health hazards of using fireplaces.

Yes, holiday fireplaces are cozy. Yes, they’re festive. Yes, fireplaces have existed within our hominid culture ever since Adam discovered he had no belly button.

But…

“…Active fireplaces and gas appliances release tiny airborne particles that can get into the lungs and chemicals like nitrogen dioxide, a major component of smog, according to the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency.”

But then, there are lots of hazardous things you’re not supposed to do anymore, thanks to deeply concerned governmental and non-federal agencies.

Take sugar. When I was a kid, shortly after the close of the Civil War, everyone ate lots of sugar. Virtually nobody in my life was overweight. Almost all grown-ups and kids were skinny even though we were all eating Little Debbies like they needed the boxes back.

Weirdly, there was no childhood obesity epidemic. Everyone’s mom was lean, everyone’s dad was built like Barney Fife.

Then came the War on Sugar.

Suddenly, we had experts working overtime to figure out the problem.

And they solved the issue (EUREKA!). Sugar! That’s what caused childhood obesity!

Everywhere you looked, another federal or non-governmental agency was warning about the dangers of sugar. Consequently, sugary foods are now restricted in many schools. And in some cities, like Berkley, Philadelphia, and San Francisco, sugary foods are even taxed.

So sugar is the culprit. Sugar is what’s making our kids fat. Thank God we know this now. Because some of us thought the problem was them sitting on the sofa for eight hours, playing on their smartphones.

There are other official warnings to heed this holiday season.

The U.S. Food and Drug Administration urges you to reduce sodium intake to prevent hypertension, heart disease, stroke, and overall happiness. The FDA advises all Americans not to exceed one teaspoon of daily salt. Non-Americans, please feel free to consume as much sodium as…

Dear God,

I know you’re super busy. I know you have people bending your ear at Christmas. From every corner of the planet. Every second of the day. And I know how fussy people can be this time of year.

Everyone wants what they want, and they all want it now. And everyone wants to have it THEIR way.

But you aren’t Burger King. You do not give out paper hats to good little customers. You are not a celestial drive-thru window attendant, wearing a cute little cosmic uniform and nametag and ethereal dental braces. I think I’ve carried this metaphor as far as it will go.

So, I feel like an imposition, asking you for anything. Especially during your busy season. I know Christmas keeps you running. You have starving children in Sudan, the ongoing war in Ukraine, the Israel-Gaza mess, and that whole Cracker Barrel logo thing.

Please don’t misunderstand me, I don’t have any personal requests for Christmas. There is, however, one thing I ask. And I’m asking for a friend.

Please take care of Morgan Love.

This 20-year-old college student has spent half her life in hospitals. She is no stranger to medical environments. The UAB staffers all know her by name in the ICU.

Right now, she is in the hospital again, God. I’m sure you’ve heard.

She has pulmonary edema, her veins are leaky, and have leaked fluids into her lung bases. They’re giving her diuretics to get the fluid out. Her kidneys aren’t producing urine otherwise.

She has a spiked fever. And seizures. And her oxygen is dropping. She’s on continuous norepinephrine to keep her blood pressure stable. And, well…

Things aren’t looking fantastic right now, God.

But I’ve seen you do big things before. In fact, every time Morgan goes into the hospital, you do something incredible.

Each time she is in that hospital bed, the doctors get all frowny faced, and…

Christmas morning. It was still dark outside. The children were all snug in their beds.

Their air mattresses and cots were scattered around the double-wide trailer, perched in each nook. A battalion of space heaters were humming.

Let’s call her Elizabeth. Elizabeth awoke early. She was smiling.

She was the oldest foster kid in the group home. At age 13, she was a veteran here. Her deep black hair was the color of coal. Her rosy cheeks, like candy apples.

She could hardly stand herself from the excitement. And it wasn’t because of the Christmas festivities ahead. Namely, because there weren’t any.

Usually, for Christmas, the kids all received one toy apiece. The toys came from a local charity who donated minorly broken or lightly used toys. Sometimes, the kids received donated coats and mittens. But that was about all.

The Christmas meal would be frozen lasagna and canned green beans, lovingly prepared by the Methodist church.

Elizabeth had prepared a surprise of her own this morning for her foster consociates.

She woke Peter first, quietly. The little boy

opened his crusty eyes.

Elizabeth hushed him. “Ssssh! Don’t wake anyone else.”

She handed Peter a small package.

The package was wrapped in newspaper, with candy canes, hand drawn with magic marker.

Peter tore open the small box.

Inside was an old baseball, painted yellow and black with tempura paint. The ball had a little face, a wide open mouth, with a cute pink tongue.

“I know how much you love Pac-Man,” said Elizabeth. “So I made you Pac-Man.”

Peter gave her the biggest hug.

Next, Elizabeth awoke Helen and her brother, Danny. Helen received homemade clip-on earrings, made of twisted baling wire and dried candy corn. Danny received a handmade book of racecars which must have taken days to create.

Sarah was next. The sad, sullen girl who never said more than a few words. Her biological mother had abused…

A supermarket checkout line. Cheesy holiday music is playing overhead. Not the fun kind of cheesy music, but the kind once heard in Kmart á la 1973.

There is an old man at the head of our long checkout line, standing at the register. He digs through his pockets, but keeps coming up empty handed.

“I’m sorry, miss,” he says to the cashier. “I must’ve left my wallet at home.”

He is embarrassed, and the young cashier is unsure about what to do.

I am watching this entire exchange closely because I am a columnist who writes human interest stories.

We columnists must keep our observational reflexes honed as sharp as wiffle-ball bats. We have to stay ready because we are not real writers.

Writers are inspired artists and poets. Columnists are factory-line workers who take whatever stories they can get.

Your big-time writer is a person with incredibly poignant things to say about life and the profundity of the human condition; they have grand ambitions of someday winning a major literary award,

and possibly having a “New York Times” best-smeller.

Whereas a columnist’s highest aspiration is for someone to cut his or her column out of the paper and hang it on the refrigerator.

So columnists have to work harder than true writers because we can’t rely on inspiration. Besides, our job is not to be inspired, but to constantly find new stories. This is not simple work. Therefore, most of the time you find me writing about key social issues such as, say, my dogs.

But the beauty of all this is, every once in a while a column will actually fall into your lap.

This is a rare thing indeed, and one of the most precious things that can happen to a stringer of words. Your task as a columnist is to be mindful enough to notice this pivotal moment is occurring, then to ignore it and…

Dearest Jamie,

I’m going to be honest. In our two decades of marriage, I have never known exactly what our roles are. It’s never been clear to me. I’ve always been confused about hierarchy in our household.

See, when I was a kid I was led to believe that males were supposed to “wear the pants” of the family. But that’s not you and me.

I became acutely aware of this about ten minutes into our marriage when you signed all the checks, paying the wedding florists, photographers, and caterers. Then you wrote a check to me.

I asked what my check was for.

You replied, “It’s your monthly allowance.”

I quickly realized that I would not be wearing the proverbial pants of our family. I would be wearing the proverbial yoga pants. And I’m okay with that.

Because the truth is, you’re stronger than I am. It’s just a fact.

Used to, it made me feel like less of a man to know that my wife was made of tougher mettle than I was. But not anymore. No, these

days I’m just proud to be loved by such a sturdy person.

And you are sturdy. That’s why you’re the one who does the important stuff in our life. You do the planning, the organizing, the deep thinking, the bill-paying, the technical troubleshooting.

You are the one who keeps our world going. Without you, it’s a mess.

Which is why after you visited Canada for your friend’s wedding, the day you returned home, the fire department was parked in our front lawn. Sirens flashing. The fireman informed you that it was the third time they’d visited our house in the last week. He also took away my deep-fryer.

You are a powerful woman, not just psychologically, but in body. When I had back surgery, for example, and the doctor told me that I shouldn’t lift anything over 10 pounds, you…

It’s hard to choose my favorite Christmas movie. Each time I try to pick one, I’m afraid I’ll shoot my eye out.

There are, of course, obligatory holiday movies which bring to mind one’s parents and grandparents. A period in post-war national history which featured Buicks Roadmasters, Hula Hoops, and pineapple upside down cakes made almost completely of mayonnaise. This era features movies such as “Miracle on 34th Street” (1947); “A Christmas Carol” (1951); and “White Christmas” (1954).

Those are all great movies. But what about the spiritually inspired cinematic manifesto of the Great American Dysfunctional Family, “National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation” (1989)? A film which, over the years, has brought me more joy than nearly anything including most major religions.

Somewhere at the top of my movie list sits “A Christmas Story” (1983). Perhaps because, not unlike the movie’s protagonist, Ralphie, I too grew up among folks who believed no Christmas gift better embodied the True Meaning of Christ’s Birth than an American-made firearm.

There are also many

popular holiday movies which, in my opinion, suck. Such as “Home Alone” (1990). If that kid had been in my house, my mother would’ve wore his butt out. And “Edward Scissorhands” (1990), directed by Tim Burton, the man who ruined “Dumbo” (2019). Or “Gremlins” (1984), a Christmas movie about a horde of malicious demons invading a small town and murdering the townspeople.

Do what?

No holiday movie discussion, however, is complete without mentioning the dozens of stop-motion animated TV movies by Rankin and Bass. These movies are pure childhood. “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer” (1964); “Rudolph’s Shiny New Year” (1976); “Rudolph and Frosty’s Christmas” (1979); “Rudolph Develops a Nasal Polyp”, etc.

I’m also a big fan of the multiple retellings of Dickens’ Ebenezer Scrooge. For my money, George C. Scott delivers a prize-winning performance in 1984’s “A Christmas Carol.”

Still, it is the Dickensian musical “Scrooge” (1970), starring Albert Finney, that takes…

It’s okay if you don’t believe her. Nobody is asking you to believe. But Sandra believes.

It all started when Sandra was walking home from work. It was 1969. “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid” was still in theaters. We landed on the moon. The top-40 hits du jour belonged to the Stones and Neil Diamond.

The young woman had just gotten off work. She was on her way to the bus stop. It was icy, the sidewalk was a bit treacherous. She was in a hurry to get home; she wasn’t watching where she was walking..

Sandra misstepped. She fell. But her fall was in the deadliest direction possible. She fell off the curb, directly into the street of oncoming traffic.

She could see it all happening in slow motion. She tumbled into the roadway. The grill of an oncoming vehicle came flying up at her. She could hear the tires, up close and personal, crunching in the snow.

What she did not see, however, was the woman who saved her. At least, not

at first. The woman appeared out of nowhere it seemed.

The woman was very tall. She was strong. Quite strong. And she was wearing overalls.

The stranger rescued her. The speeding vehicle missed Sandra by a few inches. And the woman moved her body to a safe place.

“San,” the strange woman said, using Sandra’s family nickname. “Can you hear me? I need you to keep your eyes open, sweetie.”

The woman kept using this name, until Sandra opened her eyes. Which she eventually did. Then—just like that—Miss Overalls seemingly disappeared.

Not a single witness saw the woman. Maybe Sandra imagined her. After all, this was a traumatic experience, who wouldn’t start seeing things? Moreover, as I say, this was 1969, who WASN’T hallucinating?

She sustained a broken femur. In her hospital bed, she was in agony. The pain meds made her loopy. But she…

The snow in West Virginia clings to the world like shaving cream, covering every surface, every automotive hood, every interstate sign.

In the distance, the blue Appalachians stand watch over the Mountain State, like mother hens, guarding their young. And I’m staring out a plate glass window in my hotel lobby, just watching it all.

As I watch snow fall like white noise on a TV screen, the beauty puts me into a mild trance. I almost forget that I’m in a hotel lobby.

A young man enters the lobby, using a motorized wheelchair. He is college age. Wearing a West Virginia Mountaineers T-shirt.

An older woman is walking behind him. The woman follows the kid’s chair to the window, so they can look better at the snow.

“Look at ALL that snow,” says the older woman as though it is the first time it has ever snowed in West Virginia.

The kid gazes out the window, and with labored speech he says, “Oh, wow!”

Everyone in the lobby is lapsed in a sort of quiet reverie.

Nobody is talking. There is a TV playing 24-hour news on low volume, but nobody is watching it. Everyone is just looking at this boy, who is so excited about snow, it’s making us excited, too.

“Supposed to get five inches tonight,” mutters a man to the kid.

He’s a businessman, working on a laptop. But he is not paying attention to the digital screen anymore. He has caught the kid’s wonder.

“Five inches,” repeats the boy. “Omigosh.”

“Could get more than five inches,” offers one a hotel employee, an older woman cleaning tables. “I hear we could get six or seven tonight.”

The kid pilots his electric chair even closer to the window. His knees are almost touching the glass.

And even though snow is a common occurrence in this part of Appalachia this time of year, even though it snows every…

I was scared to death. It was my first day of second grade, and I was terrified to the point of regurgitation.

“Please don’t make me go to school,” I begged my mother.

Mama was driving the car. I sat in the passenger seat as she drove our station wagon. I had the countenance of a man wearing a noose.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mama said. “You have to go to school. What are you so afraid of?”

I was afraid of the second grade teacher, Ms. Burns. Ms. Burns was a hard woman who, according to rumors circulating the first grade, had done a stint in Leavenworth.

She was an exacting woman, with a sharp tongue, high standards, at times using rulers, riding crops, or other such instruments of persecution in class. She was nothing like Mrs. Anderson, our first-grade teacher, who was soft spoken, smelled like strawberries, and had soft bosoms perfectly created for absorbing childhood tears.

We first graders would often stand on the playground and cower behind a tree whenever Ms. Burns was present. She had

yellow eyes and green teeth.

“She’s so mean,” I cried to my mother. “Please don’t make me go.”

My mother eased to a stop sign. “How do you KNOW she’s mean?”

“Everyone knows.”

We were nearing the school. The brick building was getting closer. My nausea had transformed from an upper gastrointestinal issue into a lower one.

“Please, Mama,” I was crying now. I was also trembling.

My mother pulled into the parking lot. She just held the wheel with both hands and stared forward at the flagpole.

She looked at me. “What’s the worst thing that could happen to you?”

I shrugged. Then I began breathing into a paper bag.

“Okay. Then let me ask you another question. What’s the worst thing that could happen to anyone in this life? What is the worst thing you can imagine in the…

The story was told to me by a former deliveryman named John.

The Christmas season was the busiest time of year for delivery-persons. Drivers saw a major uptick in workload. This did nothing to improve John’s sunny disposition.

At Christmastime, John was about as cheerful as the infamous storybook character who once purloined Yuletide from Whoville.

One night, at the end of a shift, John was making final deliveries in a rundown apartment complex. There was a little girl, standing outside the building, waiting for him.

“Did you bring anything for me?” she asked in a small Who-voice.

“What’s your apartment number?” he spat back.

She told him. He rifled through his packages. “Nothing here for you.”

The girl was crestfallen.

After he finished deliveries on foot, the girl was still standing on the curb beside his truck.

“Maybe it got lost,” she said. “Don’t packages get lost sometimes?”

“No,” he said.

“Not even sometimes?”

“No.”

She was now his shadow. The girl wouldn’t leave his side. She kept asking about her package.

Finally, he turned to face her. “Listen, I’m really busy tonight. You need to write down the

tracking number and call the company.”

The little girl turned to walk away, hangdog.

He felt one inch tall.

“Wait,” he called. “Let me look in the back of my truck, just to be sure.”

He knew the package was not in his truck, of course, but he saw no harm in digging through parcels in his truck, pretending.

The girl was patiently waiting outside the vehicle, chatting up a storm.

“It’s a Christmas tree,” she said. “We ordered an inflatable tree. You blow it up.”

“You should always write down your tracking number,” he said. “That way you can follow your package.”

“We’ve never had a Christmas tree before because my mom says we can’t afford one. And they’re messy.

“Plus, Mom’s never home, she’s always at her boyfriend’s…