The new year

Just a baby, but on the job

Aren’t you the most pwecious thing? Aren’t you the most pwecious thing ever? Yes you are! Ye-e-e-s you are! Ah-boo-boo-boo. Ah-boo-boo-boo.

Now sit up straight. Quit goo-gooing and babbling. Stop the drooling. You need to grow up. Fast. Leggo your toes for a minute and pay attention. Put down the rattle. This is serious.

We don’t mean to scare you, kid, but this ain’t gonna be easy. Monsters under the bed? A blown nightlight? Beet juice leaking onto the mac and cheese? That’s child’s play. What you’re going to see will age you. Fast. Like in about 12 months. Which is how long you’ve got before you grow old and get to retire. Let’s hope your time here goes better for you than it does for most years.

Little 2001 had no idea what was in store for him. Poor fella. We would’ve warned him if we’d known. We’d have warned everybody. Especially the FBI and CIA and the Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines, Coast Guard … . everybody.

But who can see what waits around the corner? Who could have predicted 1941’s problems? Even on Dec. 6, all seemed quiet. Time, and history, marches on.

You’ll march, too. As soon as you learn to walk. If all goes right, or if at least most goes right, you will march on and 70 years from now folks won’t be talking about you. The most you can hope for is to be praised in 12 months, then quickly forgotten, like 1953 or 1983. Good years. We still miss them.

Not that even the best years don’t have their problems.

For all the modern nostalgia for the Eisenhower or Reagan presidencies, people forget that the Korean War was still a shooting war until July 1953, and that the Marine Corps’ barracks was blown up in Beirut in October 1983. Both were Cold War Years, when folks always had to have The End in mind. It almost got here in 1962.

Nope, no year is perfect. No day or hour is perfect. The best you can wish for is not to be like 1861, or one of his bloody stepbrothers 1862, 1863 or 1864.

But look, kid, we don’t have time for tears. You gotta get moving. You’re already on the clock. Let’s pack for the journey:

Here are some boots. You’re going to need them. As much as you’d wish to avoid it all, politics will happen. State, local and national. They will call you an “off year” for elections, with a straight face. But there are no off years for politics in America, and there never were.

Here’s a few bucks, just to get you by. The economy is still unsteady, to be polite about it, and you’ll have to provide for yourself pretty fast. We’d hate for you to go cold or hungry till you get yourself on your feet—or at least out of diapers.

On second thought, take the checkbook. You might need it.

You’ll need a handkerchief, too. They all do. Especially wartime years. And this year, like all years, is a wartime year, with Putin’s War raging in Ukraine. Emphasis on raging. It would be grand if you could be remembered as one of the years when wars ended — in victory for the good guys. The way we remember 1945 or 1918. If you can see your way to arrange that, the rest of us will be celebrating next New Year’s Eve with a bit more verve.

Last year, there were not only wars and rumors of wars, but hurricanes and floods and earthquakes. We lost Gallagher in 2022. The world isn’t as funny a place now. Folks lost jobs, houses and parents. We’ll never have a year without sadness.

Then again, we’ll never have a year without happiness, either. We’ve got to believe that, too.

Think about how many times in the next few months grandparents will welcome grandkids into the house after a too-long absence.

Think about the presents that will be unwrapped on birthdays and Christmas. And the rings that will appear on restaurant tables as a young man asks his lady to be his lady forever. Or the recitals of little girls pounding out their tunes on a piano after so many hours of practice. Or when a doctor walks into a waiting room and tells the family, “It’s a girl.”

You’ll need a handkerchief for those moments, too. You might need more than one.

Here’s a red shirt. That little pig on it is essential wear in this state. Here’s a copy of “True Grit” and “Animal Farm,” which are books that everybody needs to read as juveniles (then again as adults).

Here’s a suit. You’ll need it for weddings. And funerals. Here’s a pair of sandals. You’ll need them at the Buffalo River in August. Here are some camo shirts, which you’ll need in the fall. And here is an umbrella, which you will need often enough in Arkansas.

Here’s a newspaper subscription, too. You’ll need to keep up with what’s really news.

Here’s a coat. It’s cold outside. And a swimsuit for the summer. This is Arkansas, you know. We’ve stashed some fishing poles along the route for May, and some fireworks for July.

Keep your chin up. This could be the best year yet.

But you have to get going, young as you are.

Don’t pout.

We’ll go with you.