'I'll be home for Christmas, you can plan on me'

Submitted by Bill St. Clair on Mon, 28 May 2001 10:03:10 GMT
FROM MOUNTAIN MEDIA
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE DATED DEC. 25, 2000
THE LIBERTARIAN, By Vin Suprynowicz
'I'll be home for Christmas, you can plan on me'

And now the bustling streets and malls fall strangely quiet. In many a home the living room rests ankle-deep in an effluvia of ribbons and paper and bows, while in the background someone has left the TV running -- Alastair Sim throws open his window on a bright and shining world for the 47th time, and asks the lad in the street what day this is.

It's Christmas morning, sir. And yes, we certainly do know the shop on the corner with the big, fat goose still hanging in the window.

The bleatings about "commercialization" seem to have faded a bit of late. (Perhaps it's finally sunk into the public consciousness that our mutual funds stay up only so long as the merchants do some business.) Since Christians didn't exactly invent the date -- merely superimposing their own celebration onto a Winter Solstice week of feasting and merriment observed by the Romans and the pagan tribes of a thousand years -- it does seem less than generous to protest whatever traditions others may cherish at this time of year.

Even if that does include animated Santas sledding across the snow on highly unlikely rotary-blade razors.

It even occurs to me that the ancient and modern holidays aren't such a bad fit: The superstitious ancients lighted bonfires and hauled the sacred mistletoe and evergreens indoors out of fear that ghosts of the dead might walk abroad on the longest and darkest night of the year. Yet still they looked on the bright side, celebrating the fact that the lengthening of each day from this point promised the vital return of spring.

Modern Christians, too, celebrate on this date the arrival of a new hope to lead mankind from the darkness.

Here is a day for friends and family, for again celebrating our freedoms and the bounty they create. For make no mistake, the notion that armed men can enforce some uniform brand of "compassion" by mandating the redistribution from those who have earned "too much" to those with less, has been tried now for most of a century across half the globe ... and has universally collapsed in a pitiful heap of poverty, devastation, denial, and finger-pointing.

Only by allowing men and women to profit from the fruits of their labors can a society be truly moral and just. And only by thus allowing each soul to remain a free agent is true, voluntary kindness and charity made possible.

Old-fashioned charity passing away? In fact, with various "well-meaning" governments funding their own "compassionate" demonstrations by delicately filching more than 40 percent from the average paycheck, the wonder is that so much selfless charity still persists.

Back in 1996, Fortune magazine reported the nation's top 25 philanthropists alone gave away $1.5 billion to charitable causes. And the magazine found most of the most generous Americans were self-made; only four inherited their wealth.

Drug legalization activist George Soros donated $350 million that year, followed by retired grocery and drug store magnate L.S. Skaggs, who gave away $155 million.

Computer whiz Bill Gates, chairman of Microsoft, ranked third on Fortune's list with $135 million in donations that year -- back before the federal government decided to try and bring him down for selling a product too many people want.

Heartless capitalists, every one.

Here is a day to thank our lucky stars we live in a land where economic freedom has created so much affordable bounty that -- in the vast majority of American homes this day -- we find ourselves surrounded, in the dead of winter, far from any fertile field, with more delicious plenty than is humanly possible to consume.

There's a tendency to think today's crises must be more complicated and dispiriting than those of simpler days gone by. But in fact, most of today's doubt and confusion pales when we consider how the future hung in the balance for a generation of cold and lonely sailors and G.I.s and Marines, stretched thin on freedom's line, in the desperate Christmas of 1943.

Listen to the radio. When were those songs written? Isn't it interesting, how many come down to us from those desperate days?

Even today, have we no moment of gratitude to spare for the young men and women who stand a frozen vigil on some lonely shore this Christmas day, wishing they, too, could be home sipping cider by the fire?

It was for such as they that Hugh Martin and Ralph Blane wrote, in the far darker days of 1943:

"Have yourself a merry little Christmas, let your heart be light. From now on, our troubles will be out of sight.

"Have yourself a merry little Christmas, make the Yuletide gay. From now on, our troubles will be miles away. ...

"Through the years we all will be together, if the fates allow. Hang a shining star upon the highest bough ... and have yourself a merry little Christmas, now.

It was for such as they that Kim Gannon and Walter Kent wrote, in 1943:

"I'll be home for Christmas, you can plan on me. Please have snow and mistletoe, and presents on the tree.

"Christmas eve will find me, where the lovelight gleams. I'll be home for Christmas ... if only in my dreams."

So Merry Christmas to all. May your days be cheery and bright. And may all your Christmases ... be white.

(Irving Berlin: 1942).


Vin Suprynowicz is assistant editorial page editor of the Las Vegas Review-Journal, and editor of Financial Privacy Report (952-895-8757.) His book, "Send in the Waco Killers: Essays on the Freedom Movement, 1993-1998," is available at 1-800-244-2224; or via web site http://www.thespiritof76.com/wacokillers.html.


Vin Suprynowicz, vin@lvrj.com

"When great changes occur in history, when great principles are involved, as a rule the majority are wrong. The minority are right." -- Eugene V. Debs (1855-1926)

"The whole aim of practical politics is to keep the populace alarmed -- and thus clamorous to be led to safety -- by menacing it with an endless series of hobgoblins, all of them imaginary." -- H.L. Mencken

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