Cagle World

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

When I celebrate Valentine’s Day with my wife, I will be totally unapologetic if my mind wanders to my first crush.

Here’s the backstory. When I was four or five years old, a neighbor lady gave me a box of old Valentines. My favorite was adorned with a little girl who looked like a bee. (Think of a cuter version of the recurring Bees gag during the first season of “SNL.”)

“Honey, bee my Valentine,” she invited.

That mass-produced character was definitely my Main Squeeze, as I fell asleep clutching the card to my bosom.

Flash-forward to 2025. Wife Melissa pooh-poohs my theory of Fate being involved in our paths ever crossing, but I find significance in the fact that her name means… “honeybee.”

(Just as I find significance in the fact that Danny is a diminutive of Daniel, which means “God is my judge.” Especially since my once-lush hair has been weighed in the balance and found wanting.)

What about you? Will February 14 find you laser-focused on your current romantic relationship– or will your mind drift to the land of anxious note-passing, flirtations, brief flings, impulsive break-ups, ships passing in the night (laden with a cargo of mononucleosis), missed opportunities and unrequited love?

Yes, many of us had classmates, neighbors or co-workers who (despite our exuberant helpfulness, longing gazes and bashful stammering) never quite caught on to the fact that we were crazy about them.

Okay, maybe we dodged a bullet, and not just the “I like you as a friend” disclaimer. Mr. or Ms. Oblivious probably possessed too much cranial density to be a good life partner, anyway. (“Those mosquitoes keep swarming around the baby. I wonder if they want something?”)

Still, it’s okay to spend a brief moment thinking about “the one who got away” — unless the full phrase is “the one who got away, and I wish I could still sue that stupid padlock company.”

That’s right; I’m not going to excuse you if your earlier amorous adventures bordered on the stalker-ish. Of course, if that IS the case, Mr. Stephen Stills has a song just for you. (“If you can’t be with the one who Maced you and obtained a restraining order, honey, love the one you’re with.”)

It’s best to appreciate what you have and not beat yourself up over relationships that never blossomed. Don’t obsess over thoughts like “He was perfect — perfect! And if only he had paid attention to me, I could have CHANGED him…”

Perhaps you still bump into the former object of your affection, or maybe you haven’t seen them since the time of your infatuation. If the latter, it’s certainly permissible to send some positive vibes their way and hope that the years have been kind to them. (“I suddenly have a warm feeling that the years have been kind to me. Unfortunately, there’s a TARIFF on those feelings.”)

My mother saved many of my mementos (part of my first haircut, my red rubber boots, my teddy bear); but alas, that special Valentine card is long gone.

It’s just as well. I cherish having a Melissa who is her own strong-willed person instead of a Melissa who possesses a hive mentality.
A Melissa who is her own strong-willed person, yet refrains from launching stinging wisecracks when I can’t even manage a COMB-over anymore.

*Sigh* Happy Valentine’s Day!

–

Copyright 2025 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Danny Tyree welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

In 1936 Bing Crosby entertained the nation by crooning “Pennies From Heaven,” but in 2025 it seems that pennies are The Coin From Hell.

It didn’t happen overnight, but inflation has reared its ugly head (inflation really should emphasize its six-pack abs and sculpted calves instead, but what do I know?) and it now costs the U.S. Mint a whopping 3.7 cents to manufacture and distribute each one-cent piece.

Elon Musk’s Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE) is giving the evil eye to this wasteful situation and shining a spotlight on countless government officials who have kicked the can down the road for decades. (“In my defense, I had ‘reconsider the penny’ on my ‘to do’ list, but the list got buried in a drawer of pennies I never got around to using.”)

The inertia is understandable. Pennies are an annoyance for many people, but they do have a long and storied history in America. Abraham Lincoln’s face didn’t adorn the coin until 1909; but the first U.S. pennies were minted in 1793, with the solemn understanding that “a well regulated Gumball Machine, being necessary to the security of a free State…”

Yes, references to pennies are woven into our cultural identity. You know, like “A penny saved is a penny earned” and “See a penny, pick it up; all the day you’ll have good luck – although TOMORROW you will probably catch tuberculosis or get run over by a horseless carriage or something.”

*Sigh* I suppose such references will become increasingly obscure. Think about Billy Joel’s line “Anthony works in the grocery store, savin’ his pennies for someday.” Future generations will quiz, “What’s a penny? What’s work? Grocery store? You mean the I Think It’s Just A Misdemeanor If You Steal the Walk-in Cooler store?”

Most Americans will roll with the punches if no more pennies are produced, but I’m confident there will be pockets of resistance.

Some diehard numismatists will fight to keep Uncle Sam cranking out pennies at a loss, citing “tradition…tradition!” (If there’s any justice, they’ll get a hernia lugging around enough pennies to buy tickets for a Broadway revival of “Fiddler on the Roof.”)

The curmudgeonly class will be apoplectic over the idea of merchants rounding up a $9.99 total to $10. Rounding down to $9.95 isn’t necessarily a viable long-term solution, because nickels also cost more to produce than their face value. (“I swear, those contractors are dime-and-quartering me to death.”)

And I know the end of pennies would be a shock to the system of people who get their jollies by tying up the checkout lane while they meticulously count out cash, but I’m sure they will adapt. (“Okay, put one cent on this credit card and one cent on this credit card and one cent on this debit card I got from my grandson. Oh, I simply must tell you about the dream the little scamp had the other night about ‘War and Peace’…”)

Many countries have already eliminated their lowest-denomination coin. I think in Russia it mysteriously fell from an upper-story window. Canada was more subtle. (“You’re looking a mite depressed, one-cent coin. Have you ever heard of a little thing called assisted discontinuation?”)

Can’t make heads or tails of the situation? Try your best to modernize your view of economic realities.

“Every time it rains, it rains soggy $20 bills from heaven…”

–

Copyright 2025 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Danny Tyree welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

“You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.”

If you don’t believe in coincidences, perhaps you see a vast conspiracy in the fact that the Bob Dylan biopic “A Complete Unknown” is in theaters at the same time Allen Media Group announces eliminating or reassigning all local meteorologists at its nearly two dozen TV stations nationwide.

Instead of having to fork over money for (yuck!) popular local weather personalities, each lucky station will get weather reports beamed in from The Weather Channel, another Allen Media Group property. (“After the commercial for artificial diamonds, we’ll have more artificial local-ish weather.”)

As someone who almost pursued a career in broadcast journalism and who was unexpectedly downsized from a different industry in the Nineties, my heart goes out to the on-air personalities and the viewers.

I’m old enough to remember when Allen Media Group founder and chief executive Byron Allen was just a nice young man contributing to NBC’s pioneering reality show “Real People.” I guess he now sees Real People as Real Numbers. Everybody talks about the weather, but nobody ever does anything about it — unless it’s time for the quarterly report.

As they say, into each life some beancounters must fall.

The Weather Channel itself underwent staffing reductions last year, so I’m waiting with bated breath to see what further measures will be taken to cut costs. (“Let the weather apps try to compete with us! We’ve cornered the market on Old Farmer’s Almanacs and wooly worm caterpillars! Coming soon: self-service freeze warnings.”)

Ah, I’m being too pessimistic. The press release for the new strategy gushed with predictions of all the technical innovations, gussied-up graphics and enhanced coverage that will come about with the banishment of the meteorologists. You can’t see the cirrocumulus clouds in the sky for all the PIE in the sky!

Yes, sir, divert enough money from payroll and you can afford to launch hypersonic missiles to take out those butterflies in Asia before they can flap their wings and initiate a typhoon.

Still, I haven’t the foggiest notion why reassigning trained meteorologists into lower-profile station functions is remotely justifiable. (“I just got through cleaning the restrooms. Was NOT expecting that much accumulation!”)

Generations of TV viewers have been conditioned to regard the weatherman as an irreplaceable part of the news team/family. Now those hometown celebrities will be The Family Member We Never Mention.

In most broadcast markets, there is something priceless about having a weather personality who lives near the audience and shares sentiments like, “It breaks my heart to see the pavilion flooded. I was there just last weekend for the Parsnip Festival.” Soon there will be just a centralized meteorologist boosting morale with pronouncements such as, “It must stink to be you!”

I have warm memories of countless familiar faces who stood before weather maps in the Nashville area. I hope the Allen Media Group reconfiguration doesn’t start an industry-wide trend of cutbacks.

Because it won’t end with the meteorologists. Beer-bellied “centralized” sportscasters dislocating their shoulders putting on a different team jersey every 30 seconds, anyone?

And don’t get me started on those overpaid news anchors. Accountants will seize upon the cable TV synergy.

“We know you want to hear about the bank robbery and the mayoral scandal, but simmer down. Wait long enough and you can watch it on The History Channel.”

–

Copyright 2025 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Danny Tyree welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

“It’s the goin’ thing!”

That’s the phrase my late mother merrily exclaimed every time she got the opportunity to inform me of some quasi-trend she had discovered via “Good Morning America” or a similar program.

Alas, I am waist-deep in merchandise that is definitely not the goin’ thing.

In my role as an inventory control clerk, I’ve just received a lengthy email list of “dead inventory” (in our case, products that have not sold at all in two years or more), replacing any daydreams of a tropical vacation with thoughts of being stranded on the Island of Misfit Toys.

As you probably realize, dead inventory is anathema for retailers because it ties up funds, occupies space that could be used for a product with a faster rotation and – let’s face it – sets a bad example for employees who move even more slowly.

Whence cometh dead inventory? It can be a combination of overly optimistic purchasing decisions, inept marketing, bad reviews or societal shifts. (I just read that the once-thriving bourbon industry is in decline, at least partly because of dire medical warnings and competition from new nonalcoholic beverages. And the fear of triggering people to type phrases like “whence cometh.”)

Dead inventory can sneak up on stores if they’re juggling thousands of items or wrestling with endless HR issues. Or if someone in the organization is infected with the attitude that makes homeowners maintain drawers full of orphaned electrical cables. (“I hate to mark down these deck chairs designed for the Titanic. They might need them someday!”)

(On a positive note, dead inventory can be one of the major unifying forces in our troubled nation. You know the expression “One woman’s trash is another woman’s treasure”? Imagine those two women linking arms and giggling, “What made those losers think they needed 250 gross of turnip spice lipstick?”)

Slick-talking vendor reps have saddled many a businessperson with products they didn’t remotely need. One wonders how these hucksters sleep at night. (Probably atop a mound of “Re-elect President Bernie in 2020” throw pillows that an even slicker-talking rep stuck THEM with.)

Employees seeing their raises and bonuses devoured by sedentary inventory find themselves asking two pertinent questions: “Who is the complete idiot who ordered all this junk?,” followed by “Yikes! And will that unfairly maligned visionary let me carry my belongings out of my office without an armed escort?”

Finding rhyme or reason in unsellable items can be maddening. Even if you have an essential product at a competitive price with a flawless advertising campaign, the fickle public may greet it with a thunderous round of “Meh.”

One entrepreneur decided to get to the bottom of this behavior and learned that 37 percent of the time, John Q. Public’s explanation is “I held off buying because I thought my Aunt Bernice might get me one for my birthday and then I remembered I don’t have an Aunt Bernice, so your guess is as good as mine.”

Retailers may eventually do something drastic, like bribing “Good Morning America” meteorologist Ginger Zee.
(“The National Weather Service calls for at least six snowflakes to fall in the Southeast, so be sure to hit the stores for bread, milk, toilet paper and metric free-range pukey purple thingamajigs.”)

–

Copyright 2025 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Danny Tyree welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

In 2007 the farmers cooperative for which I work relocated its maintenance shop from the back lot to a building with actual road frontage.

As editor of the company newsletter, I couldn’t resist reporting the change with the headline “We’re movin’ on up.”

I was confident that People of a Certain Age (or People with a Reliable Source of Reruns) would “get” the playful reference.

That’s my roundabout way of saying that January 18 marks the 50th anniversary of the premiere of the legendary Norman Lear sitcom “The Jeffersons,” starring Sherman Hemsley and Isabel Sanford.

Yes, it has been half a century since George and Louise (“Weezy”) Jefferson moved from the Queens neighborhood of Archie Bunker to “a deluxe apartment in the sky” (or at least the Upper East Side of Manhattan).

Thanks to George’s hard work and Louise’s long-suffering support, the family “finally got a piece of the pie.” Granted, such an accomplishment meant more in 1975 than it would in 2025. Nowadays spoilsport RFK Jr. would ask, “Are you sure you really want that pie? Most of the ingredients are banned in Europe…”

Yes, dry-cleaning magnate George (described by one critic as a feisty bantam rooster of a man) pulled himself up by his own bootstraps in the 70s, whereas now he would hire someone with an H-1B visa to pull him up by his own bootstraps.

Dutiful son Lionel, daughter-in-law Jenny and matriarch Olivia “Mother” Jefferson were important parts of the show’s appeal; but back-talking, wisecracking housekeeper Florence Johnston (played by Marla Gibbs) frequently stole the show.

If “The Jeffersons” was being made today, the self-assured Florence would probably be a fact-checker instead. (“The science is settled: I need a raise. And you’re short and losing your hair, and it’s all Trump’s fault.”)

The idea of an interracial couple (neighbors Tom and Helen Willis) was edgy at the time, but pretty tame for 2025. Now you can’t produce a 30-second commercial for replacement windows without the couple first speed-dating the entire United Nations.

Back in the day, tip-hungry doorman Ralph Hart actually performed services for his gratuities. How quaint! Now a typical business announces, “We’re tacking a mandatory 20 percent to your bill because one of our associates nodded in the general direction of the self-checkout.”

In 2025 we wonder whether drones are from another planet; but in the heyday of “The Jeffersons,” George wondered whether eccentric British neighbor Harry Bentley was from another planet.

I hope that new generations can learn to appreciate the series, but relevance won’t be recognized immediately. Few youngsters would care about the line in the theme song “Fish don’t fry in the kitchen, beans don’t burn on the grill” – as long as no banned cooking appliances were involved in the aforementioned frying and burning.

The line “Took a whole lotta tryin’ just to get up that hill”? “Get a *^%$# Uber!” would be the response today.

The thrill of “Now we’re up in the big leagues, gettin’ our turn at bat” would mystify younger viewers, unless the turn at bat involved a $765 million Mets contract.

Oh, well, no matter what the rest of the world thinks, my wife and I will continue to appreciate classic television.

“As long as we live, it’s you and me, baby. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that…unless you stand between me and my high-fructose corn syrup…”
–

Copyright 2025 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Danny Tyree welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

Remember when parents sternly warned, “Don’t take candy from strangers”?

Today’s trendiest parents cheerfully advise, “Do take life-changing child-rearing advice from strangers.”

According to the Wall Street Journal, social media platforms have been inundated with the buzzword “gentle parenting.”

Yes, self-identifying survivors of toxic parenting are now putting their two cents worth in about how to do a more empathetic job of parenting with their own (and, by extension, your) offspring.

(“Go ahead and put that two cents in your mouth, Liam. I don’t know where it’s been, but there’s no sense in traumatizing you.”)

TikTok alone hosts 183,000 videos about gentle parenting, so it’s a highly competitive game for influencers seeking eyeballs. (“Watch me! Watch me! My parents were the absolute worst! I had to chop down my own giant redwood tree for spankings! I’m still grounded, even in case of the Rapture…”)

Parents who are physically abusive or emotionally distant certainly exist, but many observers are leery of this not-exactly-new and hard-to-pin-down phenomenon of “gentle parenting.”

Many aspects of gentle parenting run counter to generations of tradition. You can’t even accuse your kids of throwing a “tantrum” now. Instead, you acknowledge their “big feelings” (and hope that in a few years they don’t make the nightly news for their “mostly peaceful big feelings”).

No more saying, “Don’t hit your sibling.” Now the little darlings must be cajoled to “use gentle hands.” I hope these guardrails are enough to make them grow up as contributing members of society. (“I’m using my gentle shiv, Ma, but it’s not earning me much street cred here on Cell Block B. Bake me a file in a cake…quick!”)

Yelling to stop your child from crying is a big no-no. Take the youngster away from the situation. (“I’m not going to holler at you for kicking the headrest of the passenger in front of you. I’ve got a parachute and there’s the emergency exit. Geronimooooo…”)

When your children become emotional, you’re supposed to get down on their level. (“Validate their concerns!”) Believe it or not, some mothers and fathers are reluctant to treat avant-garde little chefs (“bake the turkey at zero degrees for 300 hours”) as peers.

It’s a tad dishonest to act chill about your child’s every infraction or meltdown when every molecule of your being is screaming, “What the h-e-double-hockey-sticks were you thinking by dragging the trampoline onto the roof???”

Since threats and bribes are verboten in “gentle parenting,” mom and dad no longer get to play “good cop/bad cop.” It’s more like, “Let’s defund the police – and spend the savings on funnel cake, video games and ponies.”

Granted, there are times when the ol’ Bob (“Joy of Painting”) Ross voice can keep the peace. (“Sure, the friends you invited to a kegger without my knowledge trashed the whole house, but just a dab of magenta should…”)

On the other hand, getting too chummy with your kids can actually produce trust issues. (“I can fully understand why you drilled a peephole into the girls’ locker room, Beau. Wait, you’re not wearing a wire, are you?”)

Do you really want your kids’ mentality rubbing off on you? (“You’re right, Emma. This is the worst day of my life, too. That *^%$# intern grabbed the last powdered doughnut. No, I’m not turning this car around. I’m driving it straight off the cliff! Goodbye, cruel world!”)

–

Copyright 2024 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Danny Tyree welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

My wife recalls the night of December 31, 1999 as a time of anxiety and trepidation.

(Of course she views every night as a time of anxiety and trepidation. Okay, I’ll trim my toenails! Are you satisfied???)

*Ahem*

We were at her parents’ home for our customary New Year’s Eve celebration and feared that the ball drop on “Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve” would coincide with the plunging of Times Square into total darkness (and my father-in-law having to use a flashlight instead of the porch light for his obligatory firing-of-the-shotgun-into-the-air ritual).

That’s because the whole world was on edge about the potential apocalypse tied to the highly publicized “Y2K bug.”

You may recall that the looming crisis came about because – in the early days of mainframe computers – computer memory was so prohibitively expensive that programmers opted to take shortcuts and kick the can down the road. They (well, their employers) chose to identify 4-digit years with 2-digit numbers because with their 20th-century prejudice, it would “always” be 19-something-or-another.

(Seriously. You can buy a 64-gigabyte micro-SD card for a pittance now, but memory used to require collateral and a co-signer. President Reagan brought the Soviet Union to economic collapse with a military buildup, but the Gipper could just as easily have accomplished it by tricking the Evil Empire into producing a single video of a water-skiiing squirrel.)

As the year 2000 approached, leaders in government and industry began pondering what all could go wrong with telecommunications, bond maturity dates, age restrictions, prison sentences and other vital considerations if computers suddenly decided that it was January 1, 1900 instead of January 1, 2000.

Understandably, some of the biggest fears involved public utilities. (“Your water ceased flowing at midnight? Have no fear. We’ll dispatch a barbershop quartet in a horseless carriage right away.”)

As it turned out, computer-related problems were relatively minor in the opening days of 2000, and that has been a bone of contention for me. Over the years, I have often bristled when some loudmouth skeptic scoffed about the (admittedly expensive) preemptive measures taken to soften the blow of Y2K.

I wasn’t a programmer, but I worked in data processing until 1998 and was on the periphery of the tireless effort put into anticipating and patching the myriad things that could experience chaos with purchasing, receiving, manufacturing and payroll.

The attitude of the skeptics is like some Monday morning quarterback pontificating, “I don’t know why we had to build all those planes and draft all those boys. Hitler wound up hiding in a bunker and committing suicide, anyway.”

Granted, hype was plentiful. Shelters, generators and canned goods sold like crazy. The news media went into overdrive on breathless reporting. (“You’d be breathless, too, if you realized that plants might stop performing photosynthesis on January 1!”) Authors cranked out opportunistic page-turners. (“101 Places You Must Visit Before Your Nerf Gun Stops Working,” anyone?)

Some evangelists promised the Rapture. Or at least a nation coming closer to finding the right priorities, a nation coming closer to God, a nation coming closer to helping them buy a second condo in Boca Raton…

My family will mark the anniversary quietly; but if you wish, you may Party Like It’s 1999.

No, not 1899! There’s no cocaine in the Coke and Uber is fresh out of bicycles built for two!

–

Copyright 2024 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Danny Tyree welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

My Facebook “Memories” remind me that my son Gideon has always been ahead of his time.

Fourteen years ago, I was reading a book of world history for his bedtime stories. I gushed about Alexander the Great becoming king and launching his conquest of the known world when he was young – only 20.

“Hmph. You mean you call that young?” was Gideon’s skeptical retort.

Fast forward to 2024. A study by Horizon Media shows 20 percent of people ages 25 to 34 already feel middle-aged.

Yes, job stress, caregiver duties, mortgage rates, inflation and societal expectations (“Hey, if you can find the time to sell your blood, you can find the time to give me five or six grandchildren”) have upended the traditional view of middle age spanning the approximate ages 40 to 62.

Wrinkles, gray or thinning hair and heretofore unknown aches and pains are showing up early – and suggesting, “Hey, that new piercing would be great for holding a Life Alert button!”

Young people can’t win for losing when it comes to employment. Either they’re overworked and juggling too many responsibilities or they’re constantly dreading an economic upheaval. Gone are the days when you could start at a company during high school, work there until you died and then be offered, “Hey, if you’d like to earn a few bucks haunting the bums who spend too much time around the water cooler…”

It used to be that when you combined a diploma with a smattering of work experience, you still felt 10 feet tall and bullet-proof. Now you’re more likely to warble, “We represent the Lollipop Guild, the Lollipop Guild, the Lollipop Guild…”

Young adults of an earlier age had big dreams and ambitions to change the world and make a name for themselves. Now it’s a matter of experiencing nightmares about HR and struggling to find the motivation to change the calendar. (“Hey, Dad…fixing the toilet in the basement can wait. Can you come down and give me a sneak peek at January?”)

And the name you make for yourself is “New Guy Who Starts Wheezing When He Puts Fresh Batteries In The Laser Pointer.”

Remember when The Who sang, “I hope I die before I get old”? Now the sentiment is “I hope I get finished needing zit cream before I get old.”

On a positive note, the new reality may discourage a few young-ish punks from rushing to violence. (“I oughta kick your butt for that, man – but I left my sensible shoes back at the apartment.”)

Humans will always have a yen for alcohol, but I expect drinking games to yield to other entertainments. Instead of downing another shot every time a movie character says a certain word, twentysomething party-goers would put five bucks in a Roth IRA.

Can you imagine the impact of the new paradigm on the proverbial “mid-life crisis”? Business interns still depending on mass transit will wail, “I’ve got to have a red convertible subway! Let the top down on this thing! And I want a curvy blonde with great big…excuses for not going out after sundown.”

I hope Gideon’s health and attitude can escape the looming “premature middle-age” trap.

I’d like to wait at least a couple of decades before hearing, “You know, Alexander would’ve been even greater if he had sprung for orthopedic seats on his riding mower…”

–

Copyright 2024 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Danny Tyree welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

Some years, families are blessed to initiate festive new Christmas traditions.

Other years, the new tradition is a solemn acquiescence to “the new normal.”

The Tyrees fall into the latter category this year.

That’s because my mother passed away exactly two months before Christmas, having shared her wit and wisdom with the world for 97-and-a-half years. (Nonagenarians and little kids get to count the half.)

Although Mom took a perverse pride in finding kindred spirits who didn’t quite “get” my sense of humor, she generally tried her best to make me feel special.

Alas, in one sense, I’m not so special: I’m just like the millions of other people facing a newly empty seat (at the dinner table, around the hearth, at the company holiday party) in this season of merriment.

Whether it’s because of death, estrangement, relocation or military service, many of us are not able to share the season with all our loved ones.

Sooner or later, all of us are represented by an empty seat. But my heartfelt wish is that you, dear reader, will not be the missing person for a long, long time.

Longevity does not come about by accident, however. Stop texting while driving. Don’t treat your body’s warning signs like the often-dismissed “check engine soon” indicator. Cooperate with the police. Treat “what could possibly go wrong?” as more than a rhetorical question.

As far as estrangement goes, if you can swallow great-aunt Gertrude’s mystery-veggie casserole, you can swallow your pride. Put the metaphorical matches on the top shelf so it’s harder to burn bridges behind you. Listen to Louis Armstrong’s “What A Wonderful World” again and realize there’s more to life than politics.

However many months, years or decades you have left, live every day in a way that will make your inevitable empty chair a trigger for saying, “I miss them” rather than “It’s about time!”

Most importantly, don’t be the sort of person who can be spoken of only in the past tense.

Well-worn family/co-worker anecdotes are priceless. But if you’re separated by distance, display the qualities that will help everyone trust that your education or career will bring you many new milestones and adventures.

Whenever you do shuffle off this mortal coil, don’t let your present and future be the elephant in the room that everyone tiptoes around.

Let your friends and loved ones be confident that you are indeed “in a better place.”

Make sure they know that there is no “No room at the inn” sign on that better place.

There is still time to embrace the Good News delivered by that baby in the manger.

Live in a way that even the most skeptical will be inspired to seek Him.

I take solace in the fact that my mother was baptized (in the creek) at age 20 and was still driving herself to church at 90 (and still getting to church an hour early when someone else took over driving).

I’m relieved that I don’t have to rationalize, “She’s not really dead as long as she lives in the hearts of those who loved her, although once her youngest grandchild kicks off…”

Seize the opportunity to learn more about God’s plan for you, or to rekindle spiritual fervor that had faded away.

The Tyrees plan a muted but merry Christmas.

Merry Christmas to you.

Let earth receive her king.

–

Copyright 2024 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Danny Tyree welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

A large part of my collection was destroyed earlier this year, but I still have visions of the world’s largest stockpile of Christmas music dancing in my head.

I cherish a handful of songs that I “must” hear each yuletide season, but my reach inevitably exceeds my grasp as I try to “have it all.”

Part of that is attributable to my wife. She’s no Grinch, but she detests being bombarded with a month’s worth of silver bells and reindeer-trampled grandmas at home, so I must squeeze in precious moments of listening at work and in my car. In the latter venue, my divided loyalties mean the songs are interspersed with talk radio. It’s amazing how smoothly “Mary, did you know?” segues into “No, because the Deep State hid it from me. From all of us!”

Christmas is special to me because it’s when the old-style crooners get to shine. Imagine, singers who actually articulate! Singers who don’t feed the microphone all the way down to their spleen. Singers who don’t get drowned out by a teeth-rattling guitar solo that lasts longer than the quest of the Magi!

Ah, the classic song stylists. My hobby gives me the opportunity to compare and contrast umpteen renditions of perpetually popular songs. Granted, I feel disloyal when I discover a version almost as good as what Bing, Judy, Dean, Frank, Elvis, Perry, Andy or Burl produced. Sacrilege! (I’ll be home for Christmas…unless the house is haunted by jealous legendary performers.)

Thanks to YouTube, I also get the chance to discover underappreciated “lost” ditties such as the 1947 “Santa Claus For President.” (Perhaps the next Trump administration will declassify archived documents and finally reveal whether Pres. Harry S Truman did in fact ask, “Are you sure we don’t have another A-bomb to drop on, I don’t know …the North Pole?”)

Every A-list artist, rising star, has-been and never-was seemingly has at least one Christmas album buried somewhere deep inside. Some are narcissists and don’t truly respect the source material. Trust me: any time a song about snowmen or angelic hosts begins with “Oh, saaaay can you seeeeeeeee,” someone is showing off.

But who am I to stand in the way of other people’s dreams? There’s something sweet about hearing, “Ever since I was a little tyke, I always dreamed of growing up to record a Christmas song. That, and biting the head off of Ozzy Osbourne.”

It’s fascinating to see how many agnostics, atheists and Baal worshippers are eager to belt out spiritual Christmas songs. (“Joy to the world, the royalty check is come! Let earth receive her Almighty Dollar!”)

I love to discover which songs people adore and which ones drive them crazy. I’ll never forget the fellow who gets triggered by Paul McCartney incessantly warbling, “Simply having a wonderful Christmastime. Simply having a wonderful Christmastime.” (“I wanna hold your throat, I wanna hold your throoooooat!”)

Don’t fight it. Join me in reveling in Christmas music.

The right mix of seasonal music can help you maintain tranquility during the stressful holidays. Peace on earth takes some preparation, because often you’re less interested in decking the halls than in decking your know-it-all in-laws.

Now I’ll put “White Christmas” on the MP3 player. Hey, this version is even better than …

Uh oh.

Oh, I want an exorcist or two for Christmas. Only an exorcist will do…

–

Copyright 2024 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Danny Tyree welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.”