Cagle World

Girl Scout cookies are back, and the new inverted food pyramid gives me permission to eat them — sort of.

I’m addicted to Girl Scout cookies, you see.

I measure Thin Mints servings by the sleeve, not the cookie.

I gobble down Tagalongs the way grizzlies gorge on wild salmon.

I once ordered so many Do-si-dos that the Girl Scout supply chain people called to tell me they “don’t-si-don’t” have enough ingredients.

So I was delighted to learn that my cookie addiction isn’t entirely my fault.

Robert F. Kennedy Jr., U.S. secretary of Health and Human Services, has criticized highly processed snacks, which scientists say are engineered to hit the “bliss point” — the perfect mix of sugar, fat and salt that can hijack the brain’s reward system and override natural fullness signals to keep us chomping.

Processed foods also contain refined flours, hydrogenated oils, emulsifiers and preservatives — cheap ingredients designed to extend shelf life and fatten profit margins.

These ingredients spike blood sugar, trigger insulin surges and store calories as fat far more efficiently than whole foods ever could — a chief reason so many Americans are chubby.

Which brings us to the food pyramid — and its dramatic makeover.

The U.S. Department of Agriculture has been tinkering with dietary guidance since 1894, when chemist W. O. Atwater issued advice on what to eat.

In 1943, the wartime “Nutrition at Work” program featured the Basic Seven food groups: milk, meat, fruits, vegetables, cereals, butter and sugar.

By the 1960s, the groups were reduced to the Basic Four: milk, meat, fruits and vegetables, and grains.

In 1977, the focus shifted away from fats and sugars in favor of loading up on carbs.

By 1984, the groups were arranged in a triangle, creating the first food pyramid.

In 1992, the food pyramid — heavily influenced by Big Agriculture and Big Food lobbyists — was remade to promote grains, dairy and meat products. Sugary breakfast cereals, bleached, fiberless bread and other highly refined junk got a free pass.

In 2011, the pyramid was replaced by MyPlate, a plate graphic that divided food into fruits, vegetables, grains, protein and dairy. Though it made meal planning easier, it didn’t warn against processed foods.

That didn’t happen until Jan. 7, 2026, when RFK Jr. and USDA Secretary Brooke Rollins completely reset the government’s 2025–2030 Dietary Guidelines.

They reintroduced the food pyramid and flipped it upside down — with protein, full-fat dairy, healthy fats, vegetables and fruits at the top and grains at the bottom.

For the first time, government guidance calls out highly processed foods, added sugars, refined carbs and artificial additives as items to avoid — and showcases healthy, nutrient-dense foods we are encouraged to eat.

Critics of the revised guidelines, largely Democrats, say the emphasis on saturated fats from red meat and full-fat dairy ignores decades of evidence linking them to heart disease — they argue that some ultra-processed foods should be banned altogether.

Supporters, largely Republicans, praise it as a common-sense approach that prioritizes whole foods, while retaining the freedom for people to make informed decisions about what they put in their mouths.

All I know is I will do my best to eat fewer Girl Scout cookies this year.

You see, in 2021, 8-year-old Girl Scout Lilly Bumpus sold a record 32,484 boxes.

I was her only customer.

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Copyright 2026 Tom Purcell, distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

See Tom Purcell’s syndicated column, humor books and funny videos featuring his dog, Thurber, at TomPurcell.com. Email him at [email protected].

Groundhog Day levity has arrived just in time — but not everyone thinks so.

Every Feb. 2, Phil the Groundhog emerges from his burrow at Gobbler’s Knob in Punxsutawney, Pa. If he sees his shadow, winter will last six more weeks; if not, spring is just around the corner.

This quirky ritual was brought to Punxsutawney in 1887 by Pennsylvania Dutch immigrants of German descent. Its roots trace to European weather lore on Candlemas Day, a Christian feast celebrated Feb. 2. In German-speaking regions, a proverb held that sunny skies on Candlemas meant more winter, while cloudy skies signaled an early spring.

Over time, this tradition merged with the idea of a hibernating animal — a badger in Europe, a groundhog in America — emerging from its den. Thus began a grand spectacle.

Every year, members of the Punxsutawney Groundhog Club don tuxedos and top hats, recite mock prognostications and perform choreographed rituals before roughly 50,000 spectators and millions more worldwide.

But not everyone is celebrating the event.

Some users on X (formerly Twitter) and Reddit say the tradition is sexist and outdated because the 15 Inner Circle members who run the event are all male.

In a Jan. 7, 2026, letter to the editor of the Times-Tribune, Scranton-area resident Krista Murray called the Inner Circle a “symbol of patriarchal power in a society that seems reluctant to embrace gender equality, even in frivolity and pageantry.” She asked if this year’s festivities would bring “six more weeks of misogyny?”

Misogyny? Really?

Only in these highly sensitive times would someone elevate the right to yank a rodent out of a tree stump to the level of — I don’t know — women’s suffrage.

It’s true that Phil and most other famous prognosticators — Wiarton Willie, Staten Island Chuck and Buckeye Chuck — are all male. But even NPR defends the decision: male groundhogs, eager to mate, emerge from their burrows two weeks before females do. Phil predicts the weather every Feb. 2 for the simple reason that Phyllis is still sleeping.

But for those determined to overanalyze Groundhog Day, here’s a juicy angle: some allege that, before Phil married, the Inner Circle provided him with a groundhog harem — three nubile single females.

That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, 15 elderly Punxsutawney men once trafficked in Woodchucks of the Night!

Which brings us to the event’s most vocal critic, People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals.

Even though Phil lives in climate-controlled accommodations at the Punxsutawney Memorial Library, enjoys a gourmet diet and top-notch medical care, PETA is crying foul.

They say that Phil is shy — that yanking him out of a stump before bright lights and a large crowd induces incredible stress.

Their solution? Replace Phil with a giant gold coin toss, a vegan “Weather Reveal” cake or a massive 3D groundhog hologram.

Look, Groundhog Day, now in its 139th year, raises money for local charities, supports scholarships and creates numerous educational opportunities around weather, wildlife preservation and local history.

Such silly traditions celebrate our common humanity and bring a much-needed respite to our chaotic lives — particularly during an especially miserable winter.

I’m hoping Phil takes a few extra hits of his special elixir and promises us an early spring this year — and six fewer weeks of people taking Groundhog Day way too seriously.

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Copyright 2026 Dick Polman, distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Dick Polman, a veteran national political columnist based in Philadelphia and a Writer in Residence at the University of Pennsylvania, writes the Subject to Change newsletter. Email him at [email protected]

When I was a kid in the 1970s, no words broadcast on KDKA radio were sweeter than: “Bethel Park School District — closed.”

The moment we heard them, we threw on our snow gear and headed for the sled slopes, determined to squeeze every free second out of a stolen weekday break.

Most kids in New York City will never know this rite of passage.

Sure, Mayor Zohran Mamdani shuttered schools on Monday, Jan. 26, because of snow — but he also mandated that children attend classes remotely, using a multi-million-dollar virtual learning system the city built in 2021 during the peak of COVID.

“It’s not going to be a traditional snow day — that is a determination we’ve made,” said Mamdani, slipping into the third-person gobbledygook socialist Democrats use when they’re really saying “snow days are an inconvenience for me!”

Across the border in Connecticut, meanwhile, school districts from Greenwich to Vernon took the opposite approach.

They preserved snow days because, said one superintendent, “kids should be kids.”

The truth is, children need snow days now more than ever.

Modern children live under constant adult supervision, rigid schedules, standardized expectations with their faces buried nonstop in electronic screens.

Psychologists have long argued that unstructured play — enabled by snow days — is critical to healthy development. It builds independence, creativity and emotional resilience.

Psychologists also note that remote instruction often amounts to token assignments and attendance checks, accomplishing little educational value — yet it still counts as a required school day, which is all the bureaucracy cares about.

Working parents get a raw deal, too. They must rearrange schedules, monitor attendance and make sure their kids are logged in and compliant — no small feat when you consider NYC’s system crashed during a snow storm in 2024.

Of course, NYC’s policy isn’t designed around the needs of children or families. It’s designed around the needs of the bureaucracy.

State law requires NYC — just like Connecticut and many other states — to complete 180 days of school each year.

One or two snow days shouldn’t be a problem, right?

Wrong. It poses a huge problem for the NYC school bureaucracy.

First, the teachers’ union doesn’t want its late-June vacation plans to be disrupted by a single added day.

Second, calendars and testing schedules must be reshuffled and buses rescheduled — extra work for bureaucrats.

Third, century-old agricultural rules — kept firmly in place by the teachers’ union — forbid starting the school year before Labor Day, a week after most school districts begin nationwide, which limits snow-day flexibility.

Fourth, over the past decade, inclusive NYC has added three new school holidays — Eid, Diwali and Lunar New Year — to recognize Muslim, Hindu and Asian communities. Though the intent is well intentioned, it again limits snow-day flexibility.

Thus, if Mamdani were leader enough to issue a snow day, he’d have to deal with forced makeup days in late June, teacher union grievances, disrupted testing schedules, summer vacation conflicts and labor negotiations with everyone from school-lunch servers to school-guard staff.

Add it all up and here is the key takeaway:

The bureaucracy will always do what is best for the bureaucracy — to hell with the NYC kids, who will never experience the raw, unplanned joy of a glorious snow day.

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Copyright 2026 Tom Purcell, distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

See Tom Purcell’s syndicated column, humor books and funny videos featuring his dog, Thurber, at TomPurcell.com. Email him at [email protected].

I drove my 89-year-old mother through our old Pittsburgh neighborhood last Sunday.

It was like many suburban neighborhoods that sprouted up across America in the 1960s and ’70s.

Many of the people who moved there grew up in the city. They wanted more spacious houses for their growing families — and big yards where kids could play.

Many also wanted to be near St. Germaine Catholic Church and its elementary school a few blocks away.

We moved into our new house in 1964, when I was 2. It was a basic, rectangular house — brick on the bottom, white siding on the top.

Kids were everywhere: the Gillens had four kids; the Bennetts, three; the Kriegers, five; the Ruffs, five. We had six. The Hueys had 12.

It was a traditional time. Fathers worked and worried about the bills. Most mothers stayed home and worried about the kids.

When the young parents moved into their newly built homes, most were in their 20s or early 30s.

As sole breadwinners, families lacked the funds to hire tradesmen, so dads spent Saturdays helping each other plant grass and trees, pour concrete patios and remodel basements into wood-paneled family rooms.

Moms ran the neighborhood. They knew where every kid was at every moment.

We were free to play outside all day, but God forbid if we tried any mischief — as we would immediately face the wrath of “wait until your father gets home!”

Despite the struggles these parents encountered, they stayed married. They believed they became one under God and would stay together until death did them part.

These salt-of-the-earth people gave us a stable childhood with positive role models who promoted strong values.

In 1999, 34 years after my parents moved into our childhood home, they moved to their mid-century-modern dream home a few miles away.

In 2000, my parents threw a party for the old neighbors, and my father asked me to tend bar.

I learned things about these good people I never knew — for starters, that each had been a child of the Depression.

One told me how the row house he grew up in was freezing cold in the morning because his father conserved coal.

Another told me how his father, who had been a successful accountant, couldn’t find employment after the company he worked for went under during the Depression. His family lost its house, and he and his brothers were scattered among relatives.

Another told me that for nearly 20 years, he worked three jobs as a printer — 60 hours a week. He didn’t buy his first new car until he was 65.

Every one of these parents worked hard to get ahead. Many went to school at night on the GI Bill.

They chose good jobs — not dream jobs — to send their kids to Catholic school and on to trade schools and college.

Every one of them raised children who are flourishing in life in their 50s and 60s — many still my lifelong friends.

As I discuss in my humorous memoir, “Misadventures of a 1970s Childhood,” these Silent Generation parents did better in life than they ever imagined.

As my mother and I drove through the old neighborhood, we smiled at the wonderful memories — but were saddened that so many of our old neighbors have passed on.

It was my honor to bartend for them 26 years ago.

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Copyright 2026 Tom Purcell, distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

See Tom Purcell’s syndicated column, humor books and funny videos featuring his dog, Thurber, at TomPurcell.com. Email him at [email protected].

Note to editors: A version of this column was distributed for Martin Luther King Jr. Day in 2025.

He helped pave the way for Martin Luther King Jr. and others to end Jim Crow — but few know his name.

So respected was this civil rights pioneer that, at his funeral in 1961, future Supreme Court Justice Thurgood Marshall served as a pallbearer, and King delivered his invocation.

His name is John Wesley Dobbs.

I learned about his incredible story after reading Bill Steigerwald’s powerful 2017 book, “30 Days a Black Man,” which documents Dobbs’ civil rights contributions.

Born into poverty in 1882 in rural Kennesaw, Georgia, Dobbs’ parents were former slaves — his mother’s biological father was a slave owner.

Smart and driven, Dobbs educated himself by reading constantly. Though he attended college briefly, he had to drop out to care for his ill mother and never earned a college degree.

In his early 20s, he passed the federal civil service exam and became a railway clerk for the U.S. Post Office.

For 32 years, he sorted mail overnight on trains from Atlanta, armed with a pistol. Rising to the position of supervisor — a remarkable feat for a Black man in the Jim Crow era — he earned enough to support his family of six daughters while gaining respect in Atlanta’s African American community.

A gifted orator who memorized hundreds of poems and Shakespearean lines, Dobbs believed the best way to end Jim Crow was through the ballot box.

He worked tirelessly to register thousands of Black voters in Atlanta and used his growing influence with the white Democratic power structure to get the city to hire its first Black police officers.

It was in 1948 — at age 66 — that Dobbs risked his life to bring national media attention to the injustice 10 million Black Americans were suffering daily under Jim Crow.

Up North, a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist from the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette named Ray Sprigle decided to go undercover as a light-skinned Black man in the Jim Crow South for a month.

Teamed with Sprigle by the NAACP, Dobbs guided and protected him during their 3,000-mile car journey.

Dobbs introduced Sprigle to sharecroppers, families of lynching victims and local leaders. They visited segregated schools and stayed in the homes of Black farmers and doctors.

Sprigle, deeply moved and angered by what he saw and experienced, said he was ashamed to be an American.

His newspaper series documenting life in the Deep South shocked white readers in the North.

Time magazine praised Sprigle’s series. So did national Black leaders and Eleanor Roosevelt. It was syndicated to about a dozen major newspapers from New York to Seattle — but nowhere in the South.

To protect Dobbs, Sprigle never mentioned him by name. The general public barely knew of Dobbs’ role until Steigerwald wrote about his story for the Post-Gazette in 1998.

Dobbs died in 1961 — the same week that Atlanta’s public schools were integrated.

By that time, all six of his daughters had graduated from Spelman College and gone on to become professors, educators and community leaders. One of them, Mattiwilda, became a famous opera singer in Europe.

But Dobbs’ legacy extended even further: In 1974, his grandson, Maynard Jackson Jr., became the first Black mayor of Atlanta.

Long before landmark laws were passed and marches filled the streets, Dobbs’ work helped push the nation toward the civil rights breakthroughs that finally dismantled Jim Crow.

And now you know John Wesley Dobbs’ name.

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Copyright 2026 Tom Purcell, distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

See Tom Purcell’s syndicated column, humor books and funny videos featuring his dog, Thurber, at TomPurcell.com. Email him at [email protected].

I was so determined to hit Jimmy Miller in the shins with my toboggan that I didn’t notice the pond.

Maybe I’d better explain.

Winter is upon us. When the snow falls, there’s only one place a kid should be: out in the elements riding sleds down slippery slopes.

Too few children do that anymore.

That’s why they’re suffering from Nature Deficit Disorder, a term coined by journalist Richard Louv in his book “Last Child in the Woods.”

Louv spent 10 years traveling around America interviewing parents, kids, teachers, researchers and others to learn about children’s experiences with nature.

His findings?

By withdrawing from nature, children lose their sense of being rooted in the world. They’re more likely to experience stress, hyperactivity, attention-deficit disorder and other modern maladies.

But immersing them in nature produces the opposite result.

“We don’t yet know why it happens, but when all five of a child’s senses come alive, a child is at an optimum state of learning,” Louv told me. “Creativity and cognitive functioning go way up.”

A 2025 study published in the International Journal of Environmental Research and Public Health supports Louv’s findings. It found that unstructured play in natural settings improves cognitive function and reduces attention fatigue.

Which brings us back to Jimmy Miller.

One Sunday afternoon, after a fast run down the hill, I picked up my cheap plastic toboggan and began to climb the hillside for another run. That’s when Miller tagged me.

Unlike most kids, who rode sleds solely for the thrill of whipping down the hill, Miller got his kicks out of knocking kids off their feet. He hit me just below the knees, causing me to go posterior over tin cups.

I spent the rest of that day with vengeance on my mind. I made several runs looking to tag Miller back. I finally saw my opportunity. Just after he jumped on his sled and took a run, I jumped onto my plastic toboggan just behind him.

My timing was superb. As he finished his run and got on his feet, I hit him square in the shins, causing him to go posterior over tin cups.

So delighted was I with my success, I didn’t notice the pond at the bottom of the hill on the other side of Miller.
You see, Mr. Ayres had dammed up the creek that ran through his yard to form a small pond a few feet deep.

Just after I hit Miller, I landed in the pond’s center on a patch of thin ice — which quickly broke, sending me to the muddy bottom.

Drenched and freezing cold, I barely made it home — though, having repaid Miller, I was grinning the whole way.

I was lucky I got to spend my childhood out in the elements — free to play, roam and discover.

I was lucky I had to figure some things out on my own — such as how to deal with ruffians on the sled slopes.

Hey, winter is upon us.

Let’s get our kids to turn off their smartphones and video games and head to snow-covered hills for some much-needed exhilaration.

There are few better ways to ignite all five senses — and foster healthy, creative minds.

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Copyright 2026 Tom Purcell, distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

See Tom Purcell’s syndicated column, humor books and funny videos featuring his dog, Thurber, at TomPurcell.com. Email him at [email protected].

As the new year begins, the media roll out their annual tributes to the rich and famous who’ve passed on.

But I’d rather tell you about one of the wealthiest fellows I ever met — John Swiatek, who died in 2009 just shy of his 84th birthday.

John was born in 1925, the only son in a family with five daughters. His family lived in a row house on Pittsburgh’s North Side.

He was just five when the Depression hit, and his family struggled for years. He didn’t know the joy of indoor plumbing until he was in his teens.

By financial measures, his family was poor, but John didn’t know it. The family had a roof over its head, enough food to eat — it had laughter and caring neighbors.

He graduated from high school in 1942 at 17 and passed on a scholarship to play college basketball to enlist in the Navy.

World War II was underway. He was on a ship in the South Pacific when a typhoon hit. The ship washed ashore in enemy territory. John hid in a cave and scavenged for food at night, but survived.

One day, while walking down the streets of Iwo Jima, he bumped into his brother-in-law, who was also serving in the Navy. They enjoyed a brief reunion.

His brother-in-law was killed the next day when a Japanese kamikaze airplane hit the ship on which he served.

John made it home, though. He went on a blind date with Anna Mae O’Toole. He was 100 percent Polish; she was 100 percent Irish.

It was a match made in heaven. They would have four children and 12 grandchildren.

John became a firefighter. His first fire was in a warehouse on Pittsburgh’s South Side. He and the veteran firefighter who was training him were battling the blaze when a high-voltage wire broke loose.

The wire whipped about violently. It just missed John but hit the firefighter next to him, killing the man instantly.

John worked as a firefighter the next 23 years. He always had at least two jobs — sometimes three.

He set aside every penny to provide for his family — sending his kids to private Catholic schools and saving for college.

Material things never impressed him. He had a modest home, a basic car. All he cared about was his family.

John never became famous or financially well-to-do.

He was an honest man who toiled in silence.

He paid his bills on time, voted and was a good neighbor.

He was a firm but loving father, his oldest son said, and his example left a powerful impact on his children and grandchildren.

John had no way of knowing it, but the decisions he made in his life would benefit total strangers.

His honesty and goodness took root in his children and his children’s children — character traits that are benefiting my family now.

My sister married John’s youngest son, a good man like his father who devoted himself to his wife and three children, who are now flourishing as adults.

As the new year begins and the media dwell on the rich and famous, I think it’s worth remembering a genuine American hero: John Swiatek — one of the wealthiest fellows I ever met.

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Copyright 2026 Tom Purcell, distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

See Tom Purcell’s syndicated column, humor books and funny videos featuring his dog, Thurber, at TomPurcell.com. Email him at [email protected].

Get this: the federal government is offering New Year’s advice on improving our health and managing our money — courtesy of the National Institutes of Health and the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau.

Their first recommended resolution: getting fit.

According to the NIH’s “Making Your Resolutions Stick” page, common resolutions include eating more nutritious foods and losing weight.
Great idea, federal government — but don’t you see the irony in advising citizens to slim down, while your own corpulence — fiscal, bureaucratic and otherwise — continues to bloat?

Here’s another government recommendation: exercise more.

The NIH notes that regular physical activity reduces the risk of serious diseases, lowers stress and improves sleep.

No argument there. Americans need to get their stress levels down — especially after watching Congress pass trillion-dollar spending bills without bothering to read them.

Which brings us to another recommended resolution: improve finances.

The CFPB’s “5 Financial New Year’s Resolutions” page urges us to set a budget and stick to it.

We should:

– Track spending to identify areas where we can cut back, such as eating out or canceling unused subscriptions.

– Create a cash-flow budget that accounts for bills, savings and unexpected expenses.

– Manage debt better by taking steps to get back on track if we’re behind on payments, understand our rights with debt collectors and avoid ignoring our debt problems.

That’s excellent advice — except that the federal government doesn’t stick to a budget, plan ahead for unexpected expenses and has achieved GOAT status — greatest of all time — for ignoring debt problems.

The national debt now tops $38.4 trillion, with annual deficits nearing $2 trillion — and interest payments alone hitting about $1 trillion.
To be fair, there has been at least some acknowledgment of the problem.

The Department of Government Efficiency — DOGE — identified and cut some wasteful spending programs. And President Trump’s administration has pursued other targeted cuts.

Still, regardless of who is in charge, spending and debt keep growing — in big numbers.

The great humorist P.J. O’Rourke explained the spending problem better than any economist ever could: “Giving money and power to government is like giving whiskey and car keys to teenage boys.”

The NIH also encourages Americans to quit smoking.

It points people toward removing temptations, getting social support, tracking progress and having a plan for slip-ups.

That is good advice for smokers, but I’m thinking nicotine addiction is way easier to overcome than the government’s compulsive desire to spend money it doesn’t have.

The CFPB advises us to boost our credit score by paying bills on time, avoiding debt and, in a nutshell, living within our means.
Hey, CFPB, if anyone needs to boost its credit score, it’s the federal government.

The U.S. lost its AAA credit rating twice — in 2011 by Standard & Poor’s and again in 2023 by Fitch. In 2025, Moody’s Ratings downgraded U.S. sovereign credit from Aaa to Aa1.

In any event, as federal agencies provide guidance on how to be more disciplined in 2026, I offer the federal government a proposal.
I’ll adopt your New Year’s resolutions — but only if you go first.

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Copyright 2025 Tom Purcell, distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

See Tom Purcell’s syndicated column, humor books and funny videos featuring his dog, Thurber, at TomPurcell.com. Email him at [email protected].

Here’s something we can all do this holiday season: show heartfelt support for our men and women in uniform.

There are currently about 2.1 million serving in the armed forces — 1.3 million on active duty and about 800,000 in the reserves. Roughly 170,000 Americans are stationed overseas.

Most of those serving abroad are stationed at long-standing bases in Europe, Japan, South Korea and other allied nations, training with partner forces and maintaining readiness.

Others serve aboard naval vessels or at regional hubs in the Middle East, supporting air, intelligence and logistical operations.

A smaller number — several thousand — serve where the danger is immediate and real, including counterterrorism missions in Iraq and Syria, where U.S. forces still face hostile fire and where two young American soldiers and a civilian interpreter were recently ambushed and killed.

One can debate the rightness or wrongness of military missions, but we should agree that those who serve deserve our support.

In modern times, supporting our troops has not been a matter of need, but a matter of choice.

Consider: During the peak of World War II, American defense spending was 41 percent of our gross domestic product.

Everyone — those who served as well as those who remained at home — needed to unite and sacrifice.

Today, defense spending is around 3 percent of GDP. The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan have required little or no sacrifice from most of us.

We haven’t paid higher taxes to fund the wars — our government borrowed trillions of dollars to cover the costs.

We haven’t needed to buy war bonds or work long hours at a factory to produce tanks and planes.

We haven’t given up vacations, new cars, gasoline, meat, sugar and the hundreds of other items that were rationed during World War II.

The men and women who serve do not want our pity. They are highly trained warriors, who volunteered to serve.

But they could always use a little more support.

In 2010, Jerry Newberry — a decorated Army Vietnam veteran and longtime VFW national leader (he passed away in 2024) — told me there are many small things we can do that will make a real difference to those who serve away from home.

“Family members go through a long period of wondering, worrying and waiting,” Newberry told me. “But they still need to deal with a car breaking down, a child getting sick, a death in the family.”

The solution is simple: volunteer to assist service members’ families — offer a ride, prepare a meal, run an errand — to ease the burden of their everyday needs.

Or write. The troops appreciate handwritten letters and care packages, which can be sent through sites such as operationgratitude.com and supportourtroops.org.

Donate time. Your local Department of Veterans Affairs office, VFW and other legitimate organizations are always in need of volunteers.

Organize a toy drive for children of deployed service members. Support the Marine Corps’ Toys for Tots program (toysfortots.org). Or send Exchange gift cards to troops via shopmyexchange.com.

Donate money. Help support service members, veterans and their families by visiting vfw.org and clicking “Donate Today.”

The holidays are here. There’s no better time to show our heartfelt support for our men and women in uniform.

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Copyright 2025 Tom Purcell, distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

See Tom Purcell’s syndicated column, humor books and funny videos featuring his dog, Thurber, at TomPurcell.com. Email him at [email protected].

The Northeast was blanketed with snow last weekend, and I loved it — because I love how snow humbles us.

When it snows in my hometown of Pittsburgh, people pour out into the streets. We shovel sidewalks and driveways, invigorated by the crisp air and the physical work. We sip hot coffee as we enjoy cheerful conversations with neighbors.

Snow still fills me with the same joy I felt as a boy when school was canceled. I still feel the urge to grab my Flexible Flyer sled and head for the steepest hill I can find — just to laugh like a kid again for a few hours.

I lived in Washington, D.C., for nearly eight years, and I loved when it snowed there, too — for different reasons.

This is the city where allegedly smart people decide what’s best for the rest of us. They pass complex laws few of them read. Regulators interpret those laws into rules nobody understands.

But let a few white flakes fall from the sky, and panic sets in.

Government offices shut down. Schools close. People who lecture the rest of us about hoarding toilet paper and bottled water suddenly flock to stores to hoard both.

Snow is real, you see. It falls when it wants. We can slip on it. We can wreck our cars. Our mail carriers can fall on our sidewalks — which is why we get up early to make them safe.

Snow reminds us that despite all our technology, we control very little in life. I learned that lesson on Christmas Eve, 1976.

The snow started coming down hard a few hours after we arrived at my aunt’s house in the country, about 20 miles from home. I was 14. My five sisters and I were growing up. Only the youngest still believed in Santa Claus.

The drive there had been tense. Teenagers don’t enjoy being packed into a station wagon, and my father was in a somber mood. He had lost both of his parents young, and the joyfulness of Christmas didn’t always come easily to him.

But inside the house, the mood changed. My mother’s family was large — five siblings with 26 children among them — and the place buzzed with laughter.

The snow came fast.

My father urged us to leave early. On the highway, the snow muffled the sound of the tires. It felt like we were gliding through the countryside in a massive sleigh.

My father tuned the radio to old-time broadcasts on KDKA that the station aired every Christmas Eve.

Don Ameche and Frances Langford were arguing in “The Bickersons,” a 1940s show about an unhappy couple. Ameche thanked Langford for the breakfast oatmeal she left on the stove.

“That isn’t oatmeal!” she said. “I’m wallpapering.”

We laughed heartily at the performance — my father’s booming laugh most prominent of all.

It felt like we were in another era, when families gathered together in the living room in front of their wooden cathedral radios.

Later, our grandmother told us stories of Christmas when she was a child.

We sang Christmas carols.

The snow gave us a wonderful peacefulness and calm that night.

It’s the best Christmas Eve I ever had.

I pray every family will enjoy a white Christmas this year.

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Copyright 2025 Tom Purcell, distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

See Tom Purcell’s syndicated column, humor books and funny videos featuring his dog, Thurber, at TomPurcell.com. Email him at [email protected].