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“You want easy, live with pigs.”

I don’t get too fussed about new years, which will hum along whether I approve or not. Spring may be coming, but I’ll not put away my winter boots just yet.

What’s it called when you fall between optimism and pessimism? Gads, might be realism, the most demanding belief I know of.

Speaking of beliefs, as beliefs go, I see faint zealotry distinction between the main faiths; God versus no-God.

The no-Gods rightly point to the can’t-see-it, can’t-prove-it dilemma of believers in the unseen.
The no-God belief tends to be political (doesn’t it?) and prefers seeing what also can’t be seen or found; a heavenly future of all things good and free.

Paradise for the politically faithful isn’t too much different in dimension than religious heaven. Turns out, to my imperfect perception, the God side might be a little more honest saying “No, can’t see or meet God on earth. You have to believe.”

The no-Gods say “One more program or revolution and you’ll see perfected society of new followers. Until then, believe.”

Both views, believing in something that can’t be seen, find comfort. OK. Carry on.

A new year being unable to change old-us seems sadly pertinent as Minnesota’s 10,000 lakes appear as fraud pools. I say, “Belief in doing good isn’t enough.” Where’s the evidence or support?

Claiming, saying, hoping for good things isn’t enough. A step further, based on my own experience I can’t always be sure what’s good. I’ve been wrong or fooled many times.

Another step, some things I thought very bad turned out okay or positive. Being a little less quick to jump at projections of good or bad isn’t a bad habit.

Last step, I cringe at the way so (too) many news presenters steer the audience with vocal emphasis and slanted terminology.

We have, don’t we, a term of long standing for manufactured news. Those often demonstrating the term call others rabble rousers for calling them out, but to me that’s not objectionable as shaping information in the belief the rabble are too ignorant to understand without help.

Easing up, I miss President Biden, in part because he was so very much like my dad, enough so to put ‘em side-by-side. Uncanny. But, my dad was stricter. He had firm standards. I resisted, as a child often does, but also respected clear limits.

I saw that also in Don Fraser, a worthy DFL leader I worked with marginally. Don was later undone by DFL voices brooking no deviation.

A political gulag forms when a party casts off one of its own. Taught Don a power lesson that in no way lessens my admiration. I sent a copy of my first book to him. He thanked me and I promptly got a note from the Library of Congress getting the book from the Congressman. Accepting no gifts whatever made him a Congressperson unlike the seeming wealth seekers of today.

What makes the difference? A specific party, religion or ethnicity. Nope. Something inside is either there or absent.

I compare Don to Biden’s easier, friendlier attitude regarding people enjoying a government flight overseas. Based on his behavior, Don would have said “You’re a guest on the plane and a guest overseas. Behave accordingly. If you want to do private business buy a ticket and return as a private citizen.”

A concise way to put it, dad wasn’t after popularity. Don’t think it occurred to either of us to be friends. I’d say dad knew his role. He’d explain things and work with me until Hell would take no more.

Encourage questions, absolutely, but all the while knowing who was in charge. Not me.

Not until the day he told the 12-year-old idiot son “Guide these people fishing.”

I must have been ready because I managed, maybe barely, but managed. The fact of achievement was worth more than words.

Perhaps more than all else for young me was being trusted. That was big. Big as the performance expectation somehow part of the routine. I can’t define it other than to say it happened.

Far beyond my youthful daze, I suspect dad often worked along what I’d now call “old country thinking.” If you were born into a Gorale family in the Tatry mountains of Poland with Slovenia a few mountains south, that and nothing else was where and how you began.

A Polish noble or Hungarian shop owner began differently. Everyone began with what for them “was.” Only the village imbecile would think it possible some miracle would change them or their circumstance.
Magic. Changing, becoming something different required much effort. Might fail, come to zip as did the Napoleon’s promise to restore a nation absorbed by Russia, Prussia and Austro-Hungary. Odds of success (equity) didn’t matter to people valuing effort regardless of result.

Looking at a new year, I’m reminded of things from the past. Among the venerable old Polacks (I’ll spare you Vienna in 1683) is a near-century worthy who said (roughly) “Not honoring your past allows others to tell you your future.”

Some truth there, I suppose, yes. But t’ be honest I really don’t look forward to (dancing or stationary) sugar plum fairies. In fact, no surprise, I’m more than a bit leery of nice, smiling costume faces.

Is there a cause to smile? What is it? I’d like to know.

Maybe I got used to people being cautiously considering. Dad was rather like his dad. Supportive without being especially comforting.

When young Harry fussed about some problem grampa (Jaja) in broken English said, “You want easy, live with pigs. Want nicer, go work.”

As a child I’d have welcomed sympathy. As a child I’d have appreciated a bouquet of sugar plum words sweetening reality. Jaja, I believe, had too much respect for his past and my future to mistake meat for sweet. Sugary sweet: bad for teeth and mind.

So saying, I saw a photo of a 1946 procession in Warsaw; city 90% destroyed, ruins and rubble everywhere. In robes and rags, empty-handed or carrying banners and icons, people singing prayers.
Why celebrate and give thanks? Jaja showed me; because swine don’t sing.