Loser's view after war on Christmas

Life was different before the war. But of course, anyone who has lived through war knows that – particularly when you're on the losing side.

Now all that's left is to hide the scars and rebuild our lives as shattered, broken people.

And hope to someday recover.

It seemed unlikely we would lose. How could we, when we were right? We had the power. We had popular support. We had 2,000 years of history. Or so we thought.

Who could have known that it could go so wrong, that our strategy would backfire and that we would give up everything?

Now we live in humiliation, the land of the conquered in which the winners write the history. Nobody will know our story, because we are the vanquished.

The war on Christmas is over and we lost.

The battlefield is littered with "Jesus is the reason for the season" buttons and "Keep Christ in Christmas" coffee mugs.

I'll never forget when it became official. Now we'll never say "Merry Christmas" if we're working at a store and management forbids it. We can no longer force others to sing songs about Jesus. We can't complain when we get cups at Starbucks that don't acknowledge Christmas.

We lost the war.

Oh, sure, there are some who say it's making too big a deal of it to call it a "war."

They say veterans of World War II or Korea or Vietnam or Iraq survived real wars, but they don't know how it feels to go into a Starbucks and NOT GET A SPECIAL CUP THAT SAYS "MERRY CHRISTMAS."

They don't know how it feels when a cashier says "Happy Holidays."

They don't know the anguish of listening to a radio station that plays Christmas music without traditional hymns.

I experienced all those things and know as much about war as any bomb survivor or soldier who was trapped in the trenches during World War I. They had to breathe poison gas and face constant bombardment, but we have to work at places that call the Christmas party a "holiday party."

It's heartbreaking. I suspect I will have post-traumatic stress disorder for the rest of my life because of this war.

The war on Christmas is over. We lost.

Now we believers retreat to all that's left: A commemoration of the birth of Jesus.

The admission that the crass commercialization of the traditional holiday has little to do with the birth of a savior 20 centuries ago.

Recognition that artificial trees and peppy songs and wrapping paper and special coffee flavors have less to do with the arrival of a promised savior than they do with making money.

How could anyone survive in a nation that doesn't recognize and celebrate Christianity as its official religion?

Just think of how Jesus would have suffered if he faced that. What if first-century Rome was a pagan, non-Christian nation that was filled with other traditions and didn't welcome a savior who came to the world as a poor baby?

Wait. What?

Brad Stanhope is a former Daily Republic editor. Reach him at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Don't panic, but the Black Death may be returning

Don't panic. Don't go crazy. Don't do anything dangerous.

I'm sure the health officials are keeping things quiet for a good reason. I'm sure there's no reason to get anxious.

BUT A GIRL IN OREGON HAS THE PLAGUE!

Pardon me while I get a paper bag into which I can breathe to prevent hyperventilation.

The plague.

In a neighboring state.

Specifically, Bend, Oregon, where my in-laws live and Mrs. Brad and I occasionally visit.

SHE HAS THE PLAGUE. Seriously.

According to news accounts on Halloween (HALLOWEEN!), the teenage girl went into the hospital after she apparently contracted the plague from an infected flea. . .

A GIRL.

HAS.

THE.

PLAGUE.

. . . while on a hunting trip. She appeared to be recovering, so things seem OK.

I felt good after reading that. Until the reporter casually mentioned that it was the 15TH CASE OF THE BUBONIC PLAGUE IN THE UNITED STATES THIS YEAR.

FOUR PEOPLE HAVE DIED.

OH. MY. GOODNESS.

This is the PLAGUE. This isn't the flu or a common cold. It's the bubonic plague, which could bring a recurrence of the Black Death, which killed one-third of humanity in the Middle Ages.

Sure, it was a long time ago, but think about this: It killed one-third of all people. If it happened in the 19th or 20th century, we would have had just two Bee Gees, two Stooges, the Kingston Duo and only the "Good and Bad" – no Ugly. What if Destiny's Child had no Beyoncé? Tragic.

Can you imagine? Oh, sure, you can say things are different now. We have modern medicine. We have global communication. We have frozen pizzas and big-box stores. We have Oprah Winfrey.

But is it possible that THE BLACK DEATH STARTED THIS WAY? Were there perhaps just a few people in 1340 who had it, but then it spread? Did they ignore it – like the mainstream media largely ignored this year's 15 CASES OF BUBONIC PLAGUE – and let it spread?

I'm sure it's nothing. Except for this: The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention recently also announced that the Pentagon may have mislabeled, improperly stored and shipped samples of potentially infectious plague bacteria.

DID YOU READ THAT? Good, because I don't fully understand it and I don't work in a Pentagon warehouse. Since I'm not interested in searching for the ark of the covenant that Indiana Jones found, it should be OK.

Right? RIGHT?

Let's all calm down. I'm sure it's nothing serious. I'm sure they're in control. And even though the Black Death killed 75 million to 200 million people in the Middle Ages, none of them would be alive today, anyway, right?

We've got plenty of reason to be confident. The girl was hospitalized. The medical people seemed calm, at least publicly. Only 15 people have . . .

Only 15 people have . . .

FIFTEEN PEOPLE HAVE CAUGHT THE PLAGUE IN THE UNITED STATES THIS YEAR.

And the girl in Oregon likely got it from a flea bite, just like millions of people in the Middle Ages.

And I'm "middle-aged."

Uh-oh. Did I just sneeze?

I'm sure it's nothing to worry about.

Brad Stanhope is a former Daily Republic editor. Reach him at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Sandwich Islands: Best thing since sliced bread

Aloha and hand me some lunch meat between two slices of bread!

Mrs. Brad and I recently returned from the Sandwich Islands and this seems an appropriate place to share our memories.

The Sandwich Islands? Well, you may call them something else – most likely the Hawaiian Islands. I've got nothing against the people who call them "Hawaii." I'm just old-school.

And to those who think it's baloney to call them the Sandwiches, a reminder they were named that by Capt. James Cook, who "discovered" them in 1778. By "discovered," I mean it in the same way that I "discovered" "Mad Men" five years after it debuted on American television.

I call them the Sandwich Islands for a very simple reason. They are named after John Montagu, the fourth Earl of Sandwich. When Cook named the islands after Sandwich, it was an honor, multiplied by the fact that there's very little chance that anything else could ever be named after him. If we stop calling them the Sandwich Islands, the name Sandwich probably goes away.

I told that to Mrs. Brad as we ate some peanut butter and jelly, smeared between two slices of bread on Kauai, the northernmost of the Sandwich Islands.

(Side note: If I read about witches while I sat there eating that food, it would be about a "sand witch," right? Too bad for John Montagu that it never stuck. So he gets the islands named after him.)

The islands, of course, widely became known as the Hawaiian Islands in the late 19th century, which created a po' boy in Sandwich.

The beauty of the Sandwich Islands is that the weather is predictable. It was our third trip there – a triple-decker Sandwich? – and the climate has been the same every time. About 85 degrees as the high, 75 as the low. Humid. Residents – Sandwichians? – likely don't need long pants or jackets as they enjoy their cold desserts.

I know that because Mrs. Brad and I spoke about that while sitting at a local restaurant, enjoying one such treat. It was two thin slices of chocolate biscuit with vanilla ice cream between them. It's an ice cream-between-slices item, I presume. Don't know for sure, but it was good. It was the perfect kind of ice cream dessert for the Sandwich Islands.

The best thing about our entire week was relaxation as we enjoyed beaches, hikes, swimming and food while sleeping at a place I called the Club Sandwich.

The food? Delicious. We had bacon, lettuce and tomatoes between slices of bread; we had cheese between two slices of toast; we had several other great meals between (I wish there was a word for the process of inserting something between two other things!) the aforementioned meals. The one thing we didn't have? We ate no tuna on Sandwich.

So if you ask what we liked most about our trip to the Sandwich Islands, it's this: The variety of lunch food and delicious ice cream desserts.

We give a big salute to John Montagu. Thanks to me, no one will forget him, even Inspector Clouseau. Because even a French dip will now remember Sandwich.

Aloha.

Brad Stanhope is a former Daily Republic editor. Reach him at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Really: Some things are worth keeping

When I was a teenager, my dad had a container for tortilla chips. They were his favorite snack, so my stepmom would buy him massive bags of Bien Padre chips (made in my hometown) and he would eat them nearly every night.

The funny thing? His container.

It was an aluminum box about the size of a slice of bread that was assuredly intended for some other use. Maybe to hold food. It was aluminum and clearly intended for a single use.

My dad didn't get rid of it. He used it every night. Week after week, month after month.

Year after year.

That aluminum container held literally hundreds of thousands of tortilla chips through the decades as he watched the evening news or golf or read the latest racy Harold Robbins novel. He kept it year after year, refusing to use a bowl or even get a new version.

When Mrs. Brad and I moved away from our hometown decades ago, my dad still had that chip holder. I don't think he still does, but I wouldn't be surprised if I visited and he pulled it out.

He is a child of the Depression: He kept a cheap, replaceable container that could easily have been thrown away. Because it worked.

Fast-forward a generation. I'm older than he was when he started using that container. I've raised two sons, who when asked in their teens about my values, said that I didn't waste money. (It probably wasn't phrased that way. It probably included the word "cheap" and an accusation that all of their friends had fathers who more freely handed out money. I consider those charges to be unsubstantiated and won't dignify them with a response.)

Recently, while Mrs. Brad and I were traveling, she noticed my daily pill holder. (OK. So I've admitted I'm old, cheap and have a container to remind me to take my assortment of cholesterol and arthritis medicine. Get off my lawn!)

It's one of those plastic versions, with the first letter of each day of the week on the compartment. Nice and big, so the old eyes can read it.

"Is that broken?" she asked, looking at the container that appeared to have been run over by an 18-wheeler.

"No. I fixed it."

Then I tried to change the subject. But it didn't work. She asked some more.

It was fixed! It wasn't broken! The lid for one of the dates (Thursday) broke off, which is admittedly unacceptable. You can't have a random statin pill migrating to the wrong day. Or a low-level aspirin slipping into Friday's slot and causing an aspirin overdose!

Rather than throw out the container, I fixed the broken lid. I used Scotch tape.

I told Mrs. Brad this. She looked at me skeptically.

"Why don't you just get a new one? Or you can have mine," she said, offering me her "travel" pill container.

"No. Mine is fine," I said. "Yours is too big. It won't fit as well on my shelf. This is fine."

She raised her eyebrows at me.

But I didn't want to buy a new pill container. It would be a waste of money. The taped-up version works fine.

Of course, those containers cost $2. I could easily replace it and not suffer financial hardship.

I don't know why I don't just get a new one. I guess it's the same philosophy that my dad had all those years ago: If it works, don't change it. If it ain't broke, don't fix it. And if it does break, fix it with tape and keep using it.

It's a philosophy that leads to hoarding, I guess. But let's be honest: His tortilla chip container was ridiculous.

My pill container? It makes sense.

Right?

Right?

Brad Stanhope is a former Daily Republic editor. Reach him at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Color me excited for Hall of Fame announcement

Like most Americans, I'll be clicking "refresh" on my Internet browser Thursday morning, awaiting the big announcement.

This is no game! It's time to find out the new inductees to The National Toy Hall of Fame in Rochester, New York.

My money is on the scooter and Twister. But I hope that Wiffle ball makes it and won't complain if coloring book gets inside the lines.

Induction into the Toy Hall of Fame, of course, is one of the biggest stories of the year. And this year's field of 12 nominees for just two spots is one of the strongest in memory. In addition to the aforementioned four nominees, there's also American Girl dolls, Battleship, Jenga, Playmobil, puppet, super soaker, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and the top.

Can you imagine a Hall of Fame without puppets? Or the beloved top? You will likely have to, for at least another year. Because they're unlikely to get enough support for enshrinement.

My support for Twister comes from my childhood, when it was a boxed game that was physical, unlike The Game of Life (2010 inductee) or Aggravation.

Scooters get my backing because of the late-1990s Christmas when every kid in my neighborhood (including the two Stanhope squires) received Razor scooters. There were 12-wide races down our street – the kind of signature moment that Hall of Famers need.

As you likely know, there are already 56 toys in the Hall of Fame. Twister (or Battleship) would be the fifth board game, joining Candy Land, Life, Monopoly and Scrabble (I don't consider checkers, chess or dominoes – all inductees – board games).

Hall of Fame watchers speculate that puppet could create the kind of controversy that erupted when cardboard box (2005) stick (2008) and ball (2009) were inducted as general items. More than one critic wondered if invisible friend or rocks might be future inductees – a chorus that only got louder when blanket made it in 2011.

Although this year's field is very strong (expect some significant protests from Generation X members if super soaker and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles are left out for a baby boomer toy), it still will pale in comparison to the strongest classes since the shrine opened in 1998.

Other than the initial class of 11 (including Barbie and Legos, the Babe Ruth and Ty Cobb of toys), most Toy Hall of Fame experts consider the 2000 class the best ever. That, of course, was the year of bicycle, jacks, jump rope, Mr. Potato Head and slinky.

All we can hope is that we avoid the debacle of 2013, when chess and rubber duck (neither of which have been a part of this columnist's life) made up the entire class. There were rumors of a rebellion among the other toys, which conspiracy theorists cite as the reason for last year's induction of green Army men into the shrine: A bargain to keep the military on the sidelines.

Here's what we know: Whether it's a board game, a doll or a old-school item, this year's field guarantees two happy toys that will be high as a kite (2007).

But making the final choice is as difficult as solving a Rubik's Cube (2014) or jigsaw puzzle (2002).

Play time ends Thursday.

Brad Stanhope is a former Daily Republic editor. Reach him at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.