My son gave me a record player for Christmas. Here is how it works. You turn a knob to switch on the power. You place the vinyl LP onto the turntable. You lift the black lever and guide the needle to the record. The needle drops and then—miracle of miracles--you hear music.
On the other hand, turning on my television requires an advanced degree in electronic devices. How I long for the big brown wooden box of my childhood, the one with an on/off knob and a rotary dial to select the four available channels.
The U.S. military relies heavily on the skills of its fighter pilots -- an elite group of men and women with a challenging skill set. Nelson County writer Linda Crowe made that discovery while watching a YouTube video of her nephew at Marine Corps Flight School. Rapid climbing and descents can cause pilots to lose their vision or black out, but they can train in a kind of centrifuge to avoid those fearful events. Crowe was amazed and impressed by a plucky instructor in the video and sent fan mail to the guy she calls Centrifuge Man.
Tis the season when small children write letters to Santa Claus, often providing their parents with helpful hints for shopping. Charlottesville author Deborah Prum is no kid, but she likes the tradition of writing to the jolly old man up North and shares this year’s letter with listeners.
When I was growing up, my parents never took down our Christmas tree. It was a synthetic tree from the 1960s, its faded green branches plasticine and matted, imbued with the soot, tobacco, and laughter of the dozens of Christmases it had presided over, making no pretense of being an actual tree. It was bejeweled/smothered with a cacophany of lights- indoor and outdoor, colored and clear, blinking, non-blinking, and chasing. It was frenetic and tacky, more Jackson Pollack than Norman Rockwell, but we wouldn't have changed a thing about it.