It’s never too early to start celebrating. There are friends of mine with tinsel on the brain, who start wrapping Christmas presents and picking out trees during the doggy days of summer. They write long missives to St. Nicholas shortly after the last bottle is recycled on Bastille Day. For them, to celebrate any other way would be nuts. What’s the use in waiting around for one day a year to enjoy yourself when the rest of the calendar provides ample opportunity for joy and revelry? They wish people “happy birthday” months in advance, ignoring basic social norms and commonly-held superstitions. These are the sort of folks who change their clocks whenever they want to.
They aren’t anxious or upset about jinxing themselves, completely unconcerned that their acknowledgement might somehow doom things on a cosmic level. This is how they live their lives. And they’re not alone.
In the past, there were plenty of individuals who refused to wait until the credits rolled to decide whether the film was good or bad. They were born with a certain skill, allowing them to foretell the outcome. Not a bad thing in love, war, or when contemplating the complicated chore of counting chubby cooped-up chickens. Because by the time they hatch, you might have a regular contretemps in your midst.
Judging from the historical record, there’s never been a shortage of people who wanted to celebrate on the early side. It’s understandable, I guess. Since we’re always talking about how short life is, why not say Happy New Year whenever you wish. Many basketball fans, even diehard ones, argue the 4th quarter is the time to watch. But not for our target audience. They prefer the first half, satisfied with what's likely to happen, quickly heading home to beat the traffic - totally at peace.
There was a French commander, Paul Présomptueux, reporting to Napoleon himself, who decided to write an advice book for budding megalomaniacs. He finished the manuscript the morning of Waterloo, hoping for a Bonapartian blurb to entice haughty publishers. Who can forget the priest working on his toughest sermon to-date during the height of the Black Death, tentatively entitled “Plague Schmague.” It was eventually delivered to empty, putrid pews. Or how about the weatherman, Al Rokerius, who, on October 24, 79 AD, told his Pompeii audience that the forecast was, and I’m quoting now, “… perfect. More proof of benevolent Gods.” Not that umbrellas would've helped all that much.
All of these men were dreamers. And none of them took kindly to opposing viewpoints, stubbornly soldiering on amid countervailing opinions. They felt confident in their assessments at the time, and it’s just not fair to quibble centuries after the fact, pointing out in bold letters and red pen where they might have gone wrong.
In our time, there’s “un uomo,” who decided the best way to combat this year’s colossal impact was to publish a book. Maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s not too soon. Too late? The freshest perspective is none at all.
Merry Christmas and mission accomplished.
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