I’m just getting used to the twelve months of 2025, and now the ball is poised to drop us into another year. How quickly time passes and continues to fly, its wings have already carried us into the final hours of December.

In these last few weeks, I’ve been pondering the potential prosperity and positivity of each New Year, since it always seems to begin with dropping the ball.

“To drop the ball” carries a negative connotation in almost every dictionary on the planet. The phrase is defined as making a mistake, missing an opportunity, bumbling, fumbling, messing up, or screwing up. Yet tonight, millions will gather in the square to welcome the New Year with fanfare, falling balloons, flying confetti, and a champagne toast, as they eagerly wait for the midnight hour “to drop the ball.”

Thankfully, resolutions offer a contingency plan for mistakes made, opportunities missed, bumbles, fumbles, mess-ups, and screw-ups as we pledge to do better this year. Still, promises come with a limited warranty as we inevitably “drop the ball” amidst the pressures of a new year and settle into our familiar habits of the past. Take the resolutions to save money and declutter: we download budgeting apps and fill donation boxes, but by February, the apps are ignored, the boxes are empty, and we’re buying more storage bins to organize the clutter we swore we’d get rid of.

On the other hand, my dogs can’t wait “to drop the ball.” Rubber, fuzzy, squeaky, or not, they obsessively let it plummet to the ground in anticipation of a daily game of fetch. Unconcerned with the start of 2026, they have resolved to continue their practice for the next twelve months and beyond.

A ball has no beginning and no end — a perfect circle of second chances. We’ll drop it more than once, but if it bounces in 2026, my dogs will chase it with pure joy. Maybe that’s the lesson: pick it up, keep playing, and greet the new year with the same enthusiasm.

www.wintersetmadisonian.com

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Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring ... that snoring was my spouse!!

The stockings were not hung by the chimney with care—

They were still in the dryer ... WHO LEFT THEM THERE!?

One dog was nestled all snug in my bed,

The other in a kennel on her back, legs outspread.

Buried under numerous blankets, due to the winter crap,

We all bedded down for a well-deserved nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I yelled at the dogs, “Quit barking,” there’s nothing the matter.

The full moon above with its vibrant white glow

Cast a bright light on trees and snow down below.

When what to my wondering eyes should appear,

Yup, it was Santa’s sleigh and those darn reindeer.

Santa, his suit all red velvet with white,

Called out reindeer names, eight of them that night.

He said their names loud so they would understand,

Listen, I am Santa! This Christmas, I’m the man!

Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen!

(Hmm, Vixen ... that must be a female reindeer?)

On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, Donner and Blitzen!

Santa steadily guided the sleigh towards the roof.

The reindeer set down, first right then left hoof.

One reindeer lost his balance, but, was able to right—

Wouldn’t be good to drop a sleigh of toys at midnight

As I stood there in awe of what was abound,

I realized we had no chimney for Santa to come down.

I thought for a moment, then a moment more,

I would just motion him over to the front door.

I opened the door laughing, in spite of myself,

In front of me stood Santa, the jolly old elf.

I apologized for the inconvenience: no fireplace to come down.

He said, “No problem!” as he put his sack on the ground.

Santa didn’t speak much as he went to work,

I told him the stockings were still in the dryer. (I felt like a jerk.)

He paused for a moment, then looked straight at me.

Santa had noticed we didn’t have a tree!

He said, “Listen to me tonight, young miss, and take heed,

Christmas isn’t about all the stuff you get,

It’s about sharing, caring, and acts of good deed.”

As he sprang to his sleigh on the eve of the 25th,

He said, “This year, friends and family

Will be your most treasured gift!

Merry Christmas to all, and to all have a great night!”

www.wintersetmadisonian.com

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When writers start gathering the basics for a story, they turn to the five W’s: Who, What, Where, When, and Why.

During the holidays, the “Who” is easy: the Whos of Whoville, those cheerful, festive folks who love Christmas, singing, and community spirit. The “What” is the Grinch, who travels from the top of the hill to “Where,” the nearby town, “When” on Christmas Eve, and “Why,” to swipe every decoration and gift he can find, hoping to ruin the townspeople’s Christmas plans.

We often feel sad for the Whos and the loss of their decorations and presents, and we dislike the Grinch, who is often described as a mischievous, grouchy, green, furry, and cunning character with a heart “two sizes too small.” Still, perhaps we aren’t as different as we think.

Before we judge him too harshly, consider this: maybe the Grinch decided to decorate his home, and after pulling last year’s box of lights out of the closet, he got pretty annoyed because he had to spend hours untangling strands of Christmas lights that had intertwined into forty-seven knots. (Sound familiar?)

Picture him heading to the store for sugar cookies and gingerbread ingredients, only to be overwhelmed by sticker shock, thanks to inflation and the numerous yards displaying giant blow-up Santas, reindeer, and snowmen. Perhaps he returned home, eager to bake a festive batch, only to realize he had misjudged the baking time. Consequently, the cookies turned out slightly too crisp, with dark edges that even a pile of colorful sprinkles couldn’t hide. To add to the irony, Auntie Mildred’s fruitcake arrived in the mail, sparking his suspicion. Was it a fresh gift or a fruitcake with a long history?”

Maybe the Grinch wasn’t just a villain. Maybe he was experiencing the same holiday frustrations we all do. The truth is, the season can make any of us a little grumpy when things go wrong. But then, the spirit moves us, and our hearts grow two sizes, surrounded by friends and family. And that’s the real magic of Christmas.

www.wintersetmadisonian.com

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The IWC Holiday Party will be Wednesday, December 17 at the Harkin Institute in Des Moines at 7pm. It’s FREE for any paid subscriber to any IWC writer column, including this one, or $35 the night of the event. The award-winning duo Weary Ramblers will be performing and IWC authors will be on hand for socialization and goodwill. Please RSVP here.

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It’s the second week of December, and I can already hear the birds singing, “Florida, here we come!” Their melodies grow even louder as they try to avoid the first measurable snowfall, and we affectionately call them the snowbirds. However, I’m not talking about the flocks of sparrows, finches, or cardinals that we often see flitting around bird feeders and squabbling with squirrels over the last sunflower seed. I’m referring to the older generation who have perfected the art of hibernation.

At the first sign of temperatures dropping below seventy degrees, seniors rush over the hill to pack their bags. Stuffing their suitcases with Hawaiian shirts, shorts, and swimsuits, they fuel up their motorhomes to head south for the winter—instinctively trading snow shovels for sunscreen. It’s as if they have a radar that activates before the first snowflake even touches the ground.

Watching their southward migration is truly remarkable. Imagine a flock of savvy retirees, with bingo cards and margarita mix tucked under their wings and oversized sunglasses that resemble satellite dishes perched on their noses. They sit in the driver’s seats of motorhomes and Winnebagos, lined up bumper to bumper. It’s a mass exodus taking over the highway as they try to evade any approaching snow.

Upon reaching their destination, this stampede of sun-seekers swaps their winter wear for flip-flops and settles into lawn chairs for a martini on the rocks or shuffles off to play a game of shuffleboard. Never too old to party, they live the high life amidst white sands rather than suffering from cabin fever under a foot of snow. Being forgetful at their age might have its advantages; for the next six months, they can forget about winter, while we have to remember to put on our snow boots before leaving the house.

www.wintersetmadisonian.com

I am a proud member of the Iowa Writer’s Collaborative.

Here is a link to learn more about our writers.

https://iowawriters.substack.com/i/145661110/who-we-are

The IWC Holiday Party will be Wednesday, December 17 at the Harkin Institute in Des Moines at 7pm. It’s FREE for any paid subscriber to any IWC writer column, including this one, or $35 the night of the event. The award-winning duo Weary Ramblers will be performing and IWC authors will be on hand for socialization and goodwill. Please RSVP here.

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If you don’t like the weather in Iowa, just wait five minutes; it’ll change. You’ve probably heard that phrase before. One minute, we’re basking in sunshine, and the next, we’re dazed and confused, standing in the middle of a foot of snow with shovels raised in protest, shouting, “Wasn’t it just 62 degrees?” Meanwhile, the neighbors zip through their sidewalks with snowblowers, and we’re stuck in a scoop-and-throw marathon. The driveway? Gone, buried like it never existed. Our cars look like marshmallows waiting to become the sweet, gooey middle of a s’more. At that point, all I need is a graham cracker and a square of chocolate.

It’s kind of like Mother Nature shook a giant powdered sugar shaker over the entire town. I envy the neighbors with their walk-behind snow machines, but not the mailman. We spot him at the end of the block, pushing through the white, and then he slowly fades into the drift until all that’s left is a single letter.

Isn’t it odd that the first big snowstorm waited until after Thanksgiving? Almost like the turkey had friends in high places. Maybe he made a few calls before dinner: “They’re carving me up, make it a foot of snow.” And now here we are, knee-deep in white, paying for our holiday menu choices. Next year, I’m sticking with salad.

On the bright side, deep snow makes playing ball with the dogs a lot easier for me. One toss and they’re gone for an hour, digging like they’re on a treasure hunt while I sit back and relax. Then, just when I think they’ve given up, a squirrel strolls by, carrying a neon green tennis ball instead of a nut. And just like that, the chase is on.

www.wintersetmadisonian.com

I am a proud member of the Iowa Writer’s Collaborative.

Here is a link to learn more about our writers.

https://iowawriters.substack.com/i/145661110/who-we-are

The IWC Holiday Party will be Wednesday, December 17 at the Harkin Institute in Des Moines at 7pm. It’s FREE for any paid subscriber to any IWC writer column, including this one, or $35 the night of the event. The award-winning duo Weary Ramblers will be performing and IWC authors will be on hand for socialization and goodwill. Please RSVP here.

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