I certainly hope that people aren’t going out of style. I’m fond of my species and would hate to see all of us be doomed to obsolescence or obscurity.

The portents aren’t good. Consider the current trends. Teachers are replaced by computers and online courses. Doctors are allowed fifteen minutes with their patients, and the patients get a carload of pills to replace the lost time with the physicians. Cars will soon drive themselves and drones will deliver packages. A check out kiosk replaces the desk staff at the library. Robots are rampant, working in factories, hospitals, warehouses and myriad other workplaces.

By becoming addicted to social media, people further their own irrelevance. How many Facebook friends would give generously of their time, talent or energy to help an online “friend”? Being a friend means being there for others, and the thought of doing that for 600 people is nonsensical.

The start of a New Year is an optimistic time, a clean page. In that spirit, I offer this wise observation by the late film critic Roger Ebert. We can make this the year of the people.

“I believe that if, at the end of it all, according to our abilities, we have done something to make others a little happier, and something to make ourselves a little happier, that is about the best we can do. To make others less happy is a crime. To make ourselves unhappy is where all crime starts. We must try to contribute joy to the world. That is true no matter what our problems, our health, our circumstances. We must try.”
― Roger Ebert

My grandmother gave me her elegant little scissors when I was about twelve years old. Any gift from her was significant as she had so little to give. Everything in her house was old, sparse or well worn.

I visited my grandmother Sunday afternoons. And when we weren’t playing cards, I would do art projects on the round dining room table.

My German grandmother did not believe in idle hands. Her sentences often began with the words, “Now we’ll just get to work…”. She knew what she was doing when she let me take the scissors home.

When I went to college, my precious scissors went with me. Sometimes friends in my art classes would ask to borrow it. I would always let them, but with a silent plea in my heart for its safe return. By some miracle, my scissors always came back to me.

I did not teach art until our children went off to kindergarten. Instead, I did free lance art with my scissors at home. I turned out posters and greeting cards with hand cut paper letters and paper sculpture. Abbey Press and Conception Press started buying my free lance designs and continued doing so for the next thirty years.

When asked what kind of art I do, I usually reply, “The kind of art that gets thrown away”. Graphic design isn’t like painting or sculpture; it usually has a short shelf life, thus keeping the artist’s ego in check.

I realized the other day that my very special scissors has had its one hundredth birthday. But it and I are ready for more art projects. Here is what we do when we get together.

I am not a polar bear. Therefore, I am seriously questioning my choice of habitat. The temperatures last week were well below zero every night with daytime numbers in the single digits.

Polar bears are ideally adapted to survive and thrive in the harsh Arctic environment. To a polar bear, minus 30 is fine and 10 above is getting a bit toasty.

A built in Arctic survival kit comes with each bear. First, each animal is equipped with a thick coat of waterproof fur which is padded by a second layer of even denser fur….in other words, two winter coats. Next comes the bear’s skin which is black, a heat absorber.

Under the skin is the best coat of all, four inches of fat. Since blubber is the substance that holds in body heat, the bear is wrapped in the equivalent of super-sized blankets.

The thin extremities on any animal are the first to freeze. But there are no frostbitten limbs on a polar bear. Fat legs, massive feet and fur encased toes are all chill chasers. Stiff fur covering the bottom of the paws is for both warmth and traction on ice. Long, sharp claws act like ice picks to reduce slips as well.

Dinnertime for the bear entails a swim in the Arctic Ocean to search for its number one menu item, ringed seals. Four inches of blubber make it a pleasant paddle and slightly webbed toes make swim fins unnecessary. We, on the other hand, would face certain death from hypothermia if we attempted a momentary Arctic plunge.

A quick mental check of my winter adaptations comes up with a big, fat zero, just like the current temperature. I have only one ray of hope. I’ve got a brain.

Creative thinking is required here. What can I do to emulate the superb adaptations of those big, white bears? I sense an orgy of Christmas cookies and fat leaden foods coming on.

If asked who my favorite author is, I would not hesitate a second. Alexander McCall Smith has given me boundless reading pleasure for so many years that I would happily nominate the man as a living treasure.

Born in Africa and a professor emeritus of medical law at the University of Edinburgh, Mr. Smith is also a bassoon player in “The Really Terrible Orchestra”. He is the author of over 50 books, and I hope many more will come.

I read at least one book every week, most of which come from my local libraries. Being naturally frugal, I love the concept of free books. But Alexander McCall Smith’s books are an exception. I walk into a Barnes and Noble (my daughter is a B&N manager and I am loyal) and buy many of his new releases almost as soon as they hit the shelves. I read my new purchases within days and eagerly await the next ones.

I must note an extremely odd fact: I find several of my favorite author’s series completely unreadable. Despite repeated attempts, I cannot get into the 44 Scotland Street or Corduroy Mansions series. The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency and Isabel Dalhousie novels are the ones that draw me to the booksellers.

Precious Ramotswe and her husband, Mr. J. L. B. Matekoni of Tlokweng Speedy Motors, are my most beloved fictional characters. Mr. Smith’s newest arrival in the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency series is The Minor Adjustment Beauty Salon. My favorite passage in the book follows. I believe its true hilarity may be understood best by traditional women of my age, but kindly give it a try.

Mma Ramotswe comes home from work and finds her husband in the kitchen.

“What are you doing, Rra?”

He turned around almost guiltily.

“I am cooking the potatoes, Mma Ramotswe. I am helping you with the evening meal.”

She looked over his shoulder and into the pot. It was tricky working out exactly what he was doing. “What is happening inside this pot, Mr. J. L. B. Matekoni?”

He shot her a puzzled glance. “I thought we might have mashed potatoes. I know you like those.”

“I do.  So are you mashing them now?”

He nodded. “And it is rather hard work, Mma.”

“You’re mashing them even before you have cooked them, Rra?”

He frowned. “You cook them first?”

Mma Ramotswe reached around him and took the pan out of his hands. It was half filled with water in which fragments of raw potato floated morosely, like a soup. Very gently she poured the mixture down the drain. “I will show you how to start with new ones,” she said. “You cook the potatoes first and then you take them out and mash them up with butter and salt. That is how potatoes are made, Rra.”

I have tried extremely hard for many years to like them. But now I am prepared to admit: I hate tangerines.

My distaste for this fruit makes no sense which is why I have given them many chances.

I love all the other citrus fruits. The arrival of the new orange crop in late fall is an anticipated event, and we eat them nonstop all through the winter months. Limes are simply sublime, my favorite member of the citrus family. Lemon juice and zest are critical ingredients in many of my favorite recipes. And blood oranges with their ruby interiors and sensational flavor are an extraordinary treat.

Tangerines always start out well; slick zipper skins, neatly breaking segments. But then I pop a piece into my mouth and once again am disappointed.

It gets worse. Around the holiday season everyone is raving about the arrival of the Clementines a.k.a. Cuties. They are packed neatly into sweet little wooden boxes and look so appealing. I bought some only to discover after one bite that they are only tangerines without seeds. At least I can salvage the box for some art project.

Food preferences are not rational choices. So perhaps when I hang up my stocking, St. Nick will understand and give me an orange or two. He can stuff those Cuties into someone else’s sox.