Dear Readers,

It has been a tough year for us all, but 2024 has all the earmarks of being even more trying than the last.

We are in the midst of change.

Old guys and gals, like moi, are spending more time worrying about health care, personal plumbing issues, and what to do in the years and months to come.

If you talk to grandma or the old vet down the street, they will agree on only one fact: Getting old ain’t for sissies. If pressed, they will elaborate on the last item with the phrase: Golden years, my (here there might be one of the words your mother would not approve of. In fact, she might suggest your mouth should be washed out with soap, if you uttered that word in her presence).

Does anyone suggest that uttering foul language merits a mouth swabbing out anymore? Or is that a faded institution, like cars with clutches and tires with tubes?

You see, we are in a sea of change. Old leaders are moving out of the spotlight, old institutions no longer hold sway over our lives. Change is coming with every beep that sneaks out of our smartphones and nagging smartwatches.

Along the way, some of the bedrock underpinning our lives seems to be eroding. One, in particular for me, is the slow death of the newspaper that once connected us with our world, our town, and our neighborhoods.

I grew up in a home where we always had at least two and usually three newspapers delivered daily. Each had their take on the news. Sometimes, I was the delivery kid who managed to ride a bike while balancing bulging canvas saddlebags holding 50 or so newspapers.

After World War II, before we became glued to the TV set, my parents would read the papers religiously and chew over the latest news during and after the dinner hour. We grew up reading columnists who were able to make you laugh and cry but challenged you to think. Sometimes columnists were the authority on their subject. People would call up the top sports columnist and ask him (it was always a him in those days) to referee an argument. In one case, I witnessed a columnist smiling as he pulled a gag on a pair of readers who were in the middle of an argument over who won the big fight. He told Mr. A that one boxer won the fight, then told Mr. B that the other guy prevailed. Then mister smart alec columnist hung up the phone and laughed.

Newspapers were able to prosper, some prospering very well, despite competition from radio and television until the internet arrived and the business model just crashed. Today, we are blessed (?) with news that arrives online from unknown and questionable sources. There are no old wise editors overseeing the news feeds. No one asks: How do we know this happened?

Up here in our little corner of God’s Great Geography, our county is still blessed with a trio of solid local newspapers letting us know about local government, local schools, local law enforcement, and local business, in addition to local pie sales, food banks, and the occasional lost dog. The stories on your phone don't care about your local schools, but your local paper does.

When Santa hands out presents, I hope he will leave a bag of goodies for A.R. Tandy, the guy who makes sure the Boothbay Register and the Wiscasset Newspaper arrive each week. Ditto to the Roberts family who own The Lincoln County News.

It is no secret that thousands of local newspapers have vanished in recent years. Here in Lincoln County, we owe these newspaper folks a thank you.

Some are trying online experiments as large and small papers morph into cooperative versions allowing us to keep an eye on the legislature, the state house, and the national political free-for-all. I wish them well.

Recently, there have been some troubling stories about news outlets, like Sports Illustrated and the Gannett chain of papers, presenting stories written by artificial intelligence. Thankfully some top brass at Sports Illustrated lost their jobs for that caper. As for Gannett? Well, that is Gannett.

In the coming year, I expect we will experience a bitter political season the likes of which our nation has not seen since the 1800s when our great-grandfathers argued over abolition.

Like I said earlier: Change.

We are in a season of hope, of Peace on Earth and goodwill to All. May the Christmas season’s hopeful message prevail in 2024.

I wish you all good tidings and look forward to wrapping my arms around a pair of the smiling great-grandchildren I seldom see.

To family and friends, to readers all: Merry Christmas to you and yours.