Flags are at half staff in memory of former Nevada U.S. Senator Harry Reid, who died at his home in Henderson, Nev., on Tue., Dec. 29, 2021, at 82.

His wife, Landra Reid, said in a statement that he passed “peacefully” surrounded by friends “following a courageous, four-year battle with pancreatic cancer.”

“Harry was a devout family man and deeply loyal friend,” Landra added. “We greatly appreciate the outpouring of support from so many over these past few years. We are especially grateful for the doctors and nurses that cared for him. Please know that meant the world to him.”

Born Dec. 2, 1939, in Searchlight, Nevada, to an alcoholic father who killed himself at 58 and a mother who served as a laundress in a bordello, Reid grew up in a small cabin without indoor plumbing. He hitchhiked to Basic High School in Henderson, 40 miles from home, where he met Landra.

At Utah State University, the couple became members of The Church of Latter-Day Saints and would marry in 1959. He worked nights as a U.S. Capitol Police Officer while putting himself through George Washington University law school.

As head of the Nevada Gaming Commission investigating organized crime, Reid became the target of a car bomb in 1980. Reid blamed Jack Gordon, who went to prison after a sting operation over illegal efforts to bring new games to casinos in 1978.

By age 28, Reid was a Nevada Assemblyman and the youngest lieutenant governor in Nevada history at 30, as running mate to Gov. Mike O’Callaghan, in 1970. Elected to the U.S. House in 1982, Reid would run and win a Senate seat in 1987, which he held until his retirement in 2017.

Reid leaves behind Landra, his wife of 62 years, their four sons, Rory, Key, Josh, Leif, and a daughter, Lana Reid. Funeral services are on Sat., Jan. 8, 2022, at 11:00 a.m. at the Smith Center for the Performing Arts in downtown Las Vegas.

As a rule, I do not engage in New Year resolutions. What possessed me to do so yesterday morning, I cannot say.

What I do know is that I broke my lifelong pledge, and I possibly established a new world’s record for breaking a brand new undertaking. Like I always say, “Never do anything halfway.”

“I’ve decided that my New Year resolution is going to be working on not putting my foot in my mouth,” I said to my wife.

Silence met my sudden proclamation.

I should have stopped there as I added, “I’m guessing yours is to lose weight.”

No, I shall not divulge which Virginia City saloon this happened in, but it does need saying that the young woman tending the bar that afternoon was a Millennial.

Ordering an Irish coffee with plans to wait out the snowstorm slamming Mt. Davidson and the Comstock, she handed me my change. One of the coins stood out.

“Look at that you, rarely see old Wheat pennies these days,” I said.

“A what penny?” she asked as I handed it to her.

“A Wheat Penny.”

Turning it over, examining the sheaves on its backside, she said, “I thought they were copper.”

My Cousin Elmo says, “The Devil can’t have you if you’re self-possessed.”

I saw Daddy beating Santa Claus
Underneath a streetlamp last night.
He kicked him in his sprite
And I thought it plain effed up
As Santa fought jus’ like a wild pup.
I saw the cops clubbing Santa Claus
Underneath a streetlamp last night
They smacked Daddy all around
As they forced them to the ground
All because fighting is against our laws
I saw Daddy in jail with Santa Claus
Comparing notes and who can tell
If I’ll ever see another Christmas time
As the two get at the bottom of my crime
That Momma never kissed Santa at all.

It is less than a full minute from Boxing Day, and the trio has gathered together for one more visit, though it is brief. A sadness hangs silently in the fogginess of the quiet night, and not even the blazing lights of the twelfth day are reflecting on their loneliness.

Lo, Christmas has come and gone for yet another year. Put away for 364 days before being brought out in complete festive rebirth.

One by one, they turn and disappear at the old church bell’s sounding. First goes Christmas Present, followed by Christmas Present, both leaving Christmas Future.

Future stands alone praying for human enjoining, but it is for naught. Midnight, Future steps back from the light, disappearing, put away until the next time greed, materialness, and gluttony desire such company.

After a long Christmas eve day of moving cattle from the upper field to the valley and closer to our home, I was tired and ready for bed after a good supper. We’d been in bed for at least two hours when the dog barked, and a knock came on our front door.

“Who in the world could that be at this hour?” the missus said as she instinctively pulled on her robe and headed for the kitchen to warm up some coffee.

I answered the door to find an old man with a large white beard standing on our step.

“So, sorry to wake you, but I broke the trace on my sleigh and wondered if you might have one I can borrow or some way of repairing this one?” he asked.

“Sure,” I answered as we went to the barn, where I let him look over my tack.

It took him very little time to find a trace that would work for his sleigh and the team pulling it. I invited him back to the house for a cup of coffee, where I grabbed my truck keys to drive him back to where he needed to go.

Coffee in hand, he got in on the passenger side, and I climbed behind the steering wheel. As usual, I had a hard time getting the truck started as the engine had grown old and tired.

Finally, on the road, I smiled, “Maybe one day I’ll be able to afford a new one.”

He said nothing. But when he looked at me, I thought I saw a twinkle in his eye.

Less than ten minutes later, we pulled onto a side road, where he directed me to turn in behind a thicket of trees. I offered to help him set the traces, but he declined.

“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll look into that new truck for you.”

Returning home, I told the wife about what he said and explained that we may have met the real Santa. She laughed and returned to bed, and I followed shortly after.

That morning, with childlike anticipation, I went outside and found my old pickup truck parked right where I had left it shortly after midnight.

My Cousin Elmo says, “Deck the Halls and not the family.”

Fractured and missing pieces, I decided to buy the framed tile anyway. It bore this single word, “Grace.”

The clerk tried to talk me out of it, saying she’d send someone back to find a better one. I told her no, that it was perfect as is.

She frowned at me and tried again to get me to consent to a new tile. I explained to her that broken people are saved only by the grace of God, then she understood.

I paid the discount price for it.

“For it is by grace you have been saved…” Ephesians 2:8

Merry Christmas!

Tongue in God’s ear, a true story…

We have had a thermal inversion over the area the past few days leading to pogonip. Pogonip, known more widely elsewhere as hoar frost, hangs low to the ground, thick and blinding in some areas, patchy and thin in others.

Buddy and I went out for a walk in it. Eerie, especially when there are few sounds of civilization in the background.

As we crossed over this hill and dropped into the valley below to the dirt road heading back towards our home, Buddy lowered his head, his fur hacked on his back, and he growled a low and menacing growl. Instantly my spidey senses went up, and I began watching for a possible threat.

Without warning, a small figure passed beside us, about five or six feet away, walking in the opposite direction along this road. The fog was so thick that it was difficult to make out the person, other than the fact they were very short compared to my five foot seven.

“One of Santa’s helpers, an elf, or worse, a gnome?” I caught myself thinking.

They said nothing to me, and I said nothing to them. I’m not even sure this person saw us through the thick fog each of us was wandering in. A bit spooked, we practically raced home.

This morning I learned a man with Dwarfism moved in down the street from us.