Every December 24—while dad builds the fire, mom preps the salmon loaf, wifey makes the eggnog, and I “test” the brandy—a wail goes up from the Davis house. It’s Elvis Presley, crying: “O why can’t every day be like Christmas? Why can’t that feeling go on endlessly?” And we answer him, no less soulfully: “For if every day could be just like Christmas, what a wonderful world this would be!”
It’s a great song. But, hey, doesn’t the man deserve an answer? Why can’t every day be like Christmas?
[Friends, please find the rest of this week’s post at The Spectator. Merry Christmas to you all. God bless you!]