My 11-year-old daughter, disenchanted with American politics, wants to ditch her New Hampshire home and move to Sweden.

As we approach the shortest day of the year I look forward to an annual solstice party held by friends. They gather scrap wood and old pallets to prepare for a serious bonfire. Then they invite friends from near and far to join together, share a meal and imbibe some good cheer. My friends also provide paper and pens to write down any accumulated resentments, anger and frustrations that we then toss into the roaring fire and rejoice in a fresh start.

The late William McNeill, one of our greatest world historians, once told me that he only understood how hard it was to teach history when he realized his students no longer had any connection with the central historical event of his life – the Great Depression.

Since the election of Mr. Trump, I’ve heard from many friends that they’re still upset and angry about the November surprise; many are afraid they’re witnessing the beginning of the end of American democracy.

Even though the diminishing light of November and early December often drag me into the doldrums, the holiday season usually seems to arrive just in time. In late November, we stop to express thankfulness, celebrating abundance and family. Then comes the segue to December when red-suited Santas ring bells on the corner and cards and hearts share the hope of peace and goodwill toward men.

When I was a reporter, I rarely thought of news as either “good” or “bad.” I left those judgments to the audience. But now that I’m more of a consumer than a producer of media, I have to admit I’m growing weary of hourly reports about national and international strife.

There are two types of religion in the world today, those inspired by divinities and divinely inspired prophets once living among us such as Christ, Buddha, Mohammed, and Moses and those altered or fabricated by men to their own earthly purposes.

I have a lot of diplomas, dating from nursery school right through to a PhD. But none of them has as much meaning as the one I earned this summer that’s just arrived in the mail from the Green Mountain Club, certifying my end-to-end through hike of The Long Trail.

The Burlington City Council is poised to vote, by my calculation, on whether to increase councilor pay from $2.40 an hour to $3.60 an hour. And this perfunctory adjustment reminds me of a lyric from Pink Floyd’s ‘73 classic Money wherein the psychedelic rockers declare “Money, it’s a crime. Share it fairly but don’t take a slice of my pie.”

I have a confession to make: I’m a Trump supporter. Now that the election is over I’m delighted with both my choice and the outcome of the election.