It was like a call to prayer, this noisy feeling that this second morning of January must begin with the verses of Bill Holm, that now-dead won’t-die voice for soul-sanity who lived with one foot anchored in Minneota, Minnesota while the other danced in Iceland. And so I took and read, and was braced further awake by this Kris Kringled character who railed against the miniaturization of the world. Change is already afoot for me. There’s the demise of my favorite radio station that kept alive the voices of the 40s and 50s, those tunes that brought the boys home safe from the war, at least some of them. Market forces necessitated a change because the station was losing listeners (as in they’re dying off). Such tiny forces know nothing of the white cliffs of Dover, or the folks who live on the hill. More change in March as I turn 49. Strange phrase, that. To turn 49 – as if some directional difference awaits. Big Bill Holm turned 65, and died. Helluva thing death. One year you’re here eating rhubarb pie or listening to Perry Como then you turn and you’re not. Best to live it up, pal. Bill asked someone to keep the chain letter of the soul moving along after his exit, what he called the labor of remembering. That’s nice work if you can get it. And I resolve to try.