As Trump prepares to take power again, Americans can’t say that mama didn’t warn us. 

The holiday season always brings a reminder of my favorite Christmas movie, A Christmas Story, and how Ralphie’s parents argued over fulfilling his dream—a Daisy Red Rider BB Gun from Santa.

Ralphie could just “taste” that gift, and his pre-Christmas dreams centered on how he would save his family, defending against all intruders with his trusty gun. His dad, of course, thought a BB gun was a grand idea for expressing Ralphie’s masculinity. But Ralphie’s worry-wart mom could only assert, over and over: “You’ll shoot your eye out.”

Well, Ralphie got the gun and almost immediately made good on his mother’s premonitions. A ricochet off the target caught him on the cheek; it was a mere flesh wound—no eyeball hanging out and dangling from the optic nerve. Mother’s compassion for the near-tragedy was short-circuited by her spontaneous reaction: “I told you so!”

I’ve seen the movie at least a half-dozen times and it never gets old. If you haven’t, you’ve definitely missed a classic—and a spot-on study of the interactions that go on within families.

The holidays also flood my mind with other nostalgia, and today I was thinking about one in particular.

When I was 5, my father sent my mother, sister, grandmother and me on a cruise from NYC, up the Atlantic coast, onto the St. Lawrence and Saguenay rivers and on to the tourist attractions of Quebec and Montreal. It was nothing like the floating-hotel cruise ships of today. Constructed in 1928, along with two identical sister-ships, it was a mere 350 feet in length. (Nope! There wasn’t a pool and water park, no grand casino, tennis courts or go-kart track.)

Much to my mother’s consternation, I spent much of the cruise climbing over the railings and inspecting the lifeboats. I was fearless, but she certainly wasn’t.

Cruising enthralled me, especially when the ship entered the area known as the “Thousand Islands,” where every little patch of land supported rich farmland and numerous cattle. For a kid my age, the cruise/tour was the undisputed highlight of my short life, but my mother was worried about my adventuring every minute of the trip.

When we dined, every drink included a glass swizzle stick for that just-before-drinking final stir. I loved those sticks, and I quickly had a real collection. I’m not sure why, but my fixation with those swizzle sticks seemed to demand that I always had one in my mouth—something that a clueless 5-year-old kid would do, but something that horrified my mother.

I can’t even imagine how many times my mother must have said it: “Michael, don’t keep that swizzle stick in your mouth. If you fall, you’ll kill yourself!”

In Quebec, we went ashore and spent the night in a hotel. Predictably, a swizzle stick was in my mouth when I spontaneously jumped onto the bed for a bounce. After jumping up and down a few times, I did a face-down tummy landing.

Oops! The glass swizzle stick broke as my face hit the bed. There was blood everywhere, and I realized that, just as my mother had predicted, this would certainly end my life. My mother’s concern, very much like Ralphie’s mom, was actually the second part of her response. The first was the “I told you so,” followed by an outpouring of concern—and a hasty call to the front desk, in an effort to locate a doctor, no easy task on a weekend and late in the evening.

Let’s face it: A 5-year-old child believes what his parents have told him. There was intense stinging in my throat and generous bleeding. I turned toward my mother with a worried look on my face. “Can I have a glass of water before I die?”

Well folks, it seems my little story holds a lesson for America. It wasn’t as if we didn’t have plenty of warnings. There was never a question—Donald Trump is the BB gun in this story. We knew that Trump was a liar; that he was a thief; that he was a rapist; that was a tax cheat.

We knew that Trump had been right there among Epstein’s alleged private-island pedophiles. We certainly knew that Trump had chosen to ignore the mandate of “we the people” when he refused to submit to the 2020 election results.

We were totally clear that Trump disrespected women, used threats of protracted legal maneuvering and break-the-bank court and attorneys’ costs to silence those who had legitimate claims against him. We knew that he was a business failure aside from The Apprentice, which wasn’t his own creation at all.

We all knew Trump’s claim that he was some kind of master artist of “the deal” was just noise and bluster like everything he ever said. Let’s face it, our whole population understood that Trump was an uncouth, corrupt, braggadocious convicted criminal, with no real claims for having ever accomplished anything at all.

Everyone knew Trump—though there were plenty of people who chose to disregard his truly vile nature. They simply chose to vote for a monster, with the unfounded belief that he could bring down the prices of eggs and boneless chicken breasts, creating relief for the American family. We certainly had fair warning.

So, for arguably the first time, Trump actually won. And he’s already showing his cards. If he continues on his present track, with his mind-boggling super tariffs, everyone who voted for him will be bearing the increased costs of out-of-control inflation that will naturally follow.

You don’t have to be a genius to understand that, if we impose extreme tariffs on our biggest trading partners, it will all equate to greater burdens on the American consumer. To that, add the effects of deporting millions of illegal immigrants—a sudden labor shortage, crops rotting in the fields. Going overboard on Trump’s deportation plans will send consumer prices soaring.

Coupled with the fact that many of Trump’s not-yet-confirmed appointees are criminals, drunks, rapists, misogynists and creepy billionaires who share his one, single goal of raping our country and pocketing the spoils. None of us can ever claim that we didn’t know.

One thing is probable: It’s likely to be worse than anyone imagined. The voice of an upset mom, saying “I told you so,” is ringing in my ears.

The author is a retired businessman, novelist, columnist and former Vietnam-era Army assistant public information officer. He resides in Riverton with his wife, Carol, and their adorable and ferocious dog “Poppy.”