Thank Mother Earth 2017 is finally over. It was a year that chewed me up, crapped me out, made sweet love to me, punched me in the gut, stole my lunch money, made me laugh, pantsed me, and gave me hope. And I’m only talking about American politics.

It all began with saying goodbye to Barack Obama, the biggest disappointment since losing your virginity. His departure was going to be the end of congressional gridlock and political baby steps. Special interests, criminals, and Valerie Jarrett would no longer decide the nation’s fate while the president negotiated speaking fees with Cantor Fitzgerald. The people would take back their government, they would take back their lives. Yet, as we know all too painfully, the euphoria was immediately extinguished when Hurricane Donald made landfall.

Oliver Stone’s 2012 thriller Savages opens with gorgeous coastline images accompanied by O or Ophelia’s (Blake Lively) voiceover saying: “It started here in paradise, Laguna Beach, where they say God parked himself on the seventh day…” In addition to its stunning scenery, languid Laguna has much to lure Angelenos away from the big city’s daily grind to this SoCal oceanic enclave located about 50 miles south on the 5 Freeway from Downtown L.A.

Of course, this Orange County seaside village is widely known for its art galleries - and it’s no wonder, given the splendor of its natural surroundings that would make any dauber’s palette burst with color. But there are also eateries there to make gourmet’s palates drool, so I decided to combine one of my regular excursions as a theater reviewer south to the Laguna Playhouse with a feast.

Drifting Down to Driftwood Kitchen: Caramel-By-the-Sea

Enough is enough. Especially when it comes to a name.

Many of you have undoubtedly faced a crisis or two about your own. It can come from anywhere, like changing (or NOT) your family name when getting married. Or dumping the curse of one you never liked.

Famous examples abound. The great Texas-born classical pianist Van Cliburn was in fact Harvey Lavan Cliburn. Lady Gaga is Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta. Kirk Douglas was Issur Danielovitch. Marilyn Monroe came from Norma Jean Mortenson. Tony Curtis had been Bernard Schwartz. John Wayne was Marion Mitchell Morrison.

You get the picture.

When I was born in Boston 72 years ago this New Year’s Eve, my mom made my father promise not to name me “Harvey.” Dad’s father, who’d just passed away, was Herschel. So the “H” was unavoidable. But there were certainly better choices. She never forgave him. Me either.

My middle name is Franklin, as my parents were big FDR fans. As an historian, I like it for Ben.

Wasserman means “Aquarius” or Water Man in German. I’m good with that.

But “Harvey”?

The rabbit in the Jimmy Stewart movie was in fact a real-life “Pooka”, a Celtic spirit.

Is Santa real? What about God? Or Mr. Stranger Danger? A 5-year-old’s curiosity is a wonder to behold — more than a wonder if you haven’t had your coffee yet, or if you’re trying to get last-minute Christmas shopping done at Target and your son says he wants to die right now so he can meet God.

To be a parent is to feel the force of this curiosity like a live spring uncoiling with unpredictable energy against the day’s agenda and the furthest reaches of the known universe, pushing you into a possible future not yet imagined.

“When did people first realize there was a God?”

This is my great-nephew Jackson, doing curiosity handsprings across the academic discipline of theology and squeezing an open-mouthed pause from his mom, Carmen, my niece — with whom I had a lively chat over the holidays about such matters when she had a moment to relax. This was a conversation of puzzlement and gold, and I’ve been thinking ever since about childhood and the precious possible.