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Editor’s note: Dan, wife & kids have repaired to Ocean City, Md., where they are crabbing, riding the waves, sunbathing and hanging out with The world-famous Nighthawks this week. Herewith are some “greatest hits” columns until Casey returns. This column originally appeared Nov. 28.

Happy holidays, everyone!

It seems like yesterday when I was writing our last family holiday letter.

Well, it sure has been an action-packed year.

It started way back in February, when dear old Dad moved in after he was diagnosed with stage-three syphilis.

Apparently he’d contracted it in the service decades ago and paid no attention to symptoms from the first two stages.

Silly Dad! Isn’t that just like him?

His symptoms emerged with a vengeance in February.

The good news is, the docs at Carilion Clinic fixed him up with a really nice prosthetic nose. The bad news is, medical science hasn’t yet come up with a prosthetic brain — and Dad’s losing his mind.

On a shopping outing at Valley View Mall the other day, he asked me, “Who’s that fat guy with the white beard in the red clown suit?”

But his mood’s been great — much better than the usually grumpy old man you all knew. So we’re sure he’ll have a great time this season.

There has been LOTS more excitement on the FAMILY front!

I don’t know if you heard, but Missy, 17, was doing great in her junior year at Patrick Henry High School.

She was getting all A’s in her Advanced Placement classes, and Dartmouth and Cornell sent us early admission come-ons because she aced the SAT.

Then she found out she was pregnant. Things kind of went downhill after that. She dropped out in April, but she’s the star pupil in her GED class.

The other good news is, the baby is healthy. We know from an ultrasound it’s a boy, and he’s due in January, and the doctors estimate he’ll weigh about 9 pounds.

Right now, we’re in a quandary as to choosing the most fitting name. Missy’s not quite sure about the identity of the father, or even his race. You know how extroverted she is!

Meanwhile, thank goodness for the WIC program, and the Blue Ridge Women’s Center.

I think I told you last year about Junior and his swimming scholarship at Virginia Tech, where he’s majoring in chemical engineering.

Last spring, he broke the ACC record for the 100-meter butterfly and it was only 4/100ths of a second off the mark of the last U.S. Olympics team. Needless to say, we’re so proud of him!

He got sidetracked this fall, though, when the cops raided his dorm room. They said they found a meth lab, but Junior swears he was experimenting on an analogue that’s not illegal.

The college suspended him anyway, so we had to hire Tony Anderson, one of Roanoke’s best criminal defense lawyers. He’ll try to get Junior off.

Problem is, the police also found a handgun in Junior’s room. He thought concealed carry was legal on campus. So did I. Didn’t the Virginia General Assembly pass that last year?

The Virginia Citizens Defense League is paying for a lawyer to beat that charge.

Then Junior can go back to Tech and train for the summer Olympics!

The lawyer’s retainer was $50,000, and all of you know that’s a tough nut for middle-class folks like us to swallow.

We would have borrowed against the house, but we had already exhausted the equity, what with dear old Dad’s syphilis and Missy’s unplanned pregnancy.

So now I’m driving a cab at night, after my day job, and that brings in a few extra bucks.

Through all this, my wife has been a real trouper. Everybody has always told her she looks 15 years younger than she is, and finally she’s capitalizing on that.

She went to work, too — as a dancer at local gentlemen’s club. She’s become that establishment’s most popular entertainer.

You should see the tips she brings home. She can barely fit all those dollar bills in her purse.

Wow, what a year!

Dear old Dad is losing his mind but he has a new nose.

Missy had to put off an Ivy League education for a few years, until she has the baby and is able to tell whose it is.

Junior is out on bond, working at a ham store and facing 20 years in prison.

I’m slaving 80 hours a week trying to make ends meet, while my lovely but lonely stripper-wife has many new and strange admirers.

I always say, a guy who can’t make eggnog out of a few rotten eggs is one sad character.

Heck, it’s the season, you know?

Happy 2011!