To the Eastern kin, it’s a given — and probably not even special.
After all, the Eastern kin live in colder climes. All winter long, they have a bag of salt by the front door. All winter long, they have a shovel and a snow blower at the ready.
All winter long, it’s, well, winter.
It’s not a question of whether it will snow. It’s a question of when — and for how long.
To the Eastern kin, it’s practically always a given that Christmas will be white. After all, the Eastern kin will have been living with white for weeks by the time the big day arrives. And they’ll be living with white long after the big day is gone.
What can I say? I’m pining for snow, come Monday.
Make no mistake: I don’t want a blizzard in the next few days, when the masses will still be out and about in the midst of last-minute Christmas prep.
And no, I’d rather it was gone soon after Boxing Day, so we can get on with snowdrops instead of the snow.
But for one day — just one day — I’d like to wake up and see the flakes falling. I’d like to open the door and feel the chill and notice that the world seems, well, softer.
Every Christmas, on cue, the Eastern kin will do the drill: the stockings, the gifts, the trussing of the turkey. Then they will gather their boots and scarves and mittens and head outside to, oh, go tobogganing or skating.
They will often send us a picture.
“How nice,” I will say. “How Christmas-y.”
Not saying I’m not a fan of green. Heck, there are often times in the middle of winter when I’m tempted to send the Eastern kin a picture of my own. You know, a smug shot, perhaps taken in February, showing the tulips poking out of the ground or the husband mowing the lawn.
Yep, I sure do love the green — every single day of the year. Except, that is, for one.
One year, oh, so very long ago, I recall a Christmas that looked a lot like, well, Christmas.
It started on Christmas Eve. I was with some pals who’d gathered at a girlfriend’s house. We’d been indulging in eggnog and shortbread. We’d been singing holiday tunes.
When it came time to head home, we bundled up in our winter wear, threw open the door and stood there, transfixed.
“It’s snowing!” someone said.
Indeed it was. Iit was nothing short of magical.
What can I say?
Christmas is coming in just a few days. I’d be thrilled if, again, it was white.
