I’m not quite sure if I can remember my first White Christmas - the real thing, that is, not the first time I saw the movie (That was only a few years ago, and I remember being surprised by the story: What was this shit about a hotel and the war? Where’s the Christmas stuff? As much as I like Danny Kaye, Holiday Inn is better). It’s possible that Portland’s reportedly-unusual snowstorm last year was my first, a first time that it was actually crisp and white outside on Christmas Day itself. I remember it snowing during the Christmas holidays when I was a kid, but I’m not sure that there was ever really a snow-covered Christmas Day - either the snow would come too late, or it would snow on top of rain and melt away quickly or worse, turn to slush. But nonetheless, the idea of a White Christmas has always been incredibly nostalgic to me, as if I’ve had some secret childhood filled with them that I just can’t remember properly.
It’s not snowed yet this year and, like the last few years - although for very different reasons - Christmas has kind of snuck up on me this time around; I’ve been head-down with work for most of the time, and then all of a sudden, it’s two days away (There are those who’ll be getting cards late. Pretend they’re New Year cards, okay?). But even though my thoughts should really be on many other things - including the fact that I’ll have some work to do on Christmas Day itself, because io9 never stops - I find myself paying too much attention to the temperature, praying for some small Christmas miracle that will see the white stuff fall from the sky and make the season bright, just like the song says.
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Content © Graeme McMillan, 2008-2009.
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“including the fact that I’ll have some work to do on Christmas Day itself”
Jesus, mate. Speak to yer union.
Merry Christmas, Graeme. May all yer scoops be ice cream.
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