Winter Onederland

It's snowing.

The good kind of snow is falling; the fat, puffy flakes that land intermittently with no breeze and almost-warm air between them for visibility. It's snowing at just the right time, too - on the short walk home from the train station after successfully making the trip from downtown. The streets are so slick two girls (women? early twenties, by my guess) are pulling each other up and down the road on an old-fashioned, tall-runnered sled. All it needed was a Shetland pony and some jingle bells. Fortunately, no one clears the sidewalks so there is enough fluffy powder to allow for some traction. It's lovely, truly, the kind of snowfall you actually want to be out strolling through and rarely ever see. it's the epitome of "white Christmas" snow.

I blame Charles Dickens.

My research packet for the play "A Christmas Carol" mentions boldly that Dickens is the man who saved Christmas - in reality, of course, he's only just the guy who gave us our long-standing visual perception of Christmas.

I suppose I should blame the volcano.

When Dickens was a child there was a volcanic eruption halfway around the world that disrupted weather patterns for years. One result was snow on Christmas or Christmas Eve in England four times (three?) before Chuck was 10 years old, though only twice in the next 50 years*. The correlation was set, and when in 1834 the intrepid author with financial difficulties and a large family to support churned out his little Christmas ghost story in a desperate attempt to stave off bankruptcy, he, possibly inadvertently, condensed the old 12 days' celebrations into one festive evening, cocooned in an atmosphere one historian deemed "coziness" and circumscribed by gently falling snow. The first Christmas card was sent a week after the book was published, and ever since we have been taught that the ideal holiday includes frozen precipitation and an idyllic "white Christmas".

Thanks a lot, CD - I hope you're happy.

Friends are stranded in airports and stuck in cities and train stations all over Europe thanks to the snow. London is woefully unprepared to deal with the weather, despite this being the third year running with storms and dropping temperatures over the holiday. I blame the radio stations - If they'd just stop playing "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas" maybe the Universe wouldn't be listening so closely, you know? I suppose it's not really Charles Dickens' fault, though I have to wonder if it would have killed him to set his story in some lovely tropical locale instead.

Overheard: "I'm so excited for the snow! It might be a white Christmas this year!"

"Just like the last two... It'll sure make it hard for people to get out and visit family if it keeps snowing, since they don't clear the roads."

"Well, OK, but at least it'll be pretty!"

Sure. My five-minute walk from the station was certainly pretty. And now that I've had it, I fervently wish that the snow will stop falling, melt, and let everyone out so they can be with friends and family on Christmas. That's my kind of winter wonderland!

In the end, I suppose blame will have to lie with the volcano. Thanks a lot, Eyjafjallajokull**. Only four (or so) more Christmases like this to go... Next time, put a cork in it, wouldja?

* These particular facts may or may not be completely accurate.

** I owe you an umlaut***.

*** And another one.