I grew up in North Carolina. We didn’t get much snow. As a kid, we’d drive to the north for Christmas with my grandparents. I understood that further North meant colder meant greater likelihood of snow. What I didn’t understand was that Richmond, VA — not so much “North.” Still, we’d take my sled up, strapped to the bike rack on the back of the family VW bug. And it did snow, in Richmond, just enough to keep a kid’s hope up — though an actual white Christmas was still pretty rare. As a result, the song “White Christmas” really resonated with me. Not only could I dream of a white Christmas, I could almost physically ache for it.
Now, I live in central PA. It snowed today, Thanksgiving. My snow-related aching was not from longing but from having to shovel inches of snow to clear the driveway for today’s guests. I’m glad I did though. Sam got to meet her grandaddy, her uncle John and aunt Rika. She was great and sociable. We had a wonderful family meal around the dining room table. Everything that helps remind me of all I have to be thankful for. And when everyone’s safe and warm by the fire, the turkey’s eaten and dessert has come and gone, it no longer matters that there’s snow on the ground in this little town we now call home.