Twenty years ago (give or take) Elaine and I decided to move to the country. Elaine looked at properties on the internet every week until she found the house she wanted to look at.
I remember it well, It was October, seventeen years ago. Elaine asked if she could show me a house, she was interested in. We took off from the city on a foggy autumn day and drove for what seemed forever.
As the drive went on Elaine instructed me to “Turn here, and then go down the road and turn again.” I started to wonder, “How do you know where to turn?” “Oh, I’ve been here before”, she replied. “That’s great, I’m at work and you are taking the day off and driving around.” She’s like that.
When we arrived at the house Elaine wanted me to see, I laughed, “Why in the (construction language) would I want to live here?”
Elaine: Hear me out. Think of the “white” Christmases. This would be a great place to celebrate. Me: I do like Christmas.
She had other reasons, some good some bad. It was that Christmas thing that sealed the deal for me.
I wrote the previous paragraphs to provide a backstory for what I am going to write about. The truth is, I do love Christmas. I think God realized what Christmas means to me and turned me into a Santa replica. God could have chosen that other guy with great importance to Christmas, but frankly, I haven’t lived that kind life.
We moved into Elaine’s dream home the next spring. It took about six months to get the previous homeowner to accept our offer. We’ve had sixteen or so Christmases here. Some good, some not so good. I think about three of the Christmases have been “white”.
This Christmas season is “white”. I’m telling you, it’s not that great. The snow is deep. The temperatures are cold. The twins are teenagers. And, worst of all, I had to go to not one, but two Christmas parties.