No Mo’ Sno’

 

You know that snowfall I reported a post or two ago? Well, it kept snowing. And snowing. And snowing, until 35 centimetres had landed on the south island and everything froze in place. No last minute prezzie shopping, no grocery shopping, no visiting, no departing upstairs neighbours. Nothing. The rest of Canada has every right to thumb their noses at us, but that doesn’t make the stress any less stressful for people accustomed to green Christmases.

My snowmance extends to fantasies of being snowed in, of the aforementioned hot tea, fat novels and cozy blankets. The truth is far less enchanting. The truth is even I get cabin fever. It’s not that I would go out, it’s that ability to choose whether or not to go out. Being snowed in negates that agency.

Oh, Ter and I did suit up and venture out the next day. We assessed the Tiguan situation, shovelling off as much of the snow as we could to prevent him from freezing solid when the melt came (it has yet to start). Mercifully, the snow was still light and powdery, and we managed to dust off the hood, windshield and windows, but digging out was too much for two babes in their sixties. Besides, if we’d been able to clear a path to the road, the road itself was impassable.

In a bizarre way, it was fun to be out in bright sun and knee-high snow, working with my proton to move the white stuff around. It felt like we’d accomplished something when we finally came indoors to thaw ourselves out. It’s important to feel empowered in such situations, because it’s hard to stay positive when the challenge continues beyond a day or two, especially as Christmas Day creeps ever closer and there are still things to be done.

I can’t imagine the strain on parents of little kids. How do you explain to a six year old who believes in magic that Santa couldn’t get his sleigh out of the driveway? Yup. I am luckier than most in these Currier and Ives conditions. Perhaps it’s a recognition of how overwhelming life has lately been that my loving friendly and generous Universe has blessed me with a puny-by-comparison set of args this Christmas. I’m warm, I’m safe, I’m fed, so quit whining, Ru.

I submit that it’s all relative. A few days of “severe by west coast standards” snow is hardly a life or death event, but Christmas has taken an odd turn in past years and this was the first holiday season since Mum died that looked promising. I’ve become woefully nostalgic for Christmases past, which in itself is different, if not understandable in the circumstances.

Ter and I used to go all out during the holidays, and while I’m sure we griped and got stressed at the time, I only remember the joy. The tradition. Filling the advent calendar with Quality Street chocolates. Dashing out to pick up sock stuffers during lunch breaks. Shopping trips on weeknights when the stores are less crowded. Baking a ton of cookies. Lavish Christmas teas with friends and family. Wrapping presents in elegant paper. My wee sister’s fabulous mincemeat tarts. Kicking back on Christmas Eve when all was said and done, sipping a ruby mimosa and watching Alistair Sim by the light of the “f***ing soap opera tree”, as a friend once called it. The Christmas Day phone call to my parents ahead of the Queen’s Message.

Everything has changed. My parents are gone. So is the Queen. Our beautiful Edwardian flat was traded for a ho-hum standard apartment. A global pandemic moved in, stayed for two years and never really departed. The world itself seems to have tilted further out of alignment. Indeed, why should Christmas have survived intact?

You have to laugh at the irony. Imagine, Christmas being called on account of snow.

Merry, merry anyway. With love,