In my thirty years of life, I’ve seen snow fall the day of Christmas perhaps two or three times at most; more often it’s some dreary affair, raining either the day of or the day before, the ground left a soggy mess of sod and slop, the sky still threatening with heavy grey anticipation, and a chilly, erratic and otherwise unpleasant breeze added on for spite.
But it was a miracle that day, I assure you.
It was Christmas Eve. Every year, for as long as I can recall, my family would gather at my mother’s home. The wreath and bells on the door would merrily jingle and jangle to announce any guest’s arrival at around; hordes of gifts in droves, piles stacked tall in arms or stuffed in great big Santa sacks ready to be sat beside the gilded tree (though how many hours and dollars were wasted for the sake of familial reciprocity is incalculable and cannot be understated); fold out tables were set and dressed and adorned with trays of chips and dips, crackers and sliced meats, hors d’ouerves and casseroles and all manner of sweet treats. “It’s a Wonderful Life” would play in the background, everyone moaning because it was the same thing every year: how at the same time during the party my uncle would insist we turn it on, full of zeal, gesticulated hands ready to play their part in his own show: “And what happens to Mr. Potter? Absolutely nothing! Hell-ooo? He gets to walk away with what he stole from poor ol’ George Bailey! Good ol’ George Bailey who saves Bedford Falls! So what if everything is fixed in the end? How is no one else ever bothered by this?!” Part of me felt he really was hurt each and every time he witnessed the injustice flicker on the screen. Perhaps even rightly so.
Somehow over that winter break (as I was still in high school) I’d convinced my mother to let my then girlfriend (now wife) to stay over the holiday break. How I actually did this I can’t begin to explain—likely some horrid combination of coercive guilt and persistence; but stranger and more fortunate things happen all the time, and so we take our blessings with a big spoonful of gratitude.
It was her first time experiencing the yearly debacle. She’d heard about them while we were dating and was still taken aback by the sheer volume and boisterousness of the event. I personally didn’t have to buy anything; I had absolutely no money at the time; and through a blessed poverty I got to receive gifts and give nothing in return.
We sat together on the loveseat, pointing out little observations to each other, laughing and watching as the adults slowly grew more chummy and red in the face; some from beers, some from banter and laughter, others from a mix of Malibu and orange juice and their trips to smoke on the porch.
Opening presents was always the longest portion of the night. In some ancient council it’d been scribed into stone that gifts were meant to be opened one by one, celebrating each person and each item individually and to give thanks after each gift, starting from youngest to oldest. Unfortunately, as it is well documented throughout history, children are notoriously awful at doing anything with any consideration for time or etiquette. Present opening might as well have been an intermission for the whole party. Occasionally my cousins would come up to my girlfriend and I on the couch and ask us to play while they waited for their turn. I kept on insisting it was a night for calm, unable to admit I just didn’t want to do the usual rigamarole, which only made the little jits take their rejection to the fullest and start behaving insufferably, at which point remedial action was necessary.
But the evening finally died down around nine or ten. Those parties always seemed to linger on longer than anyone was prepared for. The miracle of the snow promised earlier in the day began falling unnoticed sometime after the sun down, and the land was gradually covered by a soft pillowy white blanket. People had been slowly shuffling out for the past hour, saying their goodbyes with big smiles and hugs, thanking my mother for hosting another successful year’s gathering. I’d get to play courier by hauling out everyone’s new precious cargo. Once the crowd dispersed, everyone in the house retreated into their own spaces, presumably exhausted and stretched socially thin from so much loving time together.
Only my girlfriend and I still occupied the living room. I mentioned to her in a sort of offhand remark that we should go outside at some point while we inattentively watched some show on HBO. I pointed out through the bay window toward the thick flakes growing in intensity outside; but she insisted it was far too cold and that she would rather watch me make a fool of myself than have her become an icicle.
Eleven o’clock rolled past. We kissed at midnight under the faux felt mistletoe hung in the hall.
By two in the morning, I grew restless enough to act. I stood up suddenly, smacking my knees and moaning from lounging too long. “Well, come on,” I said as I made my way towards the door.
“Come, uh… come where?”
“I believe it has come time to explore the wilderness—are you coming?” I asked her.
“Coming to what? Where? Are we going somewhere? Zachary, I’ve never even stayed up this late!”
I made sure to appear utterly perplexed.
“Did you not have a childhood or something?”
She eyed me down playfully. “Don’t be rude to me.”
I put on my best James Stewart for the moment.
“Where to? Don’tcha know? I’m going out to lasso the moon, what d’ya think?”
She looked at me as if I were joking, though she knew full I meant every word of it. Had I told her I’d go out in boxer briefs I would’ve stripped down the very next second. I slowly made my way to the door and opened it slowly as to not alert anyone with the bells. She had a startled look as she sat on the couch, as if between decisions. She suddenly threw the Christmas afghan laid over the back of the couch on her shoulders, slipped into her fur lined boots, and met me by the door. I don’t even remember putting a coat on myself before stepping outside. That might’ve been the reason for her look. It wouldn’t have mattered anyways—boldness can make up for a great many deficiencies.
But it’s difficult to fully convey the serenity and stillness at that time of night, in that sort of weather. The ground was wholly pristine from hours of layering; the air alive with the gentle atmospheric fizz of snow on snow like a freshly opened can of soda; and at the intersection on the corner flurries fell through the golden glowing projection of the halogen streetlight. Not another soul stirred, save for us. I don’t know by what right we are allowed such moments in time. It’s almost necessitates asking: “do I dare disturb the universe”? But I suppose we always risk such things.
We stood on the porch together, waiting in quiet expectation. For years I tried to get her to do all sorts of ridiculous things, only occasionally making any headway. The fact that she even walked outside after me was cause for celebration. She absolutely hated feeling stupid. She still won’t pronounce the pancake “with all the fruit on it” from IHOP. But by God, I believe her being exposed to me for so long slowly rubbed off on her. For the better, too, I believe.
I pointed across the still immaculate yard toward the tempest on the corner. I then took a few ginger steps down the wooden porch stairs, grimacing with each creak.
“May I have this dance?” I asked, holding up my hand as if to lead her down to the ballroom floor.
I couldn’t tell if she was flushed from the frigid air or the invitation.
“You know I don’t like to dance.”
“I know you don’t.”
“Then why’d you ask, Clark?” She scrunched her eyes looking down at me.
“Well, it would be impolite to assume, wouldn’t it, Clark?”
She screwed her eyes down at me, holding back a smile from her lips. She scanned me as if to look for any hesitation. I returned a questioning smile for her questioning look.
We made our way down the steps toward the streetlight glow, across the yard as we left our footprints in the snow.
She hated dancing; she still does; yet she slow dances with me.
I enjoyed this. Each of us have our own Christmas traditions, some get the magic just right and are remembered.