Irving Berlin got it all wrong. Snow looks great on Christmas cards. Fishtailing down the highway to Grandma's house is not holiday happiness. My little Georgia car is recoiling under grey slush and road salt.
It snowed when I first got up here after Thanksgiving, but has been smooth traveling since.
Today is decision day for surgery vs. go home. The weatherman is celebrating by forecasting flurries and heavy acculumation in the Southern Tier where Jessica is finishing her finals tomorrow. Faced with driving through the mountains of Pennsylvania and West Virginia in snow or brain surgery... surgery doesn't seem that bad.
It's hard to convince myself that this used to be half my year. That I learned to drive with rock salt and kitty litter in the trunk.
Every Christmas on St. Simons Island is a white Christmas, but only if you don't count the hired help and a few brave pioneers who say "Screw it, we're going to live here anyway." The island version of White Christmas is even scarier than the Buffalo version.
If it's anything like the last several years, we'll have to crank up the upstairs and downstairs air conditioner in order to have a fire in the fireplace on Christmas Eve.
I've been thinking of that fire near constantly. I can smell the way it doesn't vent completely, hear the dog snoring next to it, see the cats staring in rapt fascination at the flames and my daughters surrounded by a mountain of torn wrapping paper as they compare new treasures.
It really doesn't matter how "white" it is outside. Home is where the hearth is.