Reflections on World Travel

How Will Santa Ever Find Us in the Snow?

Seems everyone has their own version of “A Christmas Story”

Globetrotters Monthly Challenge: Christmas and Other Celebrations

The town was literally hushed under a blanket of snow. Occasional flurries stuck to my jacket, though I couldn’t tell if it was snowing again or whether that was simply the breeze releasing powder from the trees

Our family grew up watching A Christmas Story — You know, that quirky holiday classic set in the 1940s where the father wins an illuminated leg lamp and a kid gets his tongue stuck to the flagpole.

I’m told that some of the clichés in that film have fallen from the realm of political correctness. But truth be told, I think almost everyone has a version of A Christmas Story — most of which consist of moments of euphoria amidst the chaos and confusion of the holiday season. And I suspect most have elements that are less than politically correct.

But in any event, here is ours…

My wife and I are each the youngest of four, and in turn, we had three children.

For many years, we were in that awkward position of living equidistantly between each set of grandparents — about an hour in either direction from our home in northern California. That typically meant the wild roulette game of who would host Christmas each year that usually began sometime in late September.

Of course, our home was never a contender. We were the youngest, remember? And quite frankly, we had neither the space nor the desire to host a big dinner for 25 family members, 8 of which were under the age of 10.

Navigating Santa’s arrival became increasingly difficult each year, especially if the annual family gathering required us to travel someplace away from home on Christmas Eve, well ahead of Santa’s anticipated arrival.

Strangely enough— sarcasm intended — nobody seemed much concerned about our challenges of managing North Pole Delivery Operations. It was somehow assumed, likely due to our undeniable position of being the youngest in each family, that we would find a way to make it happen and show up wherever Christmas was happening — with jingle bells on!

And that was pretty much how it worked.

Until the year that it didn’t.

“Hey, Charlotte. How would you feel about having a White Christmas this year?”

We lived in the Napa Valley. Absolutely zero chance of a white Christmas there.

“We could go up to the Siskiyous, rent one of those woodsy apartments in a lodge there, and have our own freakin’ little Christmas! We won’t have to choose one side of the family or the other. We’ll simply choose our family!”

I’m not sure this was the most effective mode of avoiding confrontation, but regardless, we reserved the apartment and announced our intention to the family. Then started praying for snow since we had all but promised the children, ages 2, 2, and 4, — yes, we have twins — that we were going to Winter Wonderland.

“But how will Santa know how to find us up in the snow, mommy?!”

Suddenly it occurred to me. I don’t think this place has as much as a wood-burning stove. Time to start devising the story of how Santa has the magical powers to climb through HVAC ductwork.

Who knew!?

As I best recall, we headed up and over the Siskiyou Pass a couple of days before Christmas, conveniently timed around bedtime as Santa had to load his Ford Explorer sleigh with toys and goodies that would best go undetected before the impending sound of hooves on the rooftop.

The red wagon came fully assembled. A mixed blessing that required fewer tools upon arrival, but made it a bit difficult to disguise amidst winter coats and suitcases.

That said, I vaguely recall some other contraption — perhaps a five-story dollhouse or some such thing — that required me to find a convenience store that peddled a kit of primitive tools to complete the “easy assembly required” that would ultimately take place in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve.

Upon our arrival, there was a smattering of snow on the ground. Hardly a Currier and Ives postcard, but at least the air smelled good. The sequence of events is all a bit blurry these decades later, but I’m certain we reenacted that visit to the Chinese restaurant depicted in A Christmas Story. That would later become a family tradition, in fact.

In place of the drama with a Red Ryder BB Gun, our children found another “projectile activity” in the coming days as they each came down with the stomach flu. We really didn’t think we’d need the washing machine during our short stay in the apartment.

We were wrong.

By Christmas morning, we were able to assuage our children’s fears that Santa would end up with the wrong address.

“What if he forgets and takes the stuff to grandma’s house? Are you sure he knows where we are?”

Mommy’s eyes were nearly swollen shut from staying up most of the night, first to help daddy assemble that damn dollhouse, then later to keep the production line running between the washer and the dryer.

How can little humans produce so much vomit?!

In the meantime, it began to snow.

And it snowed.

And it snowed.

By the time daylight broke, we had accumulated over a foot of powdery, white perfection.

The children in sick bay made a miraculous recovery in time for presents and a hearty breakfast. Then we tried out the new wagon, only to realize we should have opted for the four-wheel drive model. Thankfully, we were equipped with snow disks as well.

Maybe that was the day we walked to the Chinese restaurant. We most certainly didn’t drive anyplace.

We were snowed in.

Whatever that flu bug was, apparently Santa packed that up with the cookie we left him and took it away. But we discovered another unanticipated outcome that Christmas day.

Despite all the chaos inherent in a family reunion, when you take your small children to a snowbound cabin 300 miles from home, you’re pretty much on center-stage all day. And with three kids, getting them all to take a nap at the same time?

Well, if you’re a parent, you know the answer to that.

And if you’re not, you probably don’t care!

But I still get a little misty during that part in A Christmas Story where the grumpy dad is relaxing on the couch making fun of Ralphie’s bunny slippers. (I’m thinking he was nursing a glass of wine, but I may have added that part in for my own peace of mind.) Of course, that was just before the BB gun incident where Ralphie nearly shot his eye out and all hell broke loose.

We escaped the perils of a BB gun incident, but I do remember Charlotte passing out on the couch — not from wine, but from exhaustion — as the children snuggled into their beds with visions of sugar plums, snow discs, and all the rest.

The snow had mostly subsided by midday.

The locals had yet to dig out the parking lot where we’d need to clear our car the next morning, but the adjoining main road had been plowed down to a thin layer of slushy snow.

Once everyone was asleep, I kissed my wife on the cheek and said, “I’m going out for a walk.”

She replied, “RRummmphh.”

The town was literally hushed under that blanket of snow. Occasional flurries stuck to my jacket, though I couldn’t tell if it was snowing again or whether that was simply the breeze releasing powder from the trees.

I walked down the middle of the main road into the center of town, my feet crunching where I suspect the double yellow line would be. Perhaps there was a no-driving ordinance in place due to that recent storm, or maybe most of the people in town were simply cozying up with egg nog by the fire. Window after window was aglow with warmth.

I will never forget walking past a little restaurant as I neared the center of town. Every window was glowing, with people dining by candlelight, wine glasses in their hands.

I was deep in reflection, recounting the past two days!

Assembling toys in the middle of the night.

Mopping the floors and changing the beds after the projectile incidents.

Nearly losing a two-foot child in an 18-inch snow drift!

But now, all was calm. All was bright.

I stopped in the middle of the street and gazed for a moment at the people in the restaurant, wondering how long it would be before we would be able to enjoy such decadent behavior again. For that matter, I’m pretty sure their meal tab came out to be about the same as all the contents of “Santa’s Sleigh.” Even if we had brought along a sitter, those Chinese noodles had already depleted our budget.

< Sigh >

Those children are grown now. One of them has a child of his own. That night in Shasta City, thinking forward about life unknown seemed daunting and infinite. Since one of those photos is dated 1992, I guess it wasn’t infinite, but finite and exactly thirty years ago. At least it will be in a couple of weeks.

I drove through Shasta a couple of summers ago on my way down the Pacific coast. I think that apartment motel is gone now. And if that glowing bistro is still there, I couldn’t find it or recognize it.

But our Christmas Story is still very much alive in the shadow of that huge mountain that gave Mt. Shasta City its name.

And oh…

SPOILER: Santa did, indeed, find us in the snow.

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