It’s quite fashionable to moan about the white Christmases of yore and how they don’t happen anymore, but I honestly can’t recall any. It’s not just that I cannot remember a snow-apocalypse type Christmas, I simply can’t say if there was snow, ever. This is probably partly due to the fact that I was particularly susceptible to colds as a child, and I would dread winter weather in any of its forms, as it could trigger anything from sniffles to mild pneumonia. Nothing lethal, of course, but Christmas with mild pneumonia kind of loses some of its shine.
On the other hand, I do think that December is not a typical snow month in Arad. Because I clearly remember biggish snowfalls in November, and pretty devastating ones in both January and February. Those of February had a particular knack at annoying me, as I was kind of already waiting for spring and then, oh damn, let me shovel myself out of five feet of snow on my way to school.
I was therefore completely cool with the fact that on the 23rd of December I undertook my final Christmas shopping in what could be called splendid spring sunshine, while listening to people tragically complain about how they really don’t feel like mulled wine, but they’d rather have a spritzer. Have it, for Pete’s sake, add some cinnamon and you’re good to go.
I was also quite delighted by not having my hands freeze on my shopping bags, and taking in some vitamin D in the process. For the rest of time, it was quite foggy. Which is more wintry, sure, and I do think it looks splendid, but fog is also ruined for us these days, since it’s most probably not good old honest fog, but it’s hideous industrial friend, smog. But no matter what, commonplace as it sounds, it’s good to be home for Christmas, doing some of the things you always did, and some new ones too, because every tradition has to start somewhere, I guess.