As long as I can remember, my secret dream has been to experience a white Christmas – not fame, fortune or true love - just a white Christmas. I don’t ask for much.
I grew up listening to my mother’s old 78 record collection of Christmas favorites. The absolute best was Bing Crosby’s “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas.” It still brings tears to my eyes. Frequently, the needle would get stuck on the turntable and Bing would repeat over and over “May your days, may your days, may your days”…until we would give it a bump, and he would add “be merry and bright. And may all your Christmases be white, white, white, white (stuck again).”
Mother said it wasn’t likely that conditions would ever come together to have a white Christmas in Mississippi, since we rarely got a couple of good snows each decade, and they usually came in January or February.
Imagine my delight when I got up Christmas morning and snow was falling like a ticker tape at Macy’s parade! And it was even “sticking” in some places.
I went out and collected all I could find to make snowballs for my children who were still sleeping, snug in their beds with visions of smart phones and mini camcorders in their heads.
Now, I must tell you that my “children” are now in their 30s, but they magically reverted to my babies when they saw the snow. We frolicked around and took pictures and declared we would never forget this Christmas.
Now to the miracle part…Frigid temperatures set in after the snow. I have a little green house out back for my special plants. On Christmas Eve, I removed the heater and put in a sprinkler to water the plants. I forgot all about the heater and left it in the rain and snow.
My son discovered what I had done and warned me never to use the heater again or it would “fry me.” In fact he went and threw the heater in the garbage. On Sunday, temperatures were plunging to the 20s and I needed a heater for the greenhouse. I pulled the heater out of the garbage and walked over to Brenda’s to see if I could get a witness in case I “got fried.” (She has plants in my greenhouse too.)
She and her husband David came over to witness the “frying.” We got out my fire extinguisher and prepared for the worst. As Brenda put in the plug, David yelled “Boom!” I thought I was dead and fell back on my posterior onto the hard wood floor.
I figured I would never walk again since I’ve had this ruptured disc thing going on for weeks. David pulled me up and I started to slug him. Then I hugged him – I had no more pain and was almost like a regular person again. Perhaps the fall shoved that disc thing back in its place.
Maybe I won’t need surgery after all. And my plants are toasty warm. All is well in my world.
Emily Jones is a retired journalist who lives in Starkville. She edits a website for bouncing baby boomers facing retirement. She welcomes comments at www.deludeddiva.com .