The hail fell, a proxy for the snow, but the cold made the windows fogged around the edges like it was matted, and it took me back to that house in Bethlehem where we lived, that night it kept snowing and everyone had electric candles, one per window, all white, and the special glow it made—it snowed so hard I had to walk home from the dance alone, and the avenues were empty, but the pink/peach streetlamps glowed against the falling flakes, the first time I heard the sound of snow, how it seemed I’d get back with the girl, how that made me feel about myself.

Many years later, we fell asleep in the family room by the fire with our cups of port and my hand burned from touching a log by accident and the windows all frosted over around the corners and Dean Martin on Spotify, our cat stoned on cat nip passed out on the cardboard scratch pad: all the beer in the garage garage-cold: putting the leftovers outside on the back stoop, covering the plants with cedar fronds to keep the roots from freezing—and remembering the day, how I ran a PowerPoint for my client but she pointed out the title slide looked like it had nipples on it so I changed that, and back home playing a Christmas mix on Spotify, all the jolly chants Caroling, Caroling: the twist of the sleigh bells, the harmonies back and forth, the strings and how they swelled, the jolly tones and cheerful clips: that pocketful of cheer we pack away that’s all about hope, it’s what we need most this time of year.

Categories: humor, inspiration, musings

Tags: Bethlehem, Christmas cheer, creative nonfiction, humor, Memoir, pacific northwest, William Pearse writer