Of all the Christmas movies I watched this year, White Christmas has to be one of my favorites. Sure, I’m a sucker for good tap-dancing, and Bing Crosby’s velvety voice isn’t something you easily forget. But that fervor, that desire, that need for snow around Christmas- that gets me every time.
When I was a little girl growing up across the bridge in Marin County, every single wish I made was always for snow. I wanted our house to be covered in it, absolutely blanketed. Other than the one time I built a Hail Man out of a pittance of the white crumbly stuff, my wish remained ungranted.
And then we moved to Minnesota, where my first Halloween was wiped out by an ice storm and -40 degree temperatures. Yeah, I know- be careful what you wish for. Now that I’ve migrated back to my native Bay Area, I’m finding myself wishing yet again for snow. But this time, I just need to drive four hours to find a Lake Tahoe winter.
Jim and I spend the days after Christmas exploring around Lake Tahoe and Squaw Valley, blasting downhill on our skis (and board), taking a tram up to dizzying heights, and consuming no small amount of festive beverages. No snow fell from the sky, but I was still as happy as a child.