Life of Hardin Vol. III, No. 16

I'm Dreaming of a white Christmas

SPECIAL CHRISTMAS EDITION

I have consulted the records, and Bing Crosby's version of "White Christmas" is the best selling single of all time. It originally hit number 1 in 1942, has been re-released in numerous succeeding years, and made the pop charts in 20 different Christmas seasons. (Whitburn, 153) Each December carolers all over the U.S. and doubtless other countries try their hands and vocal chords at crooning just like Bing.

All that not withstanding, I hold that no one has really, truly dreamed of a white, snowy Christmas unless they have spent a yuletide melting in the tropical heat and humidity of a South American country. Those in the southern U.S. don't really dream of a white Christmas. They hope, with some semi-reasonable sense of expectancy, that they will fall asleep on the 24th watching white flakes drift lazily down through the dark, crisp night. They hope that when they wake up Christmas morn they can rush to open presents with a backdrop of a blanket of white on the ground. They hope, and pray, and in fits of Kris Kringle induced lunacy even believe, that snow will accompany their new ties and bicycles and baseball gloves and dolls and video games and DVDs. And this can be hoped for because there is precedent. It CAN happen. Atlanta got a Christmas snow a few years ago. The Florida panhandle was dusted. Nashville gets several inches on occasion. The Spirit of Christmas turns any little bit into a blizzard. I remember one Christmas with half an inch that melted before I'd opened the first gift. One year the frost was so thick we decided to look at it only out of the corner of our eye and pretend. I still count them both. My grandfather, who has probably seen more 60 degree and balmy Christmases than snowy ones, to this day still puts in an order to Santa for two inches every year. And there is always the chance that it WILL happen this year.

But not in Paraguay. There isn't even a tease of white. There is no hope. It is squashed before it sees the light of day. Bing would be tossed out on his floppy ears before he ever reached the chorus. So the only thing left for me is to dream. I go to sleep every night with the air conditioner on and a Christmas cd playing in an attempt to make myself cold enough and Christmasy enough that I can induce such a Christmas stupor that I can taste the snowflakes as they hit my tongue.

This country has never seen snow. No one who has grown up here and lived their life between its borders has ever thrown a snowball, made a snowman, tasted snowcream, or drank hot chocolate after peeling off layer after layer of snow-soaked clothing. They speak of snow here like most people speak of the Loch Ness monster or Bigfoot. Snow is a pooka, a fairy tale, a bedtime story. It does not exist.

HOWEVER, that does not stop the city of Asuncion from decorating as though it did. There is no Thanksgiving line of demarkation to separate Halloween and Santa, so decorations go up Nov. 1. They are all out and all over. Malls are lined with fake trees, holly garlands, and lights from end to end. Huge trees made entirely of lights stretch to the sky from the tops of businesses. Santas, reindeer, and angels hang from each lamppost to light up the night. And everywhere are white twinkle lights covering the tops of bushes or clinging to the leaves of palm trees like snow or dripping from the eaves of houses like icicles.

The malls even have Santas decked out in fur with billowy cotton blankets around their workshops. The fur, of course, is a little thin, along with the suits. I wouldn't blame them if they wore shorts. To get myself in the Christmas mood I though of visiting one while in the mall one day and there was no line of kids. That was until I noticed he was 23 years old or so, with the phoniest beard you've ever seen, and passed the time calling to the 18 year-old-girls to come sit on his lap. I suppose that Christmases without snow, or at least the hope of it, can have that affect.

So I hope that you have a Merry Christmas, that you get what you asked for if you have been good, that you get coal if you've been bad (you know who you are), and that you are snowed in for the day. And I will keep the windows closed, the air conditioner set on frigid, make Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye tap dance the snow in all day long, and have a white Christmas myself, if only in my dreams.

Seasons Greeting and Happy Holidays to you and yours.


Whitburn, Joel. "Billboard Book of Top 40 Hits, The." New York: Billboard, 1996.