First Day of Winter

First day of winter, and the darkest day of the year. He's glad he doesn't live in Alaska. Or Norway. No wonder they go to the saunas so much in those Scandinavian countries, to remember what heat and steam felt like, and maybe to appreciate the winter by comparison. But then, they have polar bear swimming clubs too.

Only four days til Christmas, and as usual, the holiday has crept up on him, as it has since he was in college. He hasn't put up a Christmas tree, or even lights this year. The last few weeks have been spent grading. Before then the weeks before Christmas were spent studying, getting ready for finals and squeezing in Christmas shopping on weekends and late at night. One year he walked out into the middle of a parade, going through town. He stopped for a moment, standing in the small crowd as reindeer and children with bells and red and green suits marched by, followed by a fat Santa. He remembered then, when he was growing up, his parents pulled records from under the record player (it even had an eight-track player) and played Bing Crosby's White Christmas and the Chipmunks' Christmas album, or Sandi Patti and others he has forgotten while cookies baked in the kitchen or he and his dad worked on unstringing the lights, testing them, then wrapping them around the Christmas tree.

They always got a fresh one, the Christmas tree, and not off a lot. There were a few tree farms just outside outside of town, and Dad would pull the saw off a nail in the garage, and they'd pile in the car and set off in search of the "perfect tree."

"It has to be full," Mom would say, and they'd spend what felt like hours in the bitter cold, deliberating, stamping their feet to stay warm, as Mom would circle the tree, sizing it up, "No, no good," then move on to the next one, and the next, and the next, until she and Dad were satisfied. Mom would hold the tree while Dad sawed back and forth at the base, but holding the tree wasn't the fun job because whoever held it would have sticky pine sap hands for the rest of the night. The tree would shiver, then bow, and finally collapse as the saw bit through the last of the wood fiber. It toppled to the ground, to be lifted on top of the roof of the car--pine needles, tree sap and all--where it would be transformed into something else, a thing of light and hanging memories of ornaments from previous years. There was Scooby Doo, and Santa, and Mickey's Christmas Carol, and turtledoves from the year his parents had married, and polar bears and bunnies and the crumbling clay ornament with the faded kindergarten picture that seemed too shabby and fragile to hang, but was never thrown away. It found its way onto the tree, each year looking more and more faded, and the tree began to sag under the weight of previous years and last year's silver and gold tinsel.

The house held a warm softness on these nights, even though the wind whistled and rattled just outside. It's sounds mingled with "The weather outside is frightful, but the fire is so delightful . . ." and "How the Grinch Stole Christmas," and tales of the "Night Before Christmas," and the pile of red, green, and blue wrapped presents that formed growing mountains around the manger scene at the base of the tree.

* * *

A fat snowman and Santa Claus greet him as he crunches through the snow from the parking lot and enters the front door of the apartment complex. The gazebo in the quad is covered with snow and lights that have been strung between it and the leafless trees. A couple lamposts stand guard, and empty wooden benches and a couple metal grills, sleeping reminders of warm summer nights, green grass, flowers, and the pungent odor of sizzling meat over charcoal. He fumbles for the keys with cold, stiff hands, drops them into the snowbank, curses, then plunges his hand in to pull them out, noticing how the snow hurts his skin as it turns quickly to liquid in his palm. The key fits into the lock, the door opens, and he climbs the stairs. He's home.