‘Ho ho ho – let it snow, let it snow…’
Bing Crosby spent the second half of his life ‘dreaming of a white Christmas’. ‘Frosty the snowman was a jolly happy soul,’ according to Perry Como… and we could rhyme off another dozen songs that enunciate the beauty and romanticism of a blanket of snow. My Spanish grandsons’ greatest Christmas wish this year is that when they arrive in Ireland or Scotland, they will see snow. I break the news gently, telling Finn, Ruari and Cillian that the odds are stacked against their wish.
At the time of writing, the best hope of having a sprinkling of snow on Christmas day is in Dublin – and the bookies are giving 5/1 against. The overall odds of having a white Christmas in these here parts in any year is 16/1 – and to paint a clearer picture (in black and white!) there have only been 20 white Christmases in Ireland since 1893!
It’s far from snow that young Jesus was reared in Bethlehem, but for some strange reason, we long for the white stuff to celebrate his birthday.
Children and adults coming together to make a snowman is one traditional scene of happiness which lives long in the memory. Making slides, feeding the robin and throwing snowballs are all part of the Irish snow scene since time immemorial. Is this what comes to your mind when you hear the word snow? The word can conjure up a variety of visions in the mind’s eye, depending on where you come from and how a fall of snow might affect you.
Like most children, my brothers and I got really excited on waking up to snow on the ground when we were kids. The perfect number of inches of snow was when it was deemed serious enough that we didn’t have to go to school that day! But I also remember being made to feel guilty in our house for welcoming the snow. It caused hardship for my father, then a ‘carter’ with Westmeath County Council, and it also imposed the ‘slavery’ on him of having to fodder our few cows when he got home. Anyway, as soon as we were out of the sight of our parents, we ‘let rip’ and had loads of fun!
Those ‘pretty little snowflakes’, or ice crystals, can create a playground in an amazing variety of settings, but that very same product can also be a killer and it came very close to killing me.
In December of 1968, I was due to return to Ireland from Canada for Christmas; my first time home in two and a half years. My buddy, Galwayman, Joe Mulhare, and I booked to fly from the Lakehead (now Thunder Bay) to New York to visit my aunt and from there to Shannon.
We were working in Manitouwadge, northern Ontario; about a 250-mile drive from Thunder Bay. A work colleague, named George, was heading out for the weekend and offered Joe and me a ride. George’s friend came too, making four of us in the car. We had a lot of goodbyes to attend to on that Friday before leaving. The beer parlour was brimful of good cheer, so instead of departing at noon as planned, it was around four in the afternoon when we ‘beep-beeped’ out of the small mining town: already there had been gathering what was to be the worst snow storm in 16 years. It was insane to set off on our drive. I remember a few level heads trying to stop us, but the four of us felt bullet-proof by that stage.
We made it about half way before Arthur, totally disorientated by white snow and white vodka, lost control of his car and drove off the side of Highway 17. It would only have been a short time before the car was covered by snow; and we wouldn’t have been found until the spring break-up; but somebody up there was looking out for us. A huge truck (better equipped for the conditions) happened to come along behind us. One of us was lighting a cigarette and the truck driver saw the flicker of light through the snow (and they say smoking is bad for your health!).
Anyhow, our saviour hauled us out and dropped us at a motel on the outskirts of Thunder Bay. Our flight next day was delayed by 12 hours. Arthur’s car was only fit for scrap when it was retrieved in April of the following year.
And that, my friends, is the same snow you see glistening on your Christmas cards. Snow means something entirely different in Canada. Everyone carries a chain and snow shovel in the trunk (boot) of the car. Talk would be about snow-banks, snow-storms, snow-blindness, snow-mobiles, snow-tyres, snow-screens, snow-goggles, etc…etc.
You and your ‘pretty little snowflakes…’!
Don’t Forget
Nollaig Shona daoibh go leir. Thank you for your kind comments throughout the year. Every Christmas, our final though is for those of you who will read this in another country. Happy Christmas across the miles!