The weather forecast until a moment ago was snow.  It mattered because we’re about to leave for a late afternoon luncheon in the city with friends. But first we must attend upon our cherished pharmacist to collect a five-month supply of prescription drugs for the upcoming winter abroad. We have further arranged a brief pre-Christmas visit with my sister and her husband prior to putting on the nose bag with our dining partners. Though one of our companions had offered to excuse us from the social engagement if the inclement weather prevailed, it is fortuitously no longer a concern. I replied to her worry that my native Canadian being sufficiently overcame any such pusillanimity.

Though we have escaped the shroud of “snowy conditions” and “wintry mix” now replaced by “light haze affecting visibility” I am nonetheless pleased that we’ve had an introduction to the immoderation spiriting our pending departure. A “green Christmas” is never as inspiring as having to attend church through the steeple. I imagine too that children in particular respond enthusiastically to a white Christmas. I know I did. I won’t say it is the sine qua non but I always found the site of snowdrifts at this time of year bore me aloft. There are so many images associated with a white Christmas that to pervert the fanciful creations with anything less is a miscalculation.

In addition to snow being muffling, its white cover of purity also contrasts nicely with the dull brown earth and the grey denuded tree branches. Naturally its appearance is confined to the northern reaches of humanity but I believe its attraction extends universally beyond. I recall with uncanny clarity the scene to which my late father once introduced me and my sister when he took us to a nearby country stream that had frozen and become covered by soft banks of snow.  We skated upon the ice-bound water, darting between the projections of bullrushes.