It’s officially November, officially cold, and officially time to shift our focus from weekends at the lake to weekends quarantined indoors due to 6 feet of snowfall.
For me, this time of year has always brought a bit of excitement with it. The Halloween costumes have all been put away…there’s no longer a month-long build-up to a holiday worshiped by kindergarteners and college freshmen. I love autumn, and I hate to see the fall months pass by so quickly, but I can’t help feel a twinge of excitement knowing what’s to come ahead: the “holiday season,” a period of two months highlighted by Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve/Day, and New Year’s Eve/Day (not to mention Black Friday). How can anyone not be overjoyed to know that turkey, stuffing, Rudolph, candy canes, and noise makers are just right around the corner?
When I was little, the holidays were my entire reason for living during those dreary winter months. Gram would start to bake endless amounts of Italian cookies. Mom would play Christmas carols to wake me up for school each morning. Dad would send me hurtling at blinding speeds down Jamestown’s biggest snow-covered hill, with only an inner tube and an overstuffed snow suit to keep me from harm. Papa would “allow” me to shovel his front walk after I begged mercilessly, and after we would watch Home Alone in the warmth of his living room…which also served as my imaginary ice rink when I believed I would become a world class figure skater at the age of 8. It’s hard to do triple lutzes when there’s a coffee table and a fireplace in your way.
Miracle on 32nd Street 