I flew into O’Hare today feeling somewhat harried by the season. I rode the bus into Rockford with a swelling Christmas spirit.
What made the difference? A few inches of snow. It blankets the fields, turning the ugly stubble of November into winter wonderland. It dusts the trees, especially icing the evergreens. It feeds icicles on the rooftops. It stretches to the broad Illinois horizon. I’m home, and it’s Christmas.
In truth, home is New Jersey now. That’s where my love is, my stuff is, and thus I suppose, where my heart is. But it’s not where I grew up. With snowfall so light and late, and winter garb universally black, it fights an uphill battle trying to make me feel home for Christmas, with all the Norman Rockwell trimmings.
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