I was listening to Michael Bublé singing White Christmas the other day and thinking about how when I was growing up we almost never had a white Christmas because every year we drove from Pennsylvania to North Carolina to visit with my mom‘s family. The part of North Carolina they lived in — closer to the East coast and the beach — isn’t known for having a ton of snow.
We traveled to North Carolina as a family from the time I was a baby until I was married.
We would leave Pennsylvania with snow on the ground, and see some snow on the way down, but once we hit North Carolina the temperatures were usually in the 60s to 70s and occasionally the 80s. When we would step out of the car at the North Carolina welcome center, everything smelled like warmth and pine.
One year though, snow met us as we traveled through North Carolina and continued with us as we traveled to Jacksonville. I remember it being a lot of snow, but I was young, so maybe it wasn’t.
I do remember that no one in the South knew how to drive in it so the city was pretty much shut down. They didn’t even snowplows or cinders to put on the road. They simply don’t need them most of the time.
Since my dad is a lifelong Northerner, he tried to help my grandmother’s neighbors and teach them how to drive on the icy roads.
Seeing the snow outside Grandma and Aunt Dianne’s house felt both amazing and strange. I’d never had a white Christmas so this was my chance, but seeing those Carolina pines all weighted down under snow was surreal.
I was used to short sleeve shirts when walking outside, warm sun on my face, and sometimes trip to the beach to stick my feet in the ocean.
This time, though, we were stuck inside so some Southerner didn’t careen into us on their way to the Piggy Wiggly.
My mom says it was’t the only time they went down that it snowed because before I was born it happened too, but again, it was very rare.
Remembering the Christmases we spent in North Carolina is bitter sweet these days.
It’s so nice to have those memories of that time – the joyous times.
Like I said in previous posts about our trips down south, if I close my eyes, I can remember the feeling of pulling in the driveway of my grandparents’ house (Grandpa was gone after I was 9 so it was Grandma and Aunt Dianne’s after that), knowing our long journey was done.
I’m climbing out from under the pile of blankets and stuffed animals I’d carried with me and Dad is taking away the winter coat away to put in the trunk because we usually didn’t need them after we arrive.
Aunt Dianne comes on to the front porch, clapping her hands and saying, “Hello, ya’ll! You made good time didn’t ya’? Come here so I can give you a hug.”
Hugging someone you haven’t hugged in a year is an amazing feeling.
The porch door squeaks as she leans out and reaches her arms out to us.
She’s wearing a pair of sweatpants, a plaid shirt over a Tshirt with the Pepsi logo emblazoned on it, and a pair of worn slippers. She smells faintly of cigarettes, collard greens, and diet Pepsi — which would be a horrible combination in other circumstances but is the most wonderful smell to me in that moment as I am wrapped in her arms, being held against her chest. I can barely breathe she’s hugging me so tight, but I take short breaths to get in air until she releases me with a wet kiss on my cheek.
She’s kissing the top of my head and I’m telling her I desperately have to use the bathroom. She laughs and tells me to “hurry on up then.” Inside the living room my grandma is waiting to the left of the door in the living room, sitting in her rocking chair. I rush by her because, as I just told Dianne, I have to use the bathroom.
“I know you’re not going to rush right by me without loving my neck now,” Grandma says in her thick Southern accent.
“I have to use the bathroom!” I call over my shoulder.
I can smell the collard greens Dianne has been cooking as I run through the house, past the kitchen, into the little dining room, down the short hall with all the family photos lining it, and to the bathroom.
Once things have been relieved in that department, I’m back in the living room, leaning into Grandma who feels like a pile of pillows and marshmallows all mushed together, the skin on her arms soft and full of comfort and love.
Behind us, in front of the large window, is the Christmas tree Dianne decorated and there are a few gifts already wrapped under it.
It’s hard for me to remember past this point because my mind is stuck in that moment with my head on Grandma’s stomach, her arms holding me tight. I remember that year her feelings were a little hurt because she thought I was blowing her off. Once she realized how bad I’d had to use the bathroom she understood why I had to come back for the hug. After that she just held me and said, “It’s so good to see you, shug.” (pronounced shoog for all you non-Southerners.”)
I have a hard time letting myself walk away from that moment because it’s where I want to be every Christmas now.
I’d trade all the gifts, even the wonderful Southern food, just to be in her arms again.
When things get really tough in life, I close my eyes and that’s where I’m at. Kneeling in front of her rocking chair, my head on her fluffy stomach, feeling the rush of unconditional love.
I imagine that’s what heaven will be — being held in unconditional love so pure and all encompassing that nothing else matters.
Being held in the arms of my grandmother who is being held in the arms of Jesus.
