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 Looking
over a dry sea of brown and beige, I had a hard time believing
that the holidays were upon us. With September and sand
traps still on the brain, I was especially reluctant to
enter the postal race, trim the tree and even start the
shopping. I hit a particularly low spot during a recent,
forced trip to the mall as I worked through a herd of
what felt like thousands of people in the midst of a holiday
buying frenzy.
Low went lower when the baby hanging around my neck started
crying and several of my fellow shoppers started flashing
me that “bad parent” look. Seeking an emergency
fix, I made a quick hand-off to my wife, Rachael, and
dashed off toward a piece of plate glass, pretending to
admire the qualities of the 2002 fleet of lawnmowers and
their sale tags. As I pondered the merits of mulching,
I turned in shock to see my wife doing a little emergency
breast feeding in the midst of the bustling herd. For
the most part, people zoomed past oblivious. However,
three adolescents with peach fuzz on their chins, acne
on their cheeks and colas in their hands had gotten their
present early and were happily grinning. I made a quick
turn, hoping to provide the family with some sanctuary,
and inadvertently stumbled back into the river of people.
Someone nudged me from behind, a large plastic bag full
of boxes bumped my knees and a wave of bad breath riding
on a cough met me from the side just as the melodious
voice of Burl Ives began to croon from above. “Have
a Holly, Jolly Christmas! It’s the best time of
the year.”
At that moment, I realized I was having difficulty finding
the “holy” in the “holidays.”
The tinsel, ornaments and carols were getting a little
overwhelming. I was getting obsessed with brightly colored
paper and plastic, and the race for mail service was beginning
to consume me. Meanwhile, my checkbook was getting suspiciously
light, and my great friends at the credit card company
were smiling all the way to the bank.
In many ways, I was back in the standard holiday routine.
But there was some added challenge this year. There was
something about that plastic smiling Santa and the lighted
reindeer standing on lawns that were still slightly green
that just didn’t sit quite right. I was beginning
to think that Burl wasn’t being completely honest
with me about this being the best time of the year.
But then something miraculous started happening.
Snow started falling from the sky.
Late last Monday, an overly-long dry spell came to an
abrupt end with some of Durango’s only substantial
precipitation in nine months. The immediate future looks
promising as well, with deluges pounding California and
a series of storms lined up to Japan. And while this page
would not even begin to address the subject of drought
or its beginnings or endings, it was feeling pretty good
to be back in the business of winter.
In the real world, most consider an obsession with storms
and snow perverse. Anyone who lives here understands their
necessity.
On the one, hedonistic hand, sliding through powder is
one of the few rare pleasures where you actually make
almost no contact with the ground. You are literally floating,
flying on a pillow of snow and air. On the other hand,
we have always been snow farmers at our root. For a large
portion of the year, it is our sustenance and the major
draw for visitors. Storms paralyze most of the outside
world. We’re paralyzed without them.
And on the subject of holy holidays, Durango and much
of the rest of the thirsty West are getting a pretty mighty
gift right now.
Whether you be an avid skier or boarder or one who struggles
with winter driving and despises the cold, everyone can
agree on the value of moisture. Seeing this week’s
storm cycle arrive, I’d say we all have ample reason
to celebrate this holiday season. After a damned trying
year, it’s nice to have a little hope to stand on.
It’s a relief to put away thoughts of dust bowl
and drought for at least a little while. It’s also
a relief to get the Burl Ives off my internal turntable.
I’ll take a little Bing Crosby any day.
-Will Sands
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