The bitter cold of the past few days will give way to warmer weather, with the possibility of downright tropical heat as we near Christmas.  Or that is what my little buddy, Ryan Hall, is telling me.  Sweet Ryan is teasing the possibility of record heat on Christmas Day.  Seventies, y’all.  Seventies.

Now.  Let that settle. 

Two days ago I traveled to Louisville, leaving home in the single digits.  I had extra coats in the car, a sleeping bag, gloves, an unbecoming hat but one that would see me survive, should I somehow get stranded during the two-hour trip.  Nuts and chocolate, water, a working flashlight. I wasn’t heading out to explore the Northwest Territories, but I was ramped up like something big was about to happen. 

Next week it looks like I may have to break out the shorts. 

But Ryan–who you can find on YouTube at Ryan Hall Y’all–promises lots of drama getting to those record temps.  Cold, then warm, with storms and unsettled weather every few days, so there is that to look forward to. And I do. 

We have had warm Christmases before, and the worst in my book, are the ones that are just like the fall, all that warm weather protracted, a sameness I find maddening.  I would never choose to live in a perpetually perfect climate.  Would prefer a place that builds to the crescendo of a true and snowy winter, ebb into glorious spring with some dramatic storms for visual interest, then settle into a verdant summer, but one that gets cool at night.  Autumn, well, autumn can do what it likes,  as long as the leaves put on a show. 

Our recent taste of true winter, though, has been sufficient to put me in the holiday spirit, and I will happily drag through the coming rains and warming temps to finish my shopping and make incessant trips to the grocery store.  By all accounts, this winter will be changeable and dramatic and that suits me just fine. 

What then, to do with a summery Christmas Day?  

Usually I would  pout and spend most the day bemoaning my bad luck, as if the thermometer is the true meaning of Christmas.  I know better, of course, but being bundled up and happy as I visit friends and family is the linchpin of my holiday fantasy.  Candlelight Service with my family on Christmas Eve, then walking home in the cold, the air crystalline and our breath billowing clouds of white. Laughter, and gentle ribbing as we bump along to the warmth of a welcoming hearth.

In fact, that last bit really happened one year, so not a fantasy.

The promise of more snow later on has improved my mood immeasurably. In fact, I am looking forward to this late December warm-up.  There are leftover leaves to rake.  There is a box of anemones I never got around to planting, and wood hyacinth, too, which I think I ordered by mistake.  Maybe it’s not too late for them, and I love the idea of one more dig in the dirt before the New Year.  

And Christmas Day seems a hopeful time for coaxing new life. In the bleak mid-winter, and all that.

I don’t know.  Maybe just buying all that down outerwear has shifted my mood, or perhaps I have grown reasonable, tempered, let’s say, as life spools out in its own way. But I can see me come December 25th, sipping mimosas on the deck, mariachi music in the background, sun on my face, dirt under my nails, happy as a Christmas clam.