"Ruminations of Weather at Christmas"

by Brian Watkins

If there was a Christmas with cold she didn’t remember it. The ground she walked on in December was as warm as it was in October and even September for that matter. She wandered across the driveway in her slippers and into the garage looking for a present that she thought she forgot to give last year. It was wrapped, she recalled. She had bought it at the CVS Pharmacy. It was an obligatory, meaningless gift. Something you would give to your boss’s assistant or the gardener. There was no longevity in the gift, she thought. If there was ever a gift that was the opposite of “the gift that keeps on giving” this was it. Finite in its essence. Cheap to a younger generation. Philosophical ideas snapped in her brain, then quickly dissolved.

This frequency of thought seemed like snow to her. At least the snow that she knew. Come December when it would rain in the valleys she would peer into the headlights of cars that zipped through the parking lots of supermarkets and liquor stores. The headlights would catch the precipitation in such a way that would deaden the pace of the rain and make it look like snow. But it wasn’t. It was just slowed-down rain in sprinkle form. It would fool her each time. So much so that she became resentful towards the unchanging weather. For the love of God, why not just once, she thought. Just once, I’d like to see something different in this sun-soaked state. Snow, she thought; that animate substance that brings mystery and body and gives neighbors something to talk about. She missed that. You could always talk about the snow. Again, with the fleeting philosophies, she thought.

She was born in Cheyenne, Wyoming, but moved to Encino, California when she was sixteen and her mother decided to marry Curtis. She remembered thinking the beach was neat for about a year or two until they stopped going. She remembered their ranch house in Cheyenne, the backyard of which stared at the Rockies. Her father kept two horses, a number of sheep, and one big horn, which she hated. He moved to Grand Junction with a woman he met and took the animals with him. The stables and pens stayed empty after that. During the Holidays they would drive up to Laramie to see her Grandma. She knew it was cold then, but doesn’t remember it. She could recall, though, what it felt like to bundle up in clothes. To have to layer yourself in sweaters and coats and hats and gloves but never your legs. Why not your legs, she thought. Didn’t our legs ever get cold? This seemed peculiar to her, as she blindly reached her hand to the top shelf in the garage storage area, searching for the phantom gift.

She thought it a strange thing for her to miss being cold. It was an abnormal sentiment not expressed by many her age. She wouldn't ever waste time asking herself why she was still in California. Personal ambition had beaten out peace a long time ago. But still, even so, she was tired of the sun. The philosopher in her head started speaking again: It’s gone to your brain. You’ve gotten stupid. Too much sun. You’ve gotten progressively less intelligent with every day you’ve lived here. That’s a lot of dumb that’s crept into your head.

She found the present. Why she hid it was beyond her. There was no child scrounging around for it. There was no husband who could stumble upon it. There was no pesky niece or nephew. She wiped the dust off and unwrapped it. It was a tropical scented soap sampler accompanied by a body wash and one of those spongy things to use in the shower. She remembered that she meant to give it to the new woman who sat across from her at work who ended up quitting last month to pursue a singing career and wondered if her “gift negligence” had contributed to her short stint at the company. She decided it had not.

She put the gift under her arm and walked back over the driveway and to the front door. She looked up towards the sky.

Anything? she asked.

Her slippers scuffed across the concrete and she went inside. She played out a little scene in her head where she was shivering and rushing from the garage to the doorway because of the bitter cold. She would rush inside and rub her arms vigorously after making an exclamation about what tomorrow’s weather held. She knew that there was a community in the weather that she was missing out on. She didn’t know this for sure but she knew it. She was almost absolutely sure she knew it. She was missing out on something. Missing out on change, which was an idea that the philosopher in her head always seduced her with. We’re just stuck here, all of us, she thought. Stuck like mud, she thought. If nothing ever changes here how are we gonna move again? This all made sense in her head.

She wasn’t sure what she was going to do with the tropical scented soaps, she had only recalled that she forgot about them twelve months ago. She sat on her sofa wondering the purpose behind this fool’s errand.

There was a knock at her door. It was a large Mexican man front the apartment complex next door. He asked if he could use her phone quickly, as his was out of service for a reason she couldn't understand. She told him he could and he came inside.

Nize Chrizmis tree.

Thank you.

I like your home.

Thank you.

He spoke on the phone in Spanish for a couple of minutes, swaying in the kitchen with his head tilted down and the phone clutched to his ear. She kept a good distance from him but knew her fear was impractical.

Gracias, he said.

You’re welcome.

Are you alone lady?

Yes.

Really?

She made an escape route in her head.

Yes, she said.

Those are some nize soaps. (Pause.) You should not be alone on Chrizmis Eve.

What? Why not?

Because that’s not what iz about.

Oh. Would you like the soaps?

For what?

As a gift.

Thank you. He took the soaps and put them under his arm. Iz kinda cold out there, huh? he said.

No, she thought, but didn’t say it. Yes, she said, yes it is kinda cold. Are you hungry?

Not really.

Oh… well I have some cookies that I made. I made way too many of them, but they’re really good, I promise.

Cookeez?

Yes. Cookies.

Maybe my kids would like them.

Oh. Great. Please. Take them.

Geez, you giveen away anything elze here?

Ha. No, I don’t—No. I… no.

Thank you. You’re nize. Merry Chrizmis.

He left and she watched him walk all the way across her yard. He tripped on an uneven piece of concrete on the sidewalk. This made her smile slightly and chuckle through her nose. She continued smiling even after it was funny. She wondered if the Mexican man would return with a gift for her. If she would wake up and find something on her doorstep. If it was food she probably wouldn't eat it, she thought. But it would be nice to find something unexpected. I hope he does, she thought.

She stared outside for some time. Whatever happened to caroling, she thought. Do people still do that? Not like the people you see singing in malls or anything but when groups of people go door to door singing Christmas carols. Does that still happen? Maybe somewhere north of here, she thought. She had made the cookies each year secretly hoping that maybe some carolers, by some miracle, would appear in the neighborhood and she would give them the cookies as a gesture of thanks. This was another one of those things she did that convinced her she was becoming more and more short-sighted. But, the Mexican man got the cookies this year, and that wasn't bad. I'll take it, she thought, and noticed the sprinkling rain had started again. She wouldn’t be fooled into thinking it could be snow this time. She turned away from the window and went to her computer.

She got online and searched for apartment rentals in Fort Collins and Laramie and Cheyenne and Loveland. Not to really consider moving there but just to see what it would be like. Rent was much cheaper. Way cheaper, she thought. She could buy a house. She could have a plot of land if she wanted.

She went to bed that night with the covers off to try and feel just for a moment what it would be like to be cold. It didn’t work. The stagnant air just annoyed her and she began to think she had that syndrome where you couldn’t stop wiggling your legs. The sun down here was surely getting to her, she thought. Surely. It won’t be much longer until you’re one of the softies who has no sense of discretion, the philosopher told her. She fell asleep in the luke-warmness above her shag carpet, dreaming of Wyoming, wondering of change.