One evening as I walked past the living room window, I stared out at the green grass and caught myself humming, “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas….” I sighed and headed to bed. Stop thinking about that song, I told myself. There are no white Christmases in Southern California!
But how could I stop? Christmas music played everywhere—at the grocery store, in the mall, on the car radio—and “White Christmas” was a staple. Growing up back in Wisconsin, it had been one of Dad’s favorites. He’d sing it as he trimmed the tree or whistle it as he shoveled the sidewalk.
Dad had passed away right before Thanksgiving. There was no chance I would hear him doing his best Bing Crosby impersonation this year, my first Christmas without him, nor would I see a white Christmas as long as I lived in sunny Southern California.
Yet the song seemed to be on replay in my mind. I turned over in my bed and tried to escape the melody with a good night’s sleep.
The next morning I woke to the sound of hail on the roof. Big, round balls of hail that stacked up on the grass and patio furniture. Suddenly that white Christmas I’d been dreaming of didn’t seem so far away. And neither did Dad.
Listen as Bing Crosby sings “White Christmas”!
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