A mythical, epic, magical place is Los Angeles. My first day here was Thanksgiving. There were those who welcomed my husband and me. We were lucky. There was turkey, stuffing, cranberry relish, and mincemeat pie, just like home.
We all grow to expect a certain chain of events to happen between Thanksgiving and the new year. At the very least a change of seasons. I am waiting. The biggest seasonal change I've noticed is the Santa Ana winds, and then I find out they only last for a short time. There's fog, but, being by the ocean, that doesn't really count. It isn't the same as snow.
My favorite Christmas story is about snow. My grandmother tells it. It was the night before Christmas in Denver, Colo. in 1913. Her father was carrying her home from a celebration. The gas street lantern was casting light all over the fresh snow. Her father said to her: "Babette, do you see how the snow sparkles with hundreds of different colors? See the lavender, rose and sky blue? Do you know what that means, sweetheart?"
"No daddy. Tell me!"
"It means that Santa is coming to Denver tonight."
Now what happens in Los Angeles to explain the arrival of Santa? "Sweetheart, the Santa Ana winds will bring Santa soon?" No, it isn't the same as snow.