Quality Time with Mr. Snowman

December 24th, 1998

Eveningtime at Nana’s place carried a strange aroma. As far as I can recall, this was the first time I had noticed it. I was sitting in the damp grass of the backyard, exhausted after a laborious game of tag. Cool sweat rolled deliciously down the back of my neck. I pointed my small nose toward the stars, inhaling deep jugs of air and letting out cathartic sighs. It was a true-blue suburban Christmas, surrounded by family, cousins and all, with Christmas lights and a Christmas tree, crowned by a Christmas star. Christmas bourbons and candles, cakes and wreaths and stockings, the turkey feast around the table, and the nativity scene presiding over all.

The aroma weaved its way above the commotion, like the wind that rustles the treetops but leaves the grass untouched, and I caught brief but pungent wisps of it as I breathed in…out. I cannot remember what it was like, and I forget each time it leaves, but I know it every time. It cannot be named, but as the smell of a purple horizon. The smell of eveningtime. Nowadays, when the sun is low, I lift my nose to the sky, taking long, deep breaths with eyes closed. There I wait. Most days my nostrils taste nothing but air, but on rare occasions, I find it again.

Father said it was my bedtime, that I had already stayed up too late. I said I didn’t want to leave Nana’s, I wanted to stay and play, I wanted, I wanted, I wanted. He told me I could keep playing a little longer, that he would talk to Nana. Relieved of an unwanted burden, I returned to my activities. He came back after some time, informed me that I could sleep over at Nana’s with the cousins, who had come up from Texas for Christmas as they did every second year. He also told me that we had half an hour more before all the children went to bed.

In that half-hour, me, Susan, Tommy and my sister Nancy played in the snow on the street. Tiny snowballs flurried back and forth between us. I remember that snowball fight as a moment of ecstasy, where we reached an elation few adults could achieve apart from lovemaking.

Me and Susan had always had a competitive rivalry, and tonight was no different. Spraying up snow like the foam of a crashing wave, I tackled her to the ground, and we rolled around like warring angels.

After the five-more-minutes warning, we each made a snowman for ourselves. Rushed for time, they were all rather sloppy, but I remember being sure that mine was a masterpiece and everyone else’s was sub-par. Look at mine, I would say, tugging at fur coats. Look Susan, look at mine!

I called him Mr. Snowman. Mr. Snowman was a businessman like Father, and I etched a suit and tie into his spherical torso. After Father came to collect us, I would exclaim delightfully that it was him. Look Father, it’s you! He has such a long nose, like you! You have such a long nose! I giggled all the way to bed.

We of course refused to fall asleep and were a great disturbance to all the adults. Father had come into our room, and we all hid under our covers, quivering with laughter like a coiled spring, trying our best to play sleeping cubs. But Father had come to read us a story, something to hopefully calm our nerves. Mother always said reading before bed is the best way to get a good night's sleep.

It was called The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. I had heard the story before on many restless nights. I had enjoyed it thoroughly, and was delighted that Susan could hear it too. So, despite our best efforts of resistance, one by one we drifted off to sleep, our heads swimming in a snowstorm consisting of a magical wardrobe, an evil witch, a nervous fawn, a foolish Edmund, a frozen waterfall, Turkish delight, centaurs, kings, battles, Father Christmas, sacrifice, magical horns, stone tables, and the great lion Aslan presiding over all.

But I dreamt of Mr. Snowman.

December 24th, 2010

It was high noon on a hot day. Several heat waves had battered the country without relent since late October, and the usual natural laws of wintertime had been suspended. It seemed that this would be an orange Christmas, a warm sweaty Christmas, a stuffy, uncomfortable, rural Christmas. 

Rural, because Nana was moving out, forcing us to spend another Christmas at the cousin’s family farm. The farm was enjoyable enough, but not the true Christmas experience of my early childhood that I equated with Christmas itself. The streets lined with houses caked in white frosting were replaced by rows of criss-crossing barbed wire too thin to support a snowflake. The festive carolling caravans were gone, leaving only the baaing and mooing of livestock and the incessant clicking of cicadas. There was no sense of human presence. The family was there, but that feeling of surrounded-ness was gone.

We had come to Nana’s to help pack, but the process had taken longer than expected, and the lethargy of heat made it feel like we were shifting cardboard boxes and antique chairs through thick honey with arms of floppy spaghetti. Really, we should have spent a whole week at the farm before Christmas day arrived, but now it seemed that we would watch the sun set on the eve before Christmas through the confines of a car window. The sudden need for urgency overwhelmed me, and I asked Nana how much longer we would be, an accidental slip of winy frustration in my voice betraying my anger.

I resented Nana for selling the house. She and Papa had grown weary of caretaking such a large house, wanting to retire somewhere smaller, somewhere modest. It was a reasonable decision, but then and there I was consumed by selfish greed, which I projected onto my grandparents. Why didn’t they think of us? I brooded. Why did they think only of themselves? I resented my whole family. Mother for being shorter than me, Father for being taller. Uncle for being too distant, Aunt for being too nosy. Nancy for her wisdom, myself for my folly.

I was at an insidious stage in my development. Not yet old enough to control my rashness, but old enough to feel anger of a harsh, dry flavour; the anger of an adult, as opposed to the relatively harmless anger of an upset toddler. It was the same anger that leads impassioned lovers to murder when the sun is low and red and pink is splattered like blood on the clouds. Clotting. I held deep-seated grudges, often subconscious and unformed such that the content of the grudge could not be put into words. This had the curious effect of me being unable to be reasoned out of it. After all, how could you be reasoned out of what you did not reason into?

It was almost three o’clock when the work was done, and we shared a belated lunch over the barren kitchen countertop. One last meal; cheese sandwiches. My eyes burned with each bite as the time of departure approached. Aunt Lacy, who had driven up with Uncle Fred and Tommy to help with the moving, was querying me about my aspirations for the future. Everyone always asks the same questions. What are you studying? What college are you going to? What do you plan on doing? I felt I had answered the questions a million times, such that my answers were pre-made and robotic. I was studying environmental sciences, I studied at UND, I planned to go into meteorological analysis. As she feigned intense interest, a burning hatred again threatened to rise up my oesophagus and overwhelm me.

Susan had not come with the rest of her family. That stung. I had wanted to see her more than any of my other relatives this year. She was the closest cousin to me by age, and in our teenage years she had been my best friend. We had spent many long afternoons playing contrived sports with whatever we could get our hands on. But for the last couple years she hadn’t been at any family gatherings. She would just…slip away. Her parents had given up punishing her misdemeanours. I realised only later that what had happened to her was happening to me this Christmas eve. Resent, anger, and disdain. The products of unfettered introspection.

***

The car thundered down the road as twilight turned to dusk. The landscape blurred past like a shifting shadow, and it hurt my eyes to look for too long, straining to see through the blackness. The boredom like hellfire continued to mount with each passing car until I could bear it no more. I turned to reading. The book was from the Chronicles of Narnia, but I was grown up now and refused to be entertained by the childlike simplicity of the wardrobe. Instead, I read The Last Battle. I read of Tash, and of king Tirian, and of the door to that dreaded stable.

So, the car thundered on, and dusk turned to dark. I continued reading, illuminating my book with each passing streetlight, catching glimpses of disjointed words and phrases.

 …where is Queen Susan? My sister Susan…

…no longer a friend of Narnia…

…she wasted all her school time wanting to be…

…don’t let’s talk about that now.

Agreed, I thought sardonically. I put the book down, my eyes stinging harder. I would resign myself to hellish boredom, if only to avoid the melodrama, the sickening catharsis of grief. My hubris, I now regretfully see.

***

We arrived just before eleven o’clock. I stepped out achingly, surveying the sprawling paddocks under the light of the stars. The stars… 

Away from any major sources of light pollution, the sky had opened itself up to the horror of space. For one terrifying moment, I had the strong impression that I would fall upwards into the dazzling lights. Discretely, I balanced myself against the car. The stars… beautiful terror, was the description that conjured in my mind. I couldn’t handle the fiery coldness when exposed, but when we entered the house, I longed for it. Like that sunset aroma, I would forget every time I looked away and remember every time I once again pointed my nose starward.

After a silent unpacking, we each lumbered off to our designated rooms. Mine was up the stairs, turn left, third door on the right. The dark red from my alarm clock acted as a guide, revealing any unforeseen obstacles.

It was a roughly rectangular room, too tight longwise, with a slanting roof and squeaky bed. I unloaded my bags, did toiletries, and attempted to force my body into the hotel-tight sheets.

Very soon, the refreshment brought by the cold shower dissipated. I ripped off the sheets and cracked the window open. To my dismay I was met with only the click-click of cicadas. The sweat began to build up, minute after minute. I checked the clock, restless. 

Knowing there was probably ice in the freezer, I arose, careful not to disturb anyone, and padded my way down. This time I was truly blind. Left, feel the rail, down the stairs. The light of the Christmas tree guided me from there. Left, right. Slowly, I cracked open the freezer, blue light and a gentle low hum escaping. I made an iced water for myself, drinking deeply.

An almost unnoticeable shift in the darkness alerted me to the presence of another. I turned towards the direction of the movement. Her sleek, dark hair nearly concealed her, were it not for the pale face which gave her away.

Susan.

I downed the rest of my drink, the ice already gone from the intense warmth. Taking a few more, I returned the tray to the freezer. Cup in hand, I approached, sinking into the lounge facing the Christmas tree, Susan on my left. Tantalisingly close.

We looked ahead, enamoured by the glow, just as a child is enamoured by a Light-Saber duel. Holding my cup between my thighs, I took two ice cubes, placing them on my temples. The pleasure was so intense it was painful. Closing my eyes, I titled my head backwards, letting the cold seep through me.

Silence. Water began to trickle down the sides of my head.

Susan spoke, her voice a mere whisper.

“I’m so sorry, Eddie.” She was deeply sad. Every word was soaked in it. Looking over, I saw her fighting her own body to stop shaking. She was wrecked with grief.

Like the rush of cold through the temples, I was immersed in a pool of filial love. Love so strong it hurts, I thought bitterly. Why do people love?

I was dangerously close to tears for reasons I could not comprehend. Awkwardly, I rose, not looking at her. I could feel her eyes. I shuffled away without saying a word. I shuffled up the stairs, down the hall, into my room. We hadn’t even touched.

Three ice cubes left. In the cup, they had pillared on top of one another. The evil red light of my clock reflected through this unholy Mr. Snowman. I quickly removed the ice, placed one in my mouth and two more to my temples once again. 

Shuffling my body back into the ruffled sheets, I prepared for a long night. Glancing over at my clock one last time before I would look no more, I discovered with tragic realisation that it was already Christmas.

When sleep came, I dreamt of an Arctic paradise, a world of blizzards and hail.

December 24th, 2015

…why, it is she that has got all Narnia under her thumb. It’s she that makes it always winter. Always winter and never Christmas; think of that! That seemed an appropriate place to finish for now. I closed the book and heaved myself onto sore feet. My attempt at an escape into reminiscence and nostalgia had only increased the furtive restlessness of this black morningtime. 

Opening the door of my metallic igloo, I stepped out into the wasteland that was the Arctic circle. If the White Witch of Narnia had organised a serious deforestation program, this winter waste could be the inside of a wardrobe. Morningtime, I mused. It was morning, but it was pitch black. The Sun made his cycles exclusively in the southern hemisphere this time of year. The bizarre climate made for the bizarre experience of day being night, just as night was already night. The cloud cover had undercut the last remaining vestments of light, leaving me all alone. The one thing I still admired in this world, the starry skies, had been taken from me, taken on the eve of our Lord’s birth.

No; I admire three things in this world. The stars of Heaven, the Son of Man, and…

I had recently found out that Susan was getting married. The man’s name was Liam. I had met him a few times before the expedition. He was a good man. Susan had recovered; she had ceased to isolate herself from the world, had entered back into normal society, just as I was on my way out. We had passed by like two cars on the freeway, had caught a glimpse of each other. She had tried to say, ‘You’re going the wrong way, turn around!’, but the wind had come between us. Now here I was, on the top of the world. I’m on top of the world, and I’ve never been more miserable.

It was always winter here, and it seemed very likely that there would be no Christmas for me this year. After all, Christmas is a mass, but I could commune with no-one. 

Unless…

I rushed down the grated steps until I felt the crunch of snow underneath my boots. I walked out into the wilderness three paces, stopped. Stooping down low, I took clumsy scoops of snow with my large gloves, bundling and compressing it until I had formed a large sphere, slightly squashed. Then another, slightly smaller sphere, which I placed on top of the first. And finally, a head. I poked holes for eyes and a dotted smile. A hole for a nose would have to do. And of course, he would not be complete without his suit and tie.

Hello Mr. Snowman. I leaned my head against his and wept quietly. Hello Father.

I wept for some time there, finally understanding the appeal of a good catharsis.

Oh, for it to be always winter and never Christmas! Always winter…

In a moment of epiphany where I wasn’t quite sure what I had discovered, I scrambled back to the shelter, grabbed my clipboard and pen, and began to write, words flowing like streams of salty tears. There were two especially memorable Christmases I had retained from my past that I felt compelled to record. One for its joy and simplicity, the other for its anger and grief.

I then began to write about today, tonight, the emptiness. 

Now here I am, alone on Christmas eve.

December 25th, 2015

Now here I am, on Christmas day.

The clouds are clearing. The milky way is beginning to show. The starlight is filtering in. The ice shimmers with it. In the distance, a bird busies herself with a fine catch. Peck, peck, peck. She is a speck against the distant horizon, no bigger than a star. She turns her beak towards the stars, swallows. The wind is picking up, rippling the dark water. A misty smell blows across the empty plains.

Sweet, but not too sweet. For you are the sweetest of them all, Mr. Snowman. And you are the sweetest of them all, Father, my Father Christmas.

And you are the sweetest of them all, second sister.