I shouldn’t complain, so I won’t.
My wife and I just spent a brilliant week on the Big Island of Hawaii in mid-December to celebrate her birthday. Warm, sunny weather, exploring black sand beaches, swimming with sea turtles, downing mountains of poke, and quaffing rum-soaked cocktails with little umbrellas. It was everything a Hawaiian vacation should be. Thus, upon our return to Oregon it was only fitting that temperatures would drop below freezing and snow would fall.
I saw the trouble brewing the week before we were scheduled to drive to the San Francisco Bay Area to visit my wife’s family for the holidays. The voyage down I-5 would likely be uneventful, but the return trip the day after Christmas appeared fraught with wintry difficulty—a significant snow storm was on its way.
Yreka to Ashland was likely to be covered in heavy snow and I-5 could either be a dangerous drive or perhaps impossible due to accidents or closures. I looked into alternate paths including heading north on Highway 101 to Crescent City and then cutting over on Highway 199 into Oregon, but the forecast had four to eight inches slated for that route. I researched the 14-hour slog all the way up 101 to Florence where we could then cut across the Coast Range on Highway 126 into Eugene. But snow was also predicted for the drive across the Coast Range, which we would be attempting after dark. In short, driving to the Bay Area for the holiday was a risky proposition. The weather was not supposed to improve in the days following the 26th, and being stuck in frosty limbo at a dank motel in Yreka or Cave Junction or Florence was not how we desired to spend our time and money.
Thus, I fired up the ol’ Google machine and started looking into flights. Naturally, being the holidays and being that I was searching for a flight leaving the next day, prices were steep. As my grandma used to say, I enjoy living a champagne lifestyle on a beer budget, so I tried convincing my wife that airplane tickets at $700 a pop were a reasonable expenditure. After all, it’s Christmas and if Hallmark Channel movies have taught me anything, it’s that not coming home for Christmas is tantamount to murdering puppies and kittens. Alas, she sanely objected to the extraordinary cost.
After an hour of consternation, fruitless searches for cheaper airfare, a few tears, and an exasperated declaration of “we’re just staying home!”, we came to the most obvious conclusion: my wife would fly home on her own to visit her family, while I stayed behind. We had just spent a glorious week together in a tropical paradise and there are many forthcoming Christmas holidays we can enjoy as a couple. But her grandparents are growing older and each holiday visit is a precious and necessary venture. I drove her to the airport on the 23rd, said goodbye, and headed home to spend the holidays with the company of two yappy chihuahua mixes.
I have experienced a couple of Christmases alone. One prominent example springs instantly to mind. As an undergraduate I worked in the stock room at a Williams-Sonoma store in San Francisco’s Stonestown Galleria. The Bay Area’s economy was booming and everyone and their grandpa needed a $400 Wolf Gourmet Four-Slice Toaster (but, you see, you can toast bagels in it!) and a new hammered copper fondue pot. I worked every day that December through the 24th, took a break on Christmas day, and then was back at it on the 26th for the slew of returns and exchanges. One of my three roommates also had no plans for the big day, so we figured we would hang out together and make our own merriment.
It was a Christmas I would never forget. After lunch we decided to engage in the time-honored tradition of heading to the movies for the holiday. We drove to the movie palace in Daly City, secured a spot in the parking garage, sparked a skunky bowl in the car, and floated over to the box office. The film we desired to watch was sold out. Our back-up selection was also sold out. Damn secular, atheistic Bay Area families! You were supposed to be at home opening presents and listening to old Bing Crosby crooning about snowmen and mistletoe!
Only slightly defeated, we decided not to lower our standards to some third-rate cinema experience, hopped back in the car, and navigated to the local video rental store. We selected a videotape—which title I cannot recall—purchased some candy, popcorn, and Coca-Cola, and retired to our apartment on Taraval Street. We popped the popcorn, poured our beverages over ice, ripped open the candy, and settled in for our viewing party. But Christmas magic eluded us. The VHS tape would not play. We ejected it, wound it tighter, blew on the cartridge and tried again. Nope. Eject, wind, scratch head, try again. Denied. One final attempt. Fail. The tape was broken and so were we. This sucks! We plopped the video atop the coffee table, gathered up our snacks, and retreated to our individual rooms. The perception of loneliness sank deep into my soul—my first Christmas alone was as awful as all the songs and movies had promised.
Now, some 20 years later, the prospect of spending Christmas alone is not nearly as depressing. Yes, I would miss my wife and miss spending time with her family. Yes, I would miss the honey baked ham and the desserts and the whiskey tasting and the laughs and the warmth of family at the holidays. But a few quiet days on my own at home is somewhat of a novelty given the forced 24-7 togetherness demanded of the last two years of the pandemic. I figured I could read my book, watch some films my wife would have no interest in, and enjoy the solitude. As usual, the first couple of days were mildly enjoyable, but soon I was fairly bored, tired of tending to the dogs by myself, and wishing my wife was in the kitchen preparing a home-cooked meal. But, I figured, it was only one more day and then I would pick her up at the airport.
Big, wet snow flakes fell for an hour or so on Saturday evening, but the flurries had stopped by the time I went to bed. Maybe the big storm that had been forecast wouldn’t be too serious. The ground remained clear; nothing had stuck. Of course, I awoke to a winter wonderland. As Sunday morning wore on the white stuff was still falling at a steady clip, the roads were coated, and even the short drive to the airport around noon was starting to make me nervous. My wife texted me from her gate at SFO—her flight had been canceled due to snow.
I know, I know. A few inches of snow in Chicago or Cleveland would be met with a collective shrug as business as usual carried on. Four inches would not stop planes from landing at O’Hare. But Eugene is not the Midwest. Snow is fairly uncommon in western Oregon and perpetually catches the city off guard. No flights were landing in Eugene for the rest of the day, she would need to rebook her flight.
As I write this now on Monday afternoon, the snow has stopped, but the roads remain white and icy as the temperature has resisted a climb above 32 degrees. My wife’s flight is scheduled to land on Tuesday afternoon, when the thermometer is supposed to crack 36 degrees. Hopefully, all will go off without a hitch, her plane will arrive without issue, and the roads will be clear enough to safely drive to the airport.
All the good coffee beans are gone. The freezer is devoid of pork chops or frozen pizza. It will be another night of ramen noodles and leftover See’s candy. Another night of telling the dogs that mom’s not home yet as they look out the back door at 6pm, ready for her to return from the office. Another night of praying for higher temperatures and melting ice. At least I’ll get to finish part two of the George Harrison documentary I started watching.
But, like I said, I cannot complain.
Perhaps my Christmas alone is karmic comeuppance for spending a bougie week in Hawaii. Perhaps my time alone is a useful reminder of how much I love my wife and enjoy her company. Perhaps spending the holiday solo provides me with greater empathy for the old folks without families to visit or friends with which to exchange gifts.
Right now, my only belated Christmas wish is that flights land at the Eugene airport tomorrow, that the roads are passable, and that December 28th will be a night where I can kiss my wife after finishing a tasty home-cooked dinner.