What hath Irving Berlin wrought

I would like to make a promise: I will never again wish for a white Christmas in Portland.

I'd like to promise it, but I can't. I'm sure that some distant year in the future, the memory of all this slush and ice and gravel and general nastiness will have blurred into a hazy, romantic recollection of this magical December of snow, and I will gaze out the window in a vain hope for even a few white flakes to coat the brown streets and lawns.

I will have forgotten how I had to continue to drive to work these last weeks, even Monday morning when we awoke to four inches of fresh powder on top of the weekend's ice, because the show must go on at work. We were open for business, even though buses and emergency vehicles all over the city were getting stuck. It's something to do with the union; all public employees in the union who work for the city have to be treated equally, so management can't say that the office workers don't need to report but the police have to come in. (Consequently, I found myself in our office with only the mayor and two other employees. Not only that, but neither receptionist made it in, so I got to answer the phones all day. Which was fine--I've been a receptionist often enough in my life to feel perfectly at home at any front desk. And it's not like I could concentrate on "real" work, anyway. And the mayor brought us hot chocolate, bless his heart.)

I'm the first to admit, I am not the most confident of snow drivers. I don't have a lot of experience in the snow, and despite owning an all-wheel-drive Subaru wagon, I prefer my pavement dry. But I'm getting plenty of practice in the snow this month. I am now expert at putting on and removing my chains, and I managed to drive successfully through some of the choppiest intersections and side streets without spinning the car 360 degrees or anything. Although I was still kind of terrified.

I felt better when my dad said this week that the roads were treacherous, because he is a highly skilled snow driver. He used to be on a ski patrol and drive his car through all kinds of weather (this was back before he was saddled--uh, privileged--with wife or children), so if he says it's bad out there, it's officially bad.

The problem is, we are not set up here for extended winter storms. In defense of the Portland area, why would the cities in the metro area invest thousands of dollars in snowplows and sanding equipment that would spend most of their time sitting in a warehouse, rusting from disuse? You think the taxpayers would like that idea? And someone would have to be kept trained and ready to drive said equipment at a moment's notice.

Also, as a group, we are not good snow drivers. We do not see snow often, and we tend to panic when we do, abandoning our cars on the freeway and sliding sideways down hills (and, if we are very lucky, having those moments immortalized by the frenzied local news cameras lying in wait to capture the footage and play it over and over and over again on TV, while a list of school and business closures scrolls across the bottom). Probably we should all be forced to take winter driving school. But how often would we get to practice?

And furthermore, we get damn sick and tired of transplants from the East Coast and the Midwest and Canada telling us all about how we are bad snow drivers, and how we should get more snowplows, and blah blah blah back where we came from we wouldn't have this problem and everyone drives to work in a blizzard with no snow tires or chains. Okay, transplants, but do we make fun of you because you act like you've never seen rain before, and there you are going 20 in the fast lane and managing to hit every puddle?

But I do have to complain a little (which I am entitled to do, because I live here) about the lack of plowing on major roads. The most terrifying day of driving for me was Tuesday afternoon, when it warmed up a little and ruts were worn on all the streets with huge banks of snow in between, and I had to circle a rather large area because I couldn't get from one lane to the other to turn. I screamed quietly all the way home.

So I've been thinking "dreaming of a white Christmas, my ass!" as I coach myself aloud while steering slowly through several inches of frozen slush. In the bah-humbug spirit of the season, I went online tonight to prove that Irving Berlin, composer of the aforementioned song (minus the ass--sorry, Irving), lived a cozy life in southern California, where Hollywood really did dream of a white Christmas as a welcome alternative to all those palm trees and golden beaches. Only, unfortunately for my preconceived ideas, wikipedia reports (and therefore it must be true!) that Irving's life was a lot more challenging than I'd expected. He was an immigrant to the US, and he spent much of his time in New York, where they really know what snow is and how to deal with it and they can't understand what's the matter with us wimps out here. Which squashed my plans to rail against Hollywood.

I still love the idyllic snowy Currier-and-Ives Christmas pictures, with the horse-drawn sleighs and lights in the windows. But I love it better on the wall than outside the window.

As for me, I am dreaming of a gray Christmas next year and every year after. Bring on the rain! God bless us, everyone.

Merry Christmas!