I'll Be Home for Christmas, Even If in My Dreams

The perfect Christmas that never was or was all along

Courtesy of Stocksy

It was only 14 hours, but it seemed like 14 days. It was the 23rd of December, and I found myself under a snow-covered pine tree high up in the Austrian Alps. Alone, cold, hungry, recently divorced, and worried I might have to spend the night there, my penchant for drama led me to believe that my run of Christmases had ended.

Having set out in the early afternoon to snowshoe up to the mountain’s peak, roughly 7500 feet, one hour into my hike, the lazily falling, cornflake-sized snowflakes unnoticeably turned into more compact, fast-moving ones that began to remind me of the TIE Fighters from Star Wars. Assaulting my shoulders and piling up all over me, making me resemble a slow-moving snowman, the snow on the steep piste I was hiking up had begun to stick to my snowshoes like cookie dough (my mood was very Christmas-y). Each tug of my feet up through the deep snow was a mini-workout for my quads, beginning to ignite from fatigue.

Opting for the lightness of powder and fearing that the diminished visibility on the piste might result in a crash with a descending skier, I cut off into the glorious forest. If you have never been in a pine forest during a snowstorm, I can tell you it is one of the most mindful places on Earth. It is as if you suddenly found yourself in a bag of cotton balls. 

A visual staccato was created thanks to the tips of the occasional velvety green branch from the surrounding pines that reached out from under the fallen snow. If put to music, that rhythm would result in the music that stops people in their tracks and compels them to make quick and involuntary life assessments — like the “Humming Chorus” from Madame Butterfly and Enya’s music. These assessments also served as reminders that the struggle to continue was a pain that would make life grander. I have sometimes considered that if not for that imagined orchestra in my head, I would have just fallen over into the deep snow and stared skyward until lured away by sleep. I was not in a good place emotionally and didn’t think many would care if I became part of the local terrain to be found and studied 10,000 years later.

Plodding onward and ever upward, the intensity of the falling snow and the depth found only inside forests untrampled by other humans was draining me of my last reserves of energy. I continued for another hour, nonetheless. 

High up and deep in the forest, I came upon an incline that might have been an avalanche danger, given the fresh snow. Standing there and peering up, I could see the peak was still at least an hour or two away — on a summer’s day, it would take 45 minutes from that spot. I had entered a no man’s land, though, and as the sky emptied of its contents, I realized that it would be dark in less than two hours, and before I could go up or down, I needed to rest. I was nowhere near the piste and had somehow strayed off all trails popular for hikers. I was lost but not panicked. I knew with my energy restored, I could work my way back out.

My tank was empty, and that’s when I saw my “grandmother’s “house.” 

Gram’s House

No, I wasn’t hallucinating. No, I didn’t really see my grandmother’s house, either. I saw a majestic pine tree similar to those that used to stand before 6 Marcy Street in Freehold. 

Those two trees were the tallest pines in Freehold, and now this tree stood out like a welcoming, green thumb in a forest where everything was white. The cascading branches were so large and heavy that the tree remained relatively green. As I worked my way over, snow would break off from the narrow parts high up and slide down toward the tree’s middle section, eventually just turning to dust and vanishing with the other flakes. Sitting under the tree later, it was almost as if my tree was angrily shaking the snow off its branches, groaning, “How dare you settle on me! Do you know who I am?”

Safely under the heavy bottom branches, I had enough room to sit down without hitting my head. Snow had drifted up around the branches’ edges, creating aseal from the outer world. It was much warmer thanks to no wind or snow penetrating and the igloo effect of the drifting snow. There were millions of dry pine needles, which made a fragrant, shag carpet. It was glorious. 

My shirt and sweater had soaked through with sweat, so I removed my garments and sat topless for a while. I always carry a change of clothes in my rucksack, some snacks, a towel, matches, a knife, and even a small bottle or two schnapps: Obstler, a mix of pears and apples. My phone had 18 percent, so I turned it off. After about an hour, when I snacked and even dozed off, I was fully dry and restored. I put on my dry clothing, pulled on fresh socks, and planned to work my way out of the forest. 

Scooting over amid the pine needles, I dug through the branches until a blast of cold air rushed through, and snowflakes raced in. Surrounding my little oasis of warmth and safety was a rich, silvery darkness. As I contemplated my options, I heard an explosion that sounded right above me. Off to my right, I could hear a mild thundering sound and saw trees moving and snow kicking up. The snow patrol was firing cannons to free powdery overhangs from up high. By removing them early, they can prevent larger, uncontrolled avalanches later. BOOM. Another explosion and more snow. I had to wait.

I turned my phone on. 14 percent. It was nearing 7 p.m. I would have to cover the cost of a rescue sent out for me. It could run into the thousands of euros. I would also look like a complete dumbass. I turned the phone off. I was going to wait until the sun came out. I had enough food and plenty of water.

All my Christmases

To pass the time and keep my spirits up, I relived each Christmas I could recall. I am sure the real early ones ran into each other and became one amorphous Christmas morning and day, but the hours I passed were both magical, frightening, riddled with raw emotion, and calming. It’s hard not to cry at such a moment.

I cried thinking of my deceased parents. I imagined how hard they worked to get their five kids all we wanted on those Christmas mornings. We were forbidden to go down the steps until my father had time to wake up, load the camera, and start his coffee. It all began around 5 — earlier was also not allowed — and my brother or oldest sister would usually begin to wake us all up. Sitting at the top of the steps, my sleep-deprived parents would slip past us and go down to get everything ready.

“Okay, kids, come on down,” our father would announce. All over Freehold, households of 5, 6, 8, and even 14 kids were racing down steps to see trees made barely visible because of the mountains of gifts. I rejoiced to recall those explosions of joy when nothing could be more real than the fact that Santa had snuck into our home and left us all the things we wanted because we had been “goodish.” (I was never really too good at St. Rose in grammar school.)

Adjusting myself to the pine needles and starting to feel pangs of deep, stalking cold, I recalled the teen years and ones beyond when Christmas caused an ache because I wasn’t sharing it with the girl of my dreams. Then, there were years when I was sharing with my love. I recalled the weeks and days leading up to Christmas when the lights first appeared in the city, and the Rockefeller Center tree was lit. When in love, everything about Christmas was unforgettable. Every hot chocolate was the richest and every tree the brightest. I recalled making love listening to Sarah McLachlan and wondering if this woman was my hidden gift. Should I tell her I love her or admit I knew Santa wasn’t real? 

I never told her. I never told many. I told some, and as I would learn the hard way, a couple who I should have never told. 

For as much as I loved Christmas, and still do — it is, after all, the best time of the year — I ended up in Russia, a country that regards December 25th as just another day in the week. Please don’t fool yourself and think they celebrate Christmas in January. They don’t. It’s strictly a religious holiday, and most don’t participate. 

It has none of the magic and allure that our Christmas does. How many of my Christmases had been subpar because of being in Russia? On Christmas 1991, I lay hungover on a couch alone and watched Mikhail Gorbachev live on Russian television resign the presidency of the Soviet Union. I was in St. Petersburg that year — my first of many yet to come on December 25th in Russia.

As I struggled to sleep and then slept, waking only when the little fire I made went out, the cold began to take big chomps out of the exposed parts of my body; I began to imagine that the relived Christmases might be the last ones for me. I could smell my mother’s kitchen filled with the aroma of baked manicotti, baked clams, fresh bruschetta, still-warm cakes, and hundreds of cookies. She threw Christmas Eve Italian dinners for 30 and 40 people every year.

All of the Christmas memories raced over me and warmed me. I recalled the two-hour CBS special movie, A Walton’s Christmas. Sleep pulled me under, and warmly, contently, I slept through the night and even hummed some carols. It was indeed cold as hell, but it was an amazing sleep nonetheless, one of the best I may have ever had. 

The following day, I poked my head out through my little sky roof and saw that the depth of the snow had probably doubled. I dressed quickly and broke my way out from under the tree. I looked up at it, blew it a kiss, swore endless love, and set off through the forest on my snowshoes. After two hard hours of breaking new trails and sinking at times to chest-deep snow, I was back on the piste. I knew where I was. Hiking down another hour, I came upon a ski lodge and went in to warm up, eat some hot food, and drink two beers. I knew the owner, so I wished him a “Frohe Weihnachten!” (Merry Christmas) and set off down the piste toward the town. It took me another hour or so to descend. 

A friend from Russia was arriving by train in the late afternoon. She didn’t want me to celebrate Christmas alone. I decided not to tell her about my night in the forest. It was like one of those tricks people sometimes use to keep themselves calm or to help them overcome irrational fears. I needed that night to belong only to me.

Until now, happy holidays!