Loving the snow

Instead of a white Christmas, we had a white New Year where I reside.  The occasion prompted me to reminisce the 1990 article about the snow that was published in The Denver Post.  I wrote this piece which made me an instant celebrity in my workplace at that time.   Hope that you’ll enjoy reading it!

Lure of Snow

Winter is a subject of fantasy in Manila

A fragment of winter hangs in my office cubicle:  snow frosting on a naked tree with a promise of sunshine sparkling through the frigid branches.  It is not a vision anyone would care to look at on winter days when temperatures are chilly.

The picture was once abandoned in a vacant work station among boxes and all sorts of office paraphernalia. I took one look at the lonely picture sitting in the corner, and it held me captive.  Not that I am a big winter fan, but I needed a picture to hang on the bare brick wall of my work station.  On summer days, I can steal glances and feign stoic indifference to the heat.

This past winter, I indulged in a little time for introspection.  I found myself staring at this image more frequently, which was kind of strange because all I had to do was step outside to look, feel and touch real snow.  Perhaps, it was because this winter scenery served as a constant reminder of my very first day in America.

A few years ago, I stepped out of a United Airlines airplane after a prolonged stopover in San Francisco into a crowded Stapleton Airport.  Outside, I walked into a chilly, snowy night, the cotton-ball like flakes kissing my cheeks.  Denver literally gave me a bitter-cold reception!

Snow was what lured me to this part of the world.  In Manila, where I am from, snow is a topic of conversation that can bring a dreamy twinkle to the eye.  There, winter is synonymous with America and a pleasure trip to the land of snow is a luxury that only the financially well-equipped can afford.  My friends and I fantasized about wearing wool overcoats and building a snowman.

My initial fascination with snow came from my mother, who spent her adolescent years in Baguio, a city in the mountain province where the climate is similar to San Francisco’s.  She said that one day, to the thrilled amazement of everyone, it snowed!  It was not a 24-hour spectacle, just a passing moment, but the recollection froze in my mother’s memory.  My countrymen who have never been to countries with four seasons have a longing for those immaculate white flakes that turn our Rocky Mountains into pristine, white-capped skiing slopes.  Almost everyone I knew back home dreamed of a “white Christmas.”  It was a childhood image that nurtured our Christmas dreams and made the children and children-at-heart look forward to this annual festivity.

As a child, I remember wishing that a miracle would transform my 7,000 islands into a snowy wonderland.  My mother is long dead and I now carry this suspicion that she might have made up that snow incident to fuel my childish imagination.  I never found the courage to confront her with the truth because in my young heart, a retraction would have a rather rude awakening.

These days when I hear of an attempted coup d’etat to overthrow the government of my homeland, something inside me wants to curl up and die.  Whatever happened to my fellow dreamers, the children who once believed in Santa Claus and the infant Jesus in the manger, the flower children of the ‘60s who wanted love, peace and brotherhood?  Has their optimism, like the snow on the yard, melted in the sunlight?  Have the long, weary years of dictatorship robbed them of the appreciation for a decent, democratic way of living?

I can understand their cry for change because, like them, I once lived under a dictator.  I once vicariously suffered and suffocated from the stench of poverty that contaminated many areas of that once lovely land.

Recently, I have been longing for white sand beaches, palm trees, refreshing coconut juice and dry, humid weather.  No, not Hawaii.  I have been thinking of going back to familiar haunts where everyone is a friend and where friends can be family:  home in Manila.  But I am a coward.  I would panic in the midst of a revolution.  But my heart aches for the children caught in this ugly battle, the children who may not have had the same sheltered upbringing I cherish, the children who may never have heard of snow and do not have dreams of building a snowman.

That is why the snow means a lot to me.  It serves as a personal point of reference.  It played a very vital part in the childhood I once enjoyed in a land across the vast Pacific Ocean.

Once in a while, when the luxury of democracy gets to my head, I dig deep into my roots for an ounce of humility.  I remember to be grateful for having been able to cross the barriers that none of my friends and acquaintances have been able to overcome.  They can only dream about the four seasons.  I have basked in the glorious Colorado sun in summer, watched the turning of leaves in autumn, felt the snow on my cheeks and feasted my eyes on the marvelous colors of spring.  And these days, when the bitter cold gets under my skin, I will pinch myself and perhaps remember to smile.  After all, I am not just looking at a picture view of winter.  I am living in it.