It’s easy to forget how lucky we are to celebrate the holiday season in Connecticut. This week’s incessant warnings of impending blizzards sent many of us scrambling to fill up the gas tank and dig out the mittens instead of appreciating the simple joys of Hanukkah and Christmas. I was guilty of it myself before I visited Florida last week and was reminded, like George Bailey in “It’s a Wonderful Life,” just how lucky we really are.
It’s no coincidence Bing Crosby first sang “White Christmas” (in 1942’s “Holiday Inn”) on a farm in Connecticut rather than the Art Deco morass that is Florida. There is a jarring dissonance in seeing an inflatable Santa tethered next to a palm tree, the plaster Joseph no doubt distracted by the coconuts falling onto the roof of the manger scene. Florida is tacky enough without colored lights wrapped around its palm fronds. Only a Scrooge would willingly live in a place where one can wear shorts while Christmas shopping or listen to “Jingle Bells” while floating in a pool. Even the sun conspires to set an hour later, robbing us of the excuse to go to bed early.