A white Christmas is not a thing for most of us who live in the deep south. In fact, in all my years I don’t think I can recall having snow on Christmas day. Not ever.

I remember wishing for it. The temperatures would hover in the 30s. Atlanta weatherman, Guy Sharpe, would draw huge snowflakes on his weather board.

“We’ve got a front moving through from the northwest. Looks like it’s gonna bring us enough moisture that we might see some snow by morning.”

I’m lying on the floor in front of the TV. My fingers are crossed. My ankles are crossed. My eyeballs are crossed. I’m squinting hard with my head bowed.

“If we’re lucky,” he says, “old Santa might have an inch or two of fresh snow for landing his sleigh.”

Rain on Christmas morning is so disappointing when you’re a kid. The Coca-Cola thermometer on the back porch is holding steady at 34°. No amount of pleading would make it move.

All I needed was two more degrees. Just a little bit colder and this could be the Christmas I’d always dreamed of.

But the winter weather in the South is fickle. I’ve gone deer hunting on Christmas day in short sleeves without a jacket. I’ve seen ice storms in March that pulled the telephone lines nearly to the ground and snapped off small pines that bent over under the weight of the ice.

But I’ve never seen a blanket of snow on the ground in this part of Georgia on Christmas day. And I may never see it.

The only thing that covers the South like a blanket is kudzu. And believe me, that’s not a Christmas present anybody wants.

The Christmas movies always take place in a winter wonderland. The ground is covered. The trees are covered. Chestnuts are roasting over an open fire.

There’s always the scene where the family is together on Christmas Eve. The coats are hung by the door. Everybody makes it home for the holidays.

One of the kids runs to the big picture window and shouts, “It’s snowing.” Everyone puts on their coats to walk outside. Fresh snow is falling. Dad hugs mom. The soldier kisses his bride. The kids are throwing snowballs.

“This is the perfect Christmas,” the mom says.

THE END.

A few years ago I suggested to my family that we all go to Montana for Christmas. In Montana, they always have a white Christmas, which sounds like a great adventure, but the reality of pulling off a trip like that is slim to none for us.

Besides, I don’t know that snow guarantees a perfect Christmas anyway. I’m not even sure if I know what the perfect Christmas is.

I remember a Christmas when Dad got out the old Snapper riding mower. The gifts were done. Breakfast was over. There was no snow on the ground.

Dad said, “Let’s go outside and have some fun.”

He opened up one of the big boxes and laid it flat on the ground. He tied a short rope to the back of the lawn mover and handed me the loose end.

“Sit on the cardboard,” he said, “and hang on tight.”

For the next hour he towed me in sled fashion all around our yard. The small hill down to the road in front of our house was covered in water oak leaves, which are slick.

The more rope I let out as he went down the hill and made the turn to sling me around, the faster I went.

Nothing special. No snow. A cheesy cardboard sleigh ride. But that was a pretty good Christmas day.

I’d stack that up against throwing snowballs any day of the week.

The more I think about it, the perfect Christmas has nothing to do with the weather forecast. It has to do with the heart.

I’m not telling you anything that you don’t already know.

This is why you can ask Grandpa what he wants for Christmas, and he’ll say something about seeing happy faces and getting plenty of hugs is good enough for him.

He means it. He’s being completely honest.

Christmas is not about the size of the presents. It’s not about the snow. Thank God, it’s not about the fruitcake.

At Christmas we cling to the things that are eternal. The memories that make us weep. The joys that we know we shouldn’t take for granted. The Love of heaven itself that fills every heart with hope.

I don’t have to go to Montana to find that.

Christmas gatherings are different now. Our family has changed. We’ve grown in number. And I happen to be the old guy who just wants a sack full of hugs.

I’ll be with Marion’s family on Christmas day. The day after my crew will gather at my house. We’ll laugh and tell stories. We’ll remember the good times in our lives, and there will be plenty of hugs. I’ll make sure of that.

No snow. I’m pretty sure the forecast in not going to be snowy white again this year.

No matter. It will still be the perfect Christmas for us.