When New Yorker Irving Berlin wrote the opening to his iconic “White Christmas,” he was suffering from a warm December day while vacationing in Beverly Hills.
The introduction, rarely recorded or known, goes like this:
The sun is shining, the grass is green
The orange and palm trees sway
There’s never been such a day
In Beverly Hills, L.A.
But it’s December the twenty-fourth
And I am longing to be up North
All my life I have been in the South, Southern California that is, and have only known warm or even hot holidays. Forget a white Christmas; I’d settle for a sunny but brisk 65-degree holiday.
Unfortunately, the chance of a cold or rainy Thanksgiving or Christmas is extremely rare. If the temperatures stop rising at 79 degrees, I consider it better than the 93-degree Thanksgiving that sweltered Burbank in 2017.
Watching those TV commercials with people bundled up in sweaters and parkas, making their way through snowy landscapes taunts me: that fantasy has never materialized.
And with the way the weather has become warmer in recent decades, the future looks hotter.
I know that me griping about warm weather during the fall and winter months places me among the minority of Angelenos. I am never happy when a weathercaster appears joyful describing a warming trend or gloomy when predicting a few raindrops in the forecast.
Here we are a week before Thanksgiving and I’ve only had one fire in the fireplace so far because the nighttime temperatures have barely edged below 55 degrees.
For me, cooler days invigorates me while the hot ones depletes my energy even with indoor air conditioning.
I keep promising myself that one of these Decembers I will trek to a colder climate and spend a week in a mountain cabin and actually see it snow on Christmas Day.
In the meantime, I’ll have to live with not Christmas in July, but July in Christmas.