White Christmas.

Snow up here in 28805. Not today's snow: what we got out of the sky today was ice and rain, and mainly rain, at that. But there's so much snow left here from last week's blizzard that if you wanted to call this a White Christmas, you probably could. Somebody get Bing Crosby in here with a pipe and maybe a tumbler of bourbon. Somebody get Donna Reed. Was that Donna Reed in that film? Probably not. Does it matter? Probably not.

The dogs have been walked; the presents have been opened. ANYLF got a BMX bicycle and a radio-remote controlled car and a big book on paper airplanes and some socks and a gift certificate to Coconut's Records and Tapes at the mall. I'm totally buying Jefferson Starship's Knee Deep in the Hoopla. Time now to shower up and put on that scratchy new white shirt and sit down to the big formal dinner, candles and napkin rings and all. And then, at the end, my Dad'll bring in the flaming figgy pudding.

It was a good Christmas. They always are, though, aren't they, in their own way? There is always weather, one way or the other. There is always that same feeling of waking up just before sunrise on Christmas morning. I don't get out of bed right then any more, but there is still that feeling all the same. Not sure I ever want to be cured of that. Happy Christmas, out there, Weatherheads, if that's the way you tilt. If not, then happy Friday. God -- or NOAA -- bless us, every one.