The snow-laden sky unleashed its heavy burden, and flakes descended, slowly at first, and then with greater intensity. I watched from our living room window as the crystals swirled in random patterns, blown by the wind. Eventually they began to stick to the ground, and within an hour, Hillside wore a new white coat that brightened the grayness of the New Jersey winter day. I loved snow but realized it would delay the arrival of our special guest. “Mommy, when will he get here?” I asked anxiously.
“I don’t know,” she answered. “The snowfall is growing heavier, and he may not be able to land. We’ll just have to wait.”
Waiting was not something I did well. At eleven, I was a typical child, impatient and filled with anticipation. I viewed life as a time of endless waiting—for school vacations, trips to New York City and Coney Island, going down the shore (a term easterners use for going to the beach), and countless other childhood delights. I also waited for something to happen that would upset the sameness of our daily existence in a small suburb, where it seemed that nothing much happened.
The wait seemed endless that December afternoon, as I peered out the window trying to catch a glimpse of the man who had assumed mythical status in our household…