WHITING: Decking the halls with deer antlers

Boston is weak sauce, but so am I.

Hello December, and hello (at least to me) unwelcome arrival of cold weather of winter. Not that I can really complain, since we haven’t seen a single snowflake here, while back home, the ground has been coated with more than eight inches of snow since early November, and the temperature is consistently at least 15 degrees colder than Boston’s.

Hailing from the tundra, you’d think I’d be immune to the dire change in climate. But you’d be thinking wrong. I don’t care what you say – Minnesotan or not, an excess of wind-chill on the face is but frigid discomfort, and walking in it from Myles to CAS only means tears, snot and ears as red as Rudolph’s nose.

I’m no stranger to frostbite. But as of late I’ve experienced a bite that’s different and less familiar – homesickness.

This is abnormal, as I’m usually congruent with assertions that my state lacks appeal (though there’s a difference between unappealing and insignificant, and we are very much NOT the latter). I didn’t go home for Thanksgiving. Why would I, when I could visit New York City and its bustling glory, spend the weekend on Madison Avenue instead of a desolate Lake Street, and shop the holiday markets of Union Square drinking good joe, not the brown liquid they sell at what was once my favorite Caribou Coffee.

Yet somehow, despite the chill, never have I wanted more to return to the place.

Because there’s no place like home for the holidays. Ironically, as much as I hate everything about the cold except the peacoats, the Icelandic terrain from which I hail is actually one of my warmer hotspots. And that’s not just because in Minnesota we’re prepared for the woeful situation of winter, heating our garages, equipping our cars with snow tires, wearing thermal underwear, drinking tea all day long and donning only the finest, fur-hooded down jackets found at Cabela’s, “World’s Foremost Outfitter” of hunting, fishing and winter gear. I can’t wait to land in Minneapolis, make my way through the familiar and unexciting airport and drive the un-scenic highways back to Minnetonka. I don’t miss the material Minnesota. I just miss Minnesota because it is mine, my giant family and it is my many Midwestern chums.

People here constantly remind me of my home’s irrelevance. It’s true – no one visits Minnesota. Our postcards have nothing to boast except snow, snowmobiles, loons and camping. There’s nothing within walking distance; our only civilized adventure is a trip to the Mall of America. Indeed, I will tire of having nothing to do except dogsled to a neighboring log cabin in Fargo, North Dakota. And when the avalanches hit I’ve got two options: The Red Green Show or a televised fishing expedition.
But I’d like to see you brave wheels on icy roads and dig yourself out of a snowy driveway. And you should see the roads when it storms. The traffic is terrific.

I can’t wait for Christmas, for rocking around the house singing Jingle Bell Rock, enjoying Mom’s poinsettias, hanging chili pepper lights around the foyer and stockings filled with oranges, apples and un-cracked nuts (and floss and socks). Our holiday celebrations don’t usually have fewer than 30 guests. I finally get to see my cousin, who’s but 5 years old, and my chic, Homecoming Queen grandmother. I get to hear the word “garsh,” and the stories of Aunt Martha, Uncle John and Uncle Bob. And eat Grandpa’s pies and Russian tea cakes, which he selflessly takes a break from his ice fishing to bake.

I am not Laura Ingalls Wilder. I love the city. Shoveling the snow off of a frozen lake to create a bumpy and un-enjoyable ice rink does not inspire me. But I will always be a product of my family. I may be trying to reject Uggs in favor of uncomfortable Manolo’s, but fleece and fur are parts of my nature. Thus this small home in Minnesota that I so dread and make fun of is a sort of Paradise Lost for me in that as much as I run away from the place, I end up missing it terribly.

This is probably because life and love and laughter that await me in the Midwest don’t depend on success on the transcript. My aunts and uncles love me regardless of merit, and they mean more to me than any English professor.

This year, I’m flying to California for Christmas, away from the snow, forgoing brunch and flannel and snowboards in favor of Chinese food at the Panda Inn (the origin of our beloved Panda Express!). I’ve never had an un-white Christmas. And while Hawaii-like weather sounds enticing, Mele Kalikimaka sounds just as good if not better when my cousin Evelyn sings it in a hula skirt despite the below zero weather that can be felt on the window.

I once would have been excited. And sure, it’ll be nice getting repose from the cold to enjoy Santa Monica Boulevard and palm trees and white tipped waves. But nothing quite compares to deer-head studded living rooms and family members stuck in a house entrenched in snowfall, tearing open matching pajamas and Fair Isle sweaters.

I told my sister I didn’t want Christmas gifts this year, that being home was the best gift of all. Of course, she doesn’t believe me. Since when has the Midwest sufficed for my joy?

But I’m serious this time. I just want snow and holidays the way they always have been. I want continuity to balance the changes undergone while at school. Luckily, nothing has really changed about Wayzata. And the greatest gifts of all are being able to go home to family. After all, soon it’s all going to go away. My 5-year-old cousin Jonathan is going to grow up. Houses are going to be sold. Lives are going to be dispersed, and, if global warming has its way, the snow will stop falling (or is it the other way around?).

There’s no returning to the time when my only dreams were those of sugarplum fairies and reindeer rides. I’ve pulled a William Blake and traded in innocence for experience, and I have big, most likely unachievable dreams that are going to get me out of my hometown and right into the goings on about town I read about in the New Yorker. I’m going to own homes on Beacon Street and in Paris and London and Manhattan and Santa Monica and Anguilla.

But no matter how far away I roam, Vince Guaraldi’s Charlie Brown Christmas album doesn’t quite sound as good on a MacBook here as it does when my dad whips it out on the piano. So maybe I’ll stick with the snowy suburbs of Frostbite Falls, Minnesota (that’s not a real place, no).

There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home. (Click, click, click).