White Christmas

There is a win/loss when going to warmer climes as winter’s lock clangs shut on Michigan. A whirlwind 36-hour trip to Orlando started with a drive through flurries and beastie temperatures en route to the airport on Sunday. Then landing in 80 degrees and hearing Bing’s golden baritone crooning White Christmas through the airport shuttle’s speakers was truly discordant.

Speaking of White Christmas, did you know that the song played a role in the end of the Viet Nam war? As the North Vietnamese army reached the outskirts of Saigon in late April 1975, any American strongholds were under threat.

Evacuation was imminent and what would become the largest helicopter evacuation in history began with a radio announcement relaying the secret code that the temperature in Saigon was “105 degrees and rising” and Bing Crosby’s White Christmas was played. Bing’s voice told evacuees to get to the U.S. Embassy where helicopters were waiting. (http://www.u-s-history.com/pages/h1880.html)

Crosby's White Christmas single has been credited with selling 50 million copies, the most by any release and therefore it is the biggest-selling single worldwide of all time. The Guinness Book of World Records 2009 Edition lists the song as a 100-million seller, encompassing all versions of the song, including albums. Crosby's holiday collection Merry Christmas was first released in 1949 and has never been out of print since. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/White_Christmas_%28song%29)

Back in Michigan, scant snow blows through spine-chilling temperatures . . . highs in the 20s with accompanying single digit wind chills offer their early winter challenge. Frankly, the temperatures aren’t really particularly annoying if one has the right gear and a modicum of heartiness.

That heartiness declines with age. I got to see my pal Howard this evening. Howard turns 87 in March (“God-willing,” he’d say) and he’s still living independently. He tells me he’s fallen twice since I’ve seen him. Not from tripping nor ice; instead, he’s certain his heart stops and doesn’t restart until he hits the ground. I asked if he capitulated to his physician’s advice to have a defibrillator implanted. “Not yet, but I might let them after we meet in January.”

He’s noticeably more areel since our last visit; slower and repeating himself. But, as always, full of stories and graciousness. Tonight he told me of his courtship with his wife Donna Lee Chapman, their life together and her untimely demise at age 55. It’s been nearly 30 years since her death and her mention still makes his eyes well. Howard brags on his grandson, reports his delight that his pastor is moving back from Tennessee to Michigan, and shares his recipe for fried potatoes. In less than an hour, we pretty much cover all the bases.

He yawns and I announce my intention to leave. Howard asks my forgiveness for not getting up – I tell him he doesn’t have to stand on ceremony – he laughs at the pun.

“Come back any time.”

I believe I shall.