I remember clearly the first time I didn’t make it “home” for Christmas. It was Christmas Eve, and it was snowing. Christmas snow is rare in Vancouver. I was happy, but my family was worried.
My uncle, a pilot, was set to take my cousins and I in his 6-seater twin engine plane, to the home on Vancouver Island where the rest of the family was gathering. All of us had divorced parents and had to split our Christmases between two or more families, which is why we would be the last to arrive and the first to leave. Everything had been sent ahead of us, including the presents.
The snow fell, piles and piles of it. I was happy, but my uncle was worried. “We won’t be able to fly if this keeps up,” he said.
View original post 483 more words