by Sheila Holloway

Created on: April 16, 2008

A Not Quite White Christmas

Clair Millstone sank into her bed with a sigh. Tulsa, Oklahoma wanted snow for Christmas. She was a meteorologist, not a weather maker. Channel Five paid her to report the facts. Why did tons of people stop her at the store, the gas station or even the post office every December to ask if they'd have a white Christmas? She could recite the chances on the news till she turned blue in the face, but they still asked her wherever she went. She was ready to just scream, "NO!" to everyone that even asked, "Aren't you the weather lady?"

Weather lady, indeed. She was a scientist. The diploma on her wall declared it.

She loved her job, but the public drove her crazy. She just wanted to be left alone off the air. Christmas time bothered her the most. It wasn't just the question of snow. The lonely feeling in the pit of her stomach got more intense every year about this time. Everyone else had families and Christmas traditions. Clair didn't even own a cat. Not that she was apt to put a Santa hat on some poor kitty and sing "Jingle Bells," but at least she'd have company.

Eventually, she settled into a deep sleep.

By five-thirty the next morning, Clair sat at her desk. No sign of any precipitation showed on the super radar system. It might be cold, but snow wasn't anywhere close.

"Clair, you've got some fan mail. It came yesterday, but for some reason it didn't get delivered," Darla Lamar, the station receptionist announced from the doorway.

"Great, bring it in." If this has anything to do with snow, I'm gonna scream.

Darla dropped a large packet on Clair's desk. The return address was Mr. Watson's Fourth Grade Class, Will Rogers Elementary.

It's about snow. I can smell it.

Clair's shiny gold plated letter opener sliced open the packet. The contents spilled out. About twenty-five pieces of folded notebook paper covered the calendar she kept on her desktop.
She unfolded one. In loopy cursive writing she read:

Dear Mrs. Millstone,
My name is Jess. We watch you on the news every night. My mom thinks you are pretty.
We want to know if there will be snow for Crismas Christmas.
Love,
Jess Albright

Yep, snow. Children always wanted it to snow. The other twenty-some-odd folded pages sat on her desk screaming, "SNOW! WE WANT SNOW!" Hey, and what was it with the "Mrs.?" She was a Miss.

She unfolded the next scrawled note.

Dear Miss Millstone,
We don't watch the news at our house very often, but the next time we do I'll tell my dad to change the channel to yours.
Can you

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