December 24, 20XX
Dear Santa,
I would like to start this letter with an expression of gratitude, which I am certain is so rarely received on your end. I can guarantee that 99.9999999%, if not 100%, of your one-way correspondence consists of “I want”, “I need”, “I really want”, and “GIMME!”, with not one piece of mail dated December 26 that is a thank-you note. Well, let me be possibly the first – possibly the only – to write to you saying:
Thank you, dear Santa Claus, for all the bounty you have bestowed upon me over the years. I deeply appreciate all the efforts of you, Mrs. Claus, the elves, the reindeer, and everyone else on your staff each and every year to please the materialist desires of all the children of the world, even if they are on the Naughty List (let’s face it, who has ever really gotten only coal as a present? That’s what I thought). Your hard work, and all the pleasure it brings, does not go unnoticed.
I especially appreciate the granting of my biggest request of all time that you finally granted last year: after so many unseasonably warm Christmases full of rain and mud, last year I wrote to you with all my heart asking for just one more true, magical, wondrous White Christmas. And by golly, you delivered! I looked out my window the morning of December 25 and the world was covered in a blanket of the good stuff, making everything look soft, wholesome, and beautiful. It was glorious, and I will be eternally grateful to you for granting that request and creating a truly special day filled with the loveliness that only a winter wonderland can bring.
OK, now onto the meat of this criticism sandwich:
I realize that you are used to permanent winter up where you reside – I am guessing that you actually prefer it that way – but in the latitude where I reside, all the living creatures here have only ever lived in a climate with, you know, seasons. It is possible that you may not be aware of this, but that amazing White Christmas you gifted last year never stopped. As in, NEVER. STOPPED. We are now on Day 365 of continuous snowfall, with no end in sight due to the apparently self-perpetuating cloud formations that hover over us like a prophecy of doom fulfilled. There was no spring, no summer, and no autumn; just one long, unending winter. At first everyone laughed about it as January rolled into February, saying we finally got a real winter again after years of mush so of course we are never satisfied when it commits to the role, but then March rolled into April, and when Mother’s Day came around everyone knew we had a problem. Thank goodness the effect was localized to our town and we never were cut off from outside deliveries of food and other necessities, but the animals who had migrated from force of habit still have not come back, and those who usually stick it out packed up and left in June, along with a third of the town’s human population. And sure, there is sledding, and snowball fights, and occasional “snow days” that are rendered meaningless by technology for working or attending school remotely, but it all wears a bit then when you are falling on the icy sidewalk for the thirtieth time or watching yet another 10-car pile-up due to frozen potholes or the plows breaking down trying to keep up with the continual accumulation. There are committees now that regularly patrol the streets knocking snow off of trees and checking homes’ and businesses’ rooftops so that the gradually increasing weight of all those pretty little frozen pieces of water do not crush everything underneath them. I shovel a few inches outside my window at the end of every day just so I can look through it the following morning and confirm that the world out there still exists, and nearly everyone’s water pipers burst at least twice before a notice went out to wrap them all up and keep a hairdryer on standby. The power surprisingly has mostly managed to stay on – there was one weekend we now refer to as “The Fourth of July Freeze-Out”, but otherwise electricity has been consistent. Still, it is no fun trick-or-treating with snowshoes and ski poles – what kind of ballet dancer or astronaut is that supposed to be? – and all the ice cream parlors went out of business before we reached August in our Year Without a Summer. At Thanksgiving, everyone said they were thankful that their furnaces still worked, and that was it.
So, I write to you again, dear Santa Claus, to please flip the switch on the never-ending snowfall, and bring back the rain – or, better yet, move along the permanent clouds for at least three months so that everything can dry out, and then bring back the rain in time for spring, and for at least something to grow this year. We will even take a gentle tornado at this point, if only it would suck up all the snow that, at its current untouched height, has now surpassed the water tower.
I thank you again for last year’s thoughtful gift and humbly ask for this one last present, and I promise that I will never write to you asking for anything else for the rest of my life.
Well, except for maybe peace on Earth and goodwill toward all, but I know that is a bit of a stretch.
With Shivering Affection,
Snowed-In Sandy, Age 10