EDITOR'S LETTER

NOW ON SNOW, SNOW ON SNOW. Those are the first words that came to mind when a friend of mine from San Francisco asked me about my favorite Christmas carol. Her favorite is Lo, How a Rose E'er Blooming, which has been called a "musician's Christmas carol." That makes sense, knowing my friend. She likes In the Bleak Midwinter, too. That's my favorite carol. It's a lovely song with beautiful lyrics: In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan, Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone; Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow, In the bleak midwinter, long ago.

Like so many Christmas carols, In the Bleak Midwinter started out as a poem. It was written by Christina Rossetti, one of Great Britain's most distinguished 19th century poets. This poem, however - titled A Christmas Carol - was inexplicably rejected by the best literary journals in England. Ironically, it was an American journal, Scribner's Monthly, that launched the British poem into the mainstream. It was published in January 1872. After that, it was picked up by publications around the world, and in 1906, it made its debut as a Christmas carol titled In the Bleak Midwinter. It's a spiritual poem about the Nativity, with a vivid description of the harsh conditions into which Jesus was born. It's so good.

Sylvia Lewis Kinney wrote about the birth of Jesus, too. But in a whimsical way. Ms. Kinney was a longtime contributor to this magazine, and one of our state's most talented poets. In December 1965, we published two of her wonderful poems. The first, Desert Christmas, playfully compares Bethlehem to the arid Southwest. The second, which appeared on the inside

back cover, is titled Merry Christmas Tree:

I long for a Christmas tree that's pink, Or a Christmas tree that's white; I long for baubles that gleam and wink In colors of pure delight. A smooth sophisticated tree Would satisfy the soul of me. But such is not the case. I mean We have to have a tree that's GREEN! The children and their simple father Together raise an annual bother That shuts up any competition, Hence I must quash my real ambition To have a tree as starched as lace And delicate with festive grace. So off we go each year to see And measure every Christmas tree On every single salesman's lot Until at last we've finally got The biggest, greenest tree in town.

(I put it up. I take it down.) I grew up in Wisconsin, where snow on snow was a pledge of allegiance. I survived "the Great Blizzard of 1978" - along with so many other snowstorms - so I have a pretty good sense of what a bleak midwinter looks like. I think that's why I like the song so much. Despite its baltic undertone, it takes me back to the best days of my boyhood. To the holiday season.

Ms. Kinney's poem takes me back, too.

Both of my grandmothers were named Helen. One Helen was a writer versed in humbug. The other was a sugarplum who longed for a Christmas tree that was pink. Or a Christmas tree that was white. Instead, she got a silver Evergleam, an aluminum tree made by a local company in Manitowoc, Wisconsin - it was the tree that launched the national craze.

Every year we'd spend Christmas Eve with my grandparents. Both sets. We'd unwrap our floofloovers and tartookas, but the highlight was sitting in the dark and staring at that aluminum tree, a Space Age conifer illuminated by a rotating color wheel. Blue, green, orange, red, blue, green, orange, red...

Our trees at home were intentionally traditional, in the spirit of Charlie Brown. We'd cut our own, on the family farm. And cover them with tree lights, homemade ornaments and handfuls of tinsel. The trees would sparkle, but nothing like the Evergleam. They were Andy Williams in the shadow of Liberace.

Eventually, we'd inherit my grandmother's tree, but it's gone now, a casualty of negligence.

Ms. Kinney got her tree, too. Her granddaughter, Betsy Baker, remembers it well. "Sylvia," as she calls her grandmother, "always wanted a flocked, white tree with fancy glass baubles. When my grandfather died, she finally got a grand white tree with red ornaments. I think I was 6 years old then, but even to this day, I can still see it clearly in my mind."

Not everyone who reads this magazine believes in Christmas, or cares about Christmas trees, but most of us are lifted by the spirit of the season. Dickens captured it so well in A Christmas Carol, in that joyful scene where Bob Cratchit breaks free of the counting house. "The clerk... went down a slide on Cornhill, at the end of a lane of boys, twenty times, in honour of its being Christmas Eve, and then ran home to Camden Town as hard as he could pelt, to play at blind-man's buff." That's the spirit of Christmas. That feeling of lightheartedness and good cheer.

Christmas spirit is love, too.

"Spread love everywhere you go," Mother Teresa said. That's not the province of any one religion. That's something we canall strive for in the coming year.

Meanwhile, whether you celebrate Christmas, Hanukkah or just a few days at home playing blind-man's buff, happy holidays, and thank you for spending another year with Arizona Highways.

Make it a holiday tradition!

DeGrazia Gallery in the Sun Museum Open daily from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. 6300 N. Swan Road, Tucson, 520-299-9191, degrazia.org