Global warming notwithstanding, December is generally the time of year here when soft, fluffy flakes of snow flutter down in silent sheets from the slate gray skies above, and families huddle together by the wood stove to knit socks and make popcorn necklaces.
It's also the time of year when your 2005 Subaru with 130,000 miles on it and zero climate control is the vessel of frequent, loud cursing. Where you spin your tires in a snow berm or slowly come out of a hazardous skid. Where you turn up every fan in the vehicle in the hopes of defrosting the front windshield, and then just end up having to use a rag while trying not to careen off the road and yelling "GODDAMN THIS FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT CAR!" at 500 decibels.
It's a magical, glittering time when life slows down, and short days and long nights make you take stock of where things stand in your life, and think about what the year ahead might bring. A peaceful, reflective time, when people who apparently just got their driver's license yesterday--perhaps out of a box of Frosted Flakes--decide it's time to take to the roads en masse and pull out suddenly or change lanes without warning, and almost make 14 different people roll into a ditch, and cause you to shout "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING DOES ANYONE FUCKING KNOW HOW TO DRIVE AROUND HERE?" very loudly.
When children sing Christmas carols, neighbors deck their homes in lights, friends exchange gifts, and simply driving home is like playing a white-knuckled round of bumper cars at a county fair, but for real, and on a large, two-laned, paved 45 degree hill in Alaska in winter. And as you lean your head out the window just to be able to see out of your shit-ass windshield, you scream to no one in particular "SERIOUSLY, THEY CAN'T GET THE PLOW OVER HERE ALREADY WHERE DO ALL MY TAXES GO FOR FUCK'S SAKE?!" at the top of your lungs.