Black Christmas

While searching for images to go with my post about La Signora, I found this satellite photograph of Mt. Etna erupting. When we first moved to Sicily, we lived in Nicolosi, which was half-way up the mountain. Initially, I had been very nervous about living on a volcano, because I already knew the story of Pompeii and feared being buried in ash while I slept. It did not take long to get over my fear despite the seemingly endless volcanic activity, for Mt Etna is a very large mountain. (You can find more information, photographs and webcams on Mt. Etna by clicking here, here, here, and here)

I love this picture because it reminds me of Christmas Eve 1978.



I was fifteen years old and my parents, sister and I were just leaving the midnight candlelight service at the base chapel. Mt. Etna had been erupting once again. We were all feeling jolly with the kind of internal peace that comes when all is well. As we walked through the parking lot, we could see the distant glow from the volcano and feel the light, gritty ash falling from the sky. It stuck to our hair and crunched under our feet. It seemed funny that rather than snow, we were experiencing this. As if on cue, we all burst into a chorus.

I'm dreaming of a black Christmas . . .

That is one of the happiest holiday memories I can recall from my childhood.