If you love the 1954 musical film White Christmas, then surely you’re familiar with a scene where four well-dressed singers sit together in a dining car as they ride the rails northwards, from Florida to Vermont. Huddled together in a booth, they spontaneously begin to sing about that frosty holiday fixture we all call “snow.” They sing about how much they yearn for snow. How much they wish to see it covering a mountain. How much they long to shovel it (for real). And in the case of legendary crooner Rosemary Clooney, how much she wants to wash her hands, her face and hair with snow because she doesn’t understand how frostbite works.

And it’s absolutely ridiculous. In the best way possible.

As 1950s musical movie moments go, it’s not all that bizarre. It’s just a bunch of strangers bursting into song as they roll into a series of inevitable romantic misunderstandings while drinking cocktails, smoking cigarettes, and sporting impeccably tailored evening wear. But still, it’s weird. Earnestly gazing into another human being’s eyeballs as you pine for “a great big man entirely made of snow” is just kinda odd, even for an old musical.

The strange structure of the tune is a little jarring to my non-musical ears, with everyone leaning into each other to sing “snoooooooooooow” at seemingly random times. I’m thinking, “Yes, Bing Crosby. Snow. I haven’t forgotten what you’ve been singing about for the last minute and thirty seconds. It’s SNOW.”

That said, I love it.

Spoiler alert. There’s hardly any snow in White Christmas, which is basically what drives the plot, apart from the singin’ an’ a-dancin’ an’ a-savin’ a retired army general from climate-related financial ruin. The constant threat of a warm, brown Christmas looms large, driving the cast to their jaunty shenanigans, their haphazard matchmaking, and a massively complex stage production in the barn out back.* They’re straight up thirsty for the snow, singing …

Where it’s snowing all winter through

That’s where I wanna be
Snowball throwing, that’s what I’ll do
How I’m longing to ski
Through the Snow-oh-oh-oh-ohhhhhhhhh

When the great (and, of course, kinda problematic) Irving Berlin wrote “Snow,” I’m guessing he wasn’t imagining the fine people of the Chippewa Valley as his main audience. “Snow” seems to be squarely aimed at movie lovers who’ve never lived through a Midwestern winter. I mean, Danny Kaye actually sings, “I long to clear a path, and lift a spade of snow (oh-oh-oh-ohhhhhhhhh).”

Speaking as someone who’s never owned a snowblower, I’m calling Daniel’s bluff. No one longs to shovel show. Snow can be awesome. But shovels are a necessary evil.

Maybe I’m jaded. Snow is one of the most wonderful, horrible, magical, devastating, romantic, dangerous parts of living here in the Chippewa Valley. I love it. Until I don’t.

Maybe ol’ Irving should have written a show stopping dance number where Danny Kaye and Vera-Ellen keep a-slippin’ and a-fallin’ on all that beautiful snow as they try to keep their driveway clear. They’re both gifted dancers, so they’d be fantastic at mimicking lower back pain and heart palpitations.

Reader, I feel conflicted. I like snow. And I really like White Christmas. But I also love complaining about stuff. Can I love something and make fun of it? I think so. Isn’t that what the holiday season is all about? Like a Christmas miracle, I should be able to earnestly like something while also thinking it’s weird and goofy.   

And people, this song is weird and goofy all over. And that’s why it’s great. I’m not sure anyone but those of us born and raised in the Midwest can truly appreciate its oddball charm. It’s a corny, old-timey song, sure, but it’s also a bit clueless. I’m not sure what musical genre that is, but I’ll take more of it.

*Also spoiler alert, scanning over headshots of the entire cast, you may notice another reason they called it White Christmas, if you know what I mean.**

**I mean it’s all white people.