The day has drawn to a close—another busy day in an overly busy season. I sit here covered in flour from a day of baking, my hands dry from washing mixing bowls, spatulas and measuring cups over and over. As I contemplate my computer screen, Bing Crosby sings “White Christmas” in the background and the lights on the tree glow softly beside me. One of the cats has curled up on the last of the shopping bags that didn’t quite get put away, and the world has fallen silent as everyone prepares to face another day after another night.

This is such a wonderful season, a time of year steeped in tradition. Occasionally I find myself driving through town and remembering how it used to be, the one night each December when my father would load us all into the car and we’d ride around looking at everyone’s Christmas lights. How my brother and I would compete with each other on the drives to Bolivar for family Christmas, counting the decorations on our particular side of the road to see who could find the most from start to finish. Businesses didn’t count and the house had to face the road or it didn’t count either. And how my grandparents always had an aluminum tree that sat in front of the fireplace that I don’t believe they ever used. The fireplace that is, not the tree. Whenever we would leave their house my grandfather would stand in the driveway and wave as we pulled out, watching until we were out of sight.

My grandmother died when I was five and the next Christmas my grandfather had to do his own shopping. He bought a Thumbelina baby doll for me, but he hadn’t liked the dress she came with. It didn’t look enough like a baby’s to suit him . . . so he had someone make one for her that was more to his liking. I still have her, still wearing that same dress.

I think back on those memories and so many others and they warm my heart and fill my soul with the feeling of Christmas . . . and my eyes with tears for what life used to be and the people who once inhabited it. Quiet moments like this bring them to mind and allow me to feel their presence again, to relish all they meant and, frankly, to feel the pain of being without them. So I keep the Puffs handy (I prefer them to Kleenex tissues . . . . but that’s just me . . .) and blame my occasional red nose on the changing weather or my semi-annual case of the crud. Because, you see, I would much rather feel the pain of those memories than to have never had the opportunity to make them.

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