The 2007 Holidays, Part I

(before Christmas)

Christmas is my favorite time of year.
Some of my friends dislike winter. I'm all right with that. It can be a cold, bitterly dark time of year, one that reeks of discomfort and danger. A time that, like the bears, is better slept through, and only upon the advent of spring should we be reawakened.
But winter is not meant for hard streets, for grey buildings, for uncaring stone. It is made for trees, for wilderness, for forests; icicles hanging off of trees, trails to make through the snowfall, tracks of animals visible in the otherwise pristine white. Snowball fights, sledding, snow forts, winter walks... they are all meant for nature, and their city cousins are weak comparisons at best, dark farces of slush and ice at worst. Winter should be enjoyed in the woods.
Or, barring that, at least the suburbs, with a nearby park to approximate.

Winter - and when I think of it, I always think of Christmas - came fast on me this year. But for all the rush towards the day, the last few before it were the slowest days of all. And I loved it, because I went to my family's house, and lived.
We got a tree that was far too tall for our ceiling (tradition). Upon putting it up, we scraped the ceiling (tradition), Mom said it would never fit (tradition) and we had to saw and wedge and fight for thirty minutes to get it to work in the living room, all the while Mom shaking her head and retiring to cook in the kitchen (tradition).
I wouldn't have it any other way.
The house looked the most beautiful it has ever been, like a palace that has had another level added onto it every year, so that now, twenty-five or so years in, the place is absolutely amazing. The collection of ornaments has grown very slowly over the last ten years, but it is still enough to pull a tree down by sheer weight. The nativity scene has everyone imaginable in it. Mom's crystal snowflakes, once two solo shards, have grown year by year, and now cover the entire breadth of the bay window. Grace's Christmas houses and town, once a one-house village with a dog, has grown year by year, and is now a legitimate town, replete with whole families, a barber shop, a garage, a fire station, sled riders, and a working train. Every tradition is there, maybe not growing in physical appearance but in meaning and ambience: the wreaths are over the mantle. The garlands wind their way up our staircase. Manehim Steamroller plays nearly 24/7 on our CD player. And the "No Peeking" pillow rests comfortably in its position on the red chair.
After church, Mom hands out the ornaments, sometimes calling for a specific kid if an ormanent is meant for them, or meant to be hung by them. The kids discuss where to put the ornaments with the intricacy of spiders weaving a grand web, Emmie often chastising decisions that place ornaments too close together. I hang my train, my Mario Lemieux 66, and my purple ornament. We save the star for last, and Dad puts it on top of the tree with the help of a chair and Mom telling Dad that it's leaning badly. The star shines. It is perfect.
Mom is in one of her Christmas pajama outfits. Dad is wearing a ridiculous antlers band or Santa hat. He reads "The Night Before Christmas" to us, just like Granddad did when he was here. A tradition meant for kids, but somehow, it has survived every year since, and no Calland rolls their eyes or is impatient for the story to finish. Mike is 5 again, and Grace is 7; Rosie, 8, and Emmie, 10; and I am 12, and we are listening to Dad tell us how Santa will come the next morning.
Some things are different, I suppose. I now have an annual reading of the Miscellaneous Book of Fun version of the "Night Before Christmas", and Dad and Mom laugh even harder than my siblings. It is my fifth year reading it, and somehow, it doesn't seem to get boring. It just gets better.
We all go to bed, Christmas morning beckoning. I don't know what my siblings think, but I think about the season, and love, and family. And suddenly, I realize that I miss Chautauqua. It is cold here in Pittsburgh, and there is frost, but no snow; global warming (whatever the cause) has made four of the last five Christmases less than white. But I think of the beatiful paths through the trees, and the endless forest behind Chautauqua, and the promise of the fallen snow, a white canvas sent from Mother Nature herself, to witness the beauty of her drawing and, perhaps, make a small addition to it. And I think, I miss it - but I would trade it for this.
Winter is meant for the woods.
But Christmas is meant for the family.
Until the morning.