Happy Holidays!

If Christmas Day is a magical one in your household, I thank you for taking a second to read this!

Today, I will tell you about my favorite Christmas memory from my childhood. It was a long time ago, but this is how I remember it.

It was Christmas Day night, after a long day of opening presents and eating, our house coated in a layer of wrapping paper and powdered sugar, and I was 8 years old (I think). So maybe 1992. The house where I grew up in Granger, Indiana is on a street ending in a cul-de-sac in a little subdivision surrounded at the time by cornfields. Now it’s surrounded by more subdivisions, but back then, there were tons of fields and a few woods, and you could go 50 on just about any two-lane road and steer with your knees because the road was straight and flat.

Our neighbors all got along, but we were closest with the ones who lived next door. Our garage doors opened toward each other and driveways were parallel. My sister’s bedroom window overlooked their driveway, so I would sometimes look out there to see if my friend Julie was out and shout out the window to her. They were the kindest family, with three kids near enough our ages. They also had an enormous extended family, and I wanted so badly to be part of this huge, loud, fun family, not to leave my family - I still liked them too. The family next door just had so much fun together. But I was known to walk into their house unannounced, as long as the garage door was open, and help myself to a fruit rollup from time to time. God, I should be embarrassed about that, but I can’t bring myself to be mad at my young self. I was told I was allowed, though I’m sure it was embarrassing for my mom. Sorry, Mom. But thanks, Anita!

So this particular Christmas evening, we had some family friends, Peter and Sally, originally from England, over for dinner. We’d been having dinner with this couple for as long as I could remember, alternating whose house we would eat at each year. We would all sit around, eating delicious fancy cheese and crackers, and the grown-ups would drink wine. Those evenings, I would learn things like: there were multiple kinds of bleu cheese, that Stilton was the stinkiest, as well as my mom’s favorite, and brie was the best thing ever. Then we would sit at the dining room table (one of the three times a year that we would eat in there) and eat the massive and delicious meal my mom had been working on all day. Peter was hilarious and a masterful story-teller, and Sally was the kindest woman besides my mother I think I ever met, so even though they didn’t have children, I always felt included and had fun at these dinners. (I also always loved when we got to go to their house because it was huge and super clean, and they let me wander through the rooms looking for their 4 cats.)

That year, during dinner, it had snowed, and not just a gentle beautiful little snow but a blizzard’s worth. Peter was worried about getting down the driveway. Dad got the shovel out to make a path for Peter and Sally’s car as they were getting ready to leave, and we all came outside because though the snow had fallen thick and heavy, it wasn’t particularly cold out. This was soft, perfect snow that would pack well enough but didn’t immediately turn to an ice ball. It would allow itself to be thrown without falling apart but also wasn’t so wet that it was too heavy to shovel.

Dad shoveled the driveway, Peter and Sally got out without much trouble, and we, the four of us, stood at the bottom of the driveway waving at them until they turned off our street. Then, I’m not sure who threw the first snowball, but a snowball was thrown. A retaliatory snowball was returned, and then before we knew it, we were engaged in battle, mainly between me and my sister, who would’ve been 15 if I was 8. I must’ve gotten a good shot in because before I knew what was happening, she’d picked up the shovel and grabbed a half-shovel-full of snow and started chasing me. As could be expected of an 8-year-old girl, I screamed bloody murder and took off running down the unplowed street, attracting the attention of our next-door neighbors, who worried I was being chased by a predator, the way I was screaming. They all came outside to save me or at least to watch, until they recognized it was just a sisterly battle to the death, at which point they joined in.

We may have only played out there for ten minutes, but in my mind, we played in the snow all night that Christmas evening, reveling in joy and laughter and togetherness. It was the most spontaneous fun I ever remember having. Even if it didn’t really happen that way, it’s how I choose to think of my childhood: innocent, somewhat physically taxing, and surrounded by the people I loved.

I wish you the merriest Christmas, surrounded by love and warmth and joy, and I’m sending you a little extra love from my house as well!