I was the youngest of five boys, most of them out on their own by the time I have any real Christmas memories. Being the baby of the family, and 8-years-younger than my closest brother, I had a different relationship with my dad than they did. He was an old-fashioned father and my arrival had been quite a surprise (they were hoping for a girl.) My mother passed away when I was five-years-old and my dad was forced to raise my brother Paul and me by himself for a few years before he remarried.
Our lives as a blended family weren't always easy, but Christmas was a time for tradition and like many people we had old ones and new ones. The week after Thanksgiving my dad and I would head out to the local tree lot. We always had a real tree and it had to be a Noble Fir, which has the best branches and spacing for decorations. If Dad was going to pay good money for a tree he wanted as many options as possible and the earlier you went the better the selection. Once we found our perfect tree, up it went onto the roof of our Buick Estate Wagon for the long journey home.
Since we had to wait for everyone to be home to decorate the tree - another immovable tradition - it sat outside in our backyard in a bucket of water so it would stay fresh until the "big night." Sometimes it was Christmas Eve, some years the weekend before. I always wished it was up longer, but the rules were the rules. To set the mood my dad would put on the Firestone Christmas album he got from his local tire dealer every year and then bring down the boxes of ornaments and lights the family had collected.
Some people think 
If you’re a mom or dad, you know how hectic it can get around the holidays. You wish there were more hours in a day, your mood is less than jovial and your toddler can feel it. But you don’t want him to get lost in the shuffle; he just wants to be a part of the planning, baking and all the wonderful festivities. Make time for the two of you. Not only is it fun, but a great way to calm down and enjoy the moment.
By Thanksgiving weekend, the prep work was well underway. All year long
she'd been saving the boxes from stationery and from her nylon
stockings, stashed with the Christmas ornaments. She'd made lists in
her perfectly inscrutable handwriting. In our basement refrigerator,
she had squirreled away some of the raspberry jam she made during the
summer.
Every Christmas morning, my sisters and I tumble downstairs, pause
to survey the adorned Douglas Fir and its outlying territory, then
continue to the kitchen. It’s a family tradition that before
fingertips ever meet wrapping paper, we sit down to a big breakfast of
bagels and lox and scrambled eggs with onions. In my less ripe years,
I considered this practice illogical frivolous excruciating;
however—predictably—as the son of God’s