| When Christmas
time rolled around, my Mother was one of those cheerful spirits who decorated
anything that didn't move. As for me, well, my family jokes that I hang a wreath
on the door and call it Christmas. |
While it's true that I'm not prone
to hang much mistletoe or strew garland throughout our halls, there is a part
of the holiday season that's been known to bring true magic to my very soul.
I'd almost forgotten it was Christmas, but when I turned the corner, I recognized
that special glow coming from a nearby yard. There, in an illumination that can
only come from shiny and sparkling lights, was Christmas.
old home stood tall among the rest of the neighborhood. Huge white columns supported
this colonial mansion, but on this night, it was the majesty of the white lights
that caught my eye ... and my imagination.
I stood under towering trees
now shimmering with light and felt the rays seep through my body and into my soul.
This radiance was framed by the dark night, and for just a few minutes this old
house and I saw our way through Christmases past and present.
generations passed through the door of this fine manor as they arrived in first-rate
carriages to celebrate the Christmas season. I'm just sure it was here where little
girls discovered dolls under the Christmas tree and where the boys' trains once
ran on tracks all through the house.
As I peered through the window
panes, my mind's eye caught a glimpse of bygone days when this house was once
filled with elegant Christmas gatherings. I could almost hear the swooping ball
gowns as they passed from one room to another, and it was easy to imagine the
swirl of a gentle fog created by candles as they burned well into the night.
I turned and headed back into the neighborhood that showed little or no signs
of the season. All the way home, I danced ever so softly in my mind as Karen Carpenter's
voice sang in three-quarter time, "Merry Christmas and may all your New Year's
dreams come true."
I thought myself blessed that tonight the Spirit
of Christmas found me.
©2000 Jeanne Moseley