And oh how I loved celebrating Christmas in that house. Our stockings hung over the blazing fireplace, my sister and I would play dolls with the nativity scene, my mother made oyster stew on Christmas Eve and later that night, meat fondue. My dad read us O. Henry's "The Gift of the Magi." Candy cane cookies, clove-studded oranges, a felt candy cane advent calendar, the heavy red goblets filled with sparkling apple juice. We'd devour Grandma LaVerne's fudge and caramels, Grandma Dolores's Pecan Sandie cookies, my mother's Chex mix and cheese balls with Triscuit crackers. The tree crowned with the delicate heirloom angel and the memories associated with each tree ornament.
One year, Santa brought a kitten. One year, when there were just two of us, my brother and I unwrapped a bib and a rattle for gifts - we were to have a new baby. One year I was suspicious Santa wasn't really real, so I insisted on sleeping in front of the fireplace and when I woke up, the room was transformed and a big Victorian dollhouse was waiting for me; my faith in Santa fully restored.
The year after my parents sold this house, my father's law partner gave them this portrait in winter. I'm glad we have it in the family. I have so many happy memories in that home.
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