When we lived on College Street and my grandparents and great aunts and uncles were still around – those were the days. Around Christmas, I couldn’t wait for the relatives to come over. Mom would put a record on the turntable, maybe the Oak Ridge Boys Christmas. The dining table would be carefully set with plates, food, napkins, and candles. A set of ceramic carolers in Victorian garb graced the top of the stereo cabinet, their mouths permanently formed in the O of “Noel.”

Aunt Ernie was there, always, wearing her pale bluish-gray coat with the silver Christmas tree brooch that I now wear on my blue coat. Aunt Ernie’s birthday was in early December, and something about her pastel sweetness just went well with the month – the pale blue of her coat and the tiny rhinestones of her brooch echoing the month’s blue birthstone. Her demeanor never veered from genuine warmth and humility and love and all the non-material aspects of Christmas. She gave Sis and me Matchbox cars for Christmas. I chalked it up to her having only grandsons, no granddaughters.

Yes, Aunt Ernie was there, along with Uncle Bob. Probably, Uncle Bill was there, Grandma and Grandpa, Evelyn and George, and I don’t know who else. But I do remember the smell that filled the house when Mom got out the Mr. Coffee machine. My parents weren’t coffee drinkers, so they used the Mr. Coffee only when we had guests. In my mind, coffee was a holiday drink. Small as I was, no one stopped me from having a cup or two, with generous doses of milk and sugar. To this day, these are a few of my favorite things: old people, Christmas music, rich foods, memories of Aunt Ernie, and the aroma of coffee.

Another holiday tradition we had was driving around Sparta to gawk at the Christmas lights. We were not a family that lit up the outside of our house. Our Christmas tree stood in the front window most years, and that was the extent of it. I remember thinking of those decorative people who lit up their eaves as exotic, rich, festive — a wholly different kind. Those other people hung lights on their roofs, from tree branches, and around the pillars holding up expansive porches—colored lights, white lights, even big old-fashioned Charlie Brown-style bulbs.

From the warm back seat of our car, I imagined the people who lived on the gently curving byways of “subdivisions” held some secret knowledge of the world that I could not grasp as I lived on the simple grid of our small town. I didn’t know these people, but I did appreciate their festive yardwork. A home’s display of multi-color bulbs could send a shiver of delight from my face to my belly and back again.

To be continued. Jump to Part 4.