By Kerri Havnen Gordon

Let’s ignore for a moment the frenzied, commercial aspects of Christmas. Let’s forget all the rushing, all the shopping, all the things that make us crazy this time of year. Let’s remember, instead, Christmas when we were children.

We adored the freshly cut tree, of course, and gifts all dressed up in reds, greens, golds and whites. We even liked the pointy, store-bought bows that always popped off when my sister and I moved the presents around. Then there were the cookies, fudge, gingerbread and the case of pink Florida grapefruit someone sent us every year. And the smells of the holidays were glorious - pine, chocolate and peppermint. Fires in the fireplace were more magical at Christmastime. So were the mugs of hot cocoa our mom handed us when we came in shivering from the snow.

Extended family gatherings included aproned aunts bustling about the kitchen, where they created irresistibly yummy concoctions. Smoky card games, laughter and piano music filled the living room. Depending on our ages, we drank eggnog, wassail or decidedly stronger beverages that wafted from the breaths of boozy uncles.

I loved the anticipation of it all, how we used our chocolate Advent calendars to count the days until Christmas Eve. Once it came, we couldn’t wait to go to bed so we could wake up the next morning, but we were always too excited to sleep.

I distinctly remember looking out my upstairs window one Christmas Eve and seeing Santa and his sleigh. He flew in a beautiful arc above the distant treetops in the broad Eastern sky, and he left a shimmery band of white light in his wake. What joy this was after spending every Christmas Eve throughout my childhood staring out that same window, forcing myself to stay awake just a few minutes more so I wouldn’t miss him. I only saw Santa that one time, and I’ll never forget how he looked in the night sky. Sheer will must have placed him there. Memories are tricky things, to be sure, but this one is as clear and real as any other from those fuzzy early years.

As any parent will tell you, childhood goes by in the blink of an eye. Even my own children are teenagers now, and I hope their memories of Christmas will be sweet. There is no snow here, though, and since our extended family is small and dispersed, there are no raucous gatherings with dozens of relatives. But they will remember their grandmother’s lasagna every Christmas Eve and Cream of Wheat the next morning after all the presents are opened. They won’t forget falling asleep in their rooms by the lights of their very own 4-foot tall trees, which they proudly decorated themselves with their own handmade ornaments.

And I hope they remember the holiday evenings when we turned off all the lights except the ones on the main tree. We would snuggle on the couch, gaze quietly at the tree and think our own happy thoughts.

Someday when our children have children of their own, they will likely place a few cookies and a glass of milk on the fireplace hearth. Much later, they will tiptoe to their children’s bedroom doors and wait for the sound of long, deep breathing. Only then will they retrieve the empty stockings from the mantle, and while there, they will eat a few bites of cookie and drink from the glass, just as I did for them, just as my mother did for me. The chain of tradition continues, link by lovely link, generation by generation.