After the fabulous experience of my first Hanukkah party, I feel inspired to decorate for Christmas today.  I’ll be doing it by myself but I’m not complaining.  Nothing pleases me more than giving presents.  I don’t get too many these days; something from my son, from the Taggarts, one from Brett & Jennie and maybe this year, from Caitlin and Brian.  But I don’t mind.  For me Christmas provides an annual opportunity to demonstrate how much I care about the people who enrich my life.

I can unequivocally say that I am not a Christian.  A cradle Catholic with definite reasons for walking away from my childhood religion, I do not celebrate Christmas as “Baby Jesus’ birthday”.  I still chuckle when I think of three-year-old Patrick answering a neighbor lady’s question one wintry December day.  Do you know who was born on Christmas? she asked, leaning over Patrick in her heavy wool coat and felt hat.  Yes, I do!  he crowed.  She waited expectantly.  Uncle Steve! he hollered, right into her ear.

I miss my brother Steve, who indeed came into the world to his seven sibling’s consternation between the opening of presents and the serving of breakfast on 25 December 1959.  Our Dad shushed us in the room next door while Mother readied herself to make the trip to the hospital.  My older siblings grumbled at not being able to hammer on the wooden peg side of their new desks.  My grandmother kept us quiet by serving schmarren, slathered with butter and sprinkled with cinnamon.

As I sat in my living room this morning working on the Never-Ending Knitting Project, I watched a home rehab show and thought that my brother Stephen would like the modern house that the hosts created.  My mother would prefer my home, with its hardwood floors, old hearth, and antique china on shelves in the breakfast nook.  She’d enjoy my rockers and cashmere throws.   I have no flair for decorating but my home feels comfortable to me.  I picture my mother reaching for her own knitting, lifting her silver sewing scissors from the wooden sewing box, putting her feet on my grandmother’s little stool.

My holiday season this year holds nothing that I would have chosen two years ago.  But a large family welcomed me for the last night of Hanukkah and fed me latkes and vegetable bites made just for me.  I sat at a table with brothers, and mothers, and aunts, and grandchildren.  I listened to the prayer said over the lighting of the Menorah.  I could not have been happier.

Twelve days until Christmas.  Put out the partridge, decorate the pear tree.  Santa Claus is coming to town.

It’s getting festive at the Holmes house.