"December Memories" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
The snow had been falling since the small hours of the morning—soft, steady flakes drifting down like whispered blessings over the little northwoods town where Grandpa Liam lived. Outside, the world was a quiet watercolor of white and shadow. Inside his home, though, warmth reigned: the sigh of the old radiator, the glow of lamplight on wooden floors, and the crackle of a fire that painted the room in amber.
It was Christmas Eve, 1965, and the house was buzzing with gentle commotion. My parents, ever devoted to tasteful minimalism, had planned a sleek, elegant tree that belonged more in a magazine than a family room. But all that dissolved the moment Grandpa Liam arrived.
He burst through the door in a swirl of cold air, cheeks rosy, boots dusted with snow, dragging behind him a fir tree of unmistakable character—slightly crooked, intensely fragrant, and shedding snow across the rug with a joyful indifference to decorum.
“There she is!” he declared proudly, patting the trunk as if greeting an old friend. “The queen of Christmas!”
My mother stared, equal parts horrified and amused. “Oh… Liam. It’s… big.”
“It’s perfect,” he said, winking at me. “A tree needs soul, not symmetry.”
And so, for one glorious year, the tree belonged entirely to him.
Every ornament we owned—glass baubles, crocheted angels, felt elves, fragile treasures from my grandmother—found a place on its branches. Popcorn garlands sagged. Tinsel hung in great sparkling swaths. The lights blinked with unruly enthusiasm.
But the crowning glory was a tiny felt reindeer with one missing antler.
“That’s Rudolph, Jr.,” Grandpa Liam announced. “Lost his antler in the blizzard of ’52. Still the bravest reindeer in the North Woods Brigade.”
He clipped Rudolph, Jr. to the topmost branch with a wooden clothespin, stepped back with his hands on his hips, and declared the job a triumph. My mother sighed, but even then, I could tell she loved the tree because he loved it.
Later that night, after everyone else had drifted to bed, I wandered into the living room and found Grandpa Liam sitting quietly in the glow of the lights. Snow pressed softly against the windows, muting the world, and the tree shimmered like something out of a faraway dream.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“Well,” he said, patting the seat beside him, “someone ought to keep Rudolph, Jr. company.”
We shared a plate of cookies and simply watched the lights twinkle. When I finally climbed into bed, the last thing I saw was that brave little one-antlered reindeer keeping watch over Christmas.
_________________________________
January arrived with its familiar hush and the faint melancholy that always follows the holidays. It was time to take the tree down. My mother wrapped each ornament carefully, as if storing memories more than decorations. My father unwound the lights with exaggerated patience.
I reached for Rudolph, Jr., intending to free him from his perch. But when I lifted him, something unusual happened—the clothespin came away with a faint pop, revealing a small, perfectly shaped hollow in the bark.
Inside was a folded, yellowed piece of paper.
My heart fluttered. I brought it to Grandpa Liam, whose expression shifted from curiosity to wonder as he unfolded it.
“It’s a letter,” he whispered, eyes scanning the page. “A Christmas Eve letter.”
The date: December 24, 1943.
The signature: “To my dearest Eleanor — forever yours, Robert.”
My mother gasped softly when she saw the names, a tremor running through her.
“Eleanor was my grandmother’s name,” she said, voice barely audible. “And Robert… he was her first husband. He died in the war. She always said she never received his last letter.”
A stunned silence held the room.
Then my mother looked at the tree with a dawning realization. “There’s something I never told you about that old roadside stand where Dad bought this tree…”
She swallowed, gathering memory.
“Before it sold Christmas trees, that land was my grandmother Eleanor’s family farm. After Robert enlisted, he worked there in the winters, helping her family cut young evergreens to sell. Family stories say he wrote her a Christmas Eve letter the night before he shipped out and planned to tuck it into a tree as a surprise she’d bring inside. But he was called away early. He never got the chance.”
She ran her thumb over the faded ink.
“That tree… it must have been just a sapling then. The letter slipped into a small hollow in the bark, and the tree grew around it, keeping it safe—through seasons, storms, years. Until the day Grandpa Liam, of all people, chose it from the stand.”
We all stared at the tree anew—not as a decoration, but as a keeper of memory.
Grandpa Liam let out a long, reverent breath.
“Well,” he murmured, “some things are meant to find their way home.”
And so, in that unexpected January morning, our lopsided, glittering tree became something sacred.
And Rudolph, Jr.—guardian of secrets—took on a new role in our family. Every year thereafter, he watched from the highest branch, a reminder that love, like Christmas, always finds its way.
* * * * * * * * * *
I stir from my reverie… the story so alive within me that returning to the present feels like stepping gently out of a dream. A peaceful, wistful ache lingers—one part memory, one part blessing.
Before me, my own tree glows with quiet warmth. Beyond the windows, the winter darkness presses close, soft and deep. Snowdrifts catch the little light that remains, turning the world into a monochrome hush.
I sip my coffee.
I listen to the fire crackling in the hearth.
KDFC plays softly in the background, and as Vittorio Grigolo’s sweet tenor lifts “Ave Maria” into the room, I stop everything. I simply breathe. Listen. Absorb.
At my age, I carry memories like cherished ornaments—some shining, some cracked, all part of the tapestry of a life lived deeply. I think of Christmas tree hunts with my parents… of them laughing, negotiating, gently disagreeing about the “right side” of the tree. These small moments rise now as treasures.
Dr. Wayne Dyer’s words drift across my thoughts:
“I am blessed. Today I will focus on all that is good in my life!”
Yes.
Oh, the memories behind me.
Oh, the memories waiting to be born today.
I take another sip of coffee.
Outside, the darkness is still unbroken.
Inside, the wee cottage glows with warmth and promise.
And so… I begin this day.
* * * * * * * * * *
“Some memories arrive wrapped in silence, waiting years for the right heart to open them.” ~Unknown
~Wylddane
It was Christmas Eve, 1965, and the house was buzzing with gentle commotion. My parents, ever devoted to tasteful minimalism, had planned a sleek, elegant tree that belonged more in a magazine than a family room. But all that dissolved the moment Grandpa Liam arrived.
He burst through the door in a swirl of cold air, cheeks rosy, boots dusted with snow, dragging behind him a fir tree of unmistakable character—slightly crooked, intensely fragrant, and shedding snow across the rug with a joyful indifference to decorum.
“There she is!” he declared proudly, patting the trunk as if greeting an old friend. “The queen of Christmas!”
My mother stared, equal parts horrified and amused. “Oh… Liam. It’s… big.”
“It’s perfect,” he said, winking at me. “A tree needs soul, not symmetry.”
And so, for one glorious year, the tree belonged entirely to him.
Every ornament we owned—glass baubles, crocheted angels, felt elves, fragile treasures from my grandmother—found a place on its branches. Popcorn garlands sagged. Tinsel hung in great sparkling swaths. The lights blinked with unruly enthusiasm.
But the crowning glory was a tiny felt reindeer with one missing antler.
“That’s Rudolph, Jr.,” Grandpa Liam announced. “Lost his antler in the blizzard of ’52. Still the bravest reindeer in the North Woods Brigade.”
He clipped Rudolph, Jr. to the topmost branch with a wooden clothespin, stepped back with his hands on his hips, and declared the job a triumph. My mother sighed, but even then, I could tell she loved the tree because he loved it.
Later that night, after everyone else had drifted to bed, I wandered into the living room and found Grandpa Liam sitting quietly in the glow of the lights. Snow pressed softly against the windows, muting the world, and the tree shimmered like something out of a faraway dream.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“Well,” he said, patting the seat beside him, “someone ought to keep Rudolph, Jr. company.”
We shared a plate of cookies and simply watched the lights twinkle. When I finally climbed into bed, the last thing I saw was that brave little one-antlered reindeer keeping watch over Christmas.
_________________________________
January arrived with its familiar hush and the faint melancholy that always follows the holidays. It was time to take the tree down. My mother wrapped each ornament carefully, as if storing memories more than decorations. My father unwound the lights with exaggerated patience.
I reached for Rudolph, Jr., intending to free him from his perch. But when I lifted him, something unusual happened—the clothespin came away with a faint pop, revealing a small, perfectly shaped hollow in the bark.
Inside was a folded, yellowed piece of paper.
My heart fluttered. I brought it to Grandpa Liam, whose expression shifted from curiosity to wonder as he unfolded it.
“It’s a letter,” he whispered, eyes scanning the page. “A Christmas Eve letter.”
The date: December 24, 1943.
The signature: “To my dearest Eleanor — forever yours, Robert.”
My mother gasped softly when she saw the names, a tremor running through her.
“Eleanor was my grandmother’s name,” she said, voice barely audible. “And Robert… he was her first husband. He died in the war. She always said she never received his last letter.”
A stunned silence held the room.
Then my mother looked at the tree with a dawning realization. “There’s something I never told you about that old roadside stand where Dad bought this tree…”
She swallowed, gathering memory.
“Before it sold Christmas trees, that land was my grandmother Eleanor’s family farm. After Robert enlisted, he worked there in the winters, helping her family cut young evergreens to sell. Family stories say he wrote her a Christmas Eve letter the night before he shipped out and planned to tuck it into a tree as a surprise she’d bring inside. But he was called away early. He never got the chance.”
She ran her thumb over the faded ink.
“That tree… it must have been just a sapling then. The letter slipped into a small hollow in the bark, and the tree grew around it, keeping it safe—through seasons, storms, years. Until the day Grandpa Liam, of all people, chose it from the stand.”
We all stared at the tree anew—not as a decoration, but as a keeper of memory.
Grandpa Liam let out a long, reverent breath.
“Well,” he murmured, “some things are meant to find their way home.”
And so, in that unexpected January morning, our lopsided, glittering tree became something sacred.
And Rudolph, Jr.—guardian of secrets—took on a new role in our family. Every year thereafter, he watched from the highest branch, a reminder that love, like Christmas, always finds its way.
* * * * * * * * * *
I stir from my reverie… the story so alive within me that returning to the present feels like stepping gently out of a dream. A peaceful, wistful ache lingers—one part memory, one part blessing.
Before me, my own tree glows with quiet warmth. Beyond the windows, the winter darkness presses close, soft and deep. Snowdrifts catch the little light that remains, turning the world into a monochrome hush.
I sip my coffee.
I listen to the fire crackling in the hearth.
KDFC plays softly in the background, and as Vittorio Grigolo’s sweet tenor lifts “Ave Maria” into the room, I stop everything. I simply breathe. Listen. Absorb.
At my age, I carry memories like cherished ornaments—some shining, some cracked, all part of the tapestry of a life lived deeply. I think of Christmas tree hunts with my parents… of them laughing, negotiating, gently disagreeing about the “right side” of the tree. These small moments rise now as treasures.
Dr. Wayne Dyer’s words drift across my thoughts:
“I am blessed. Today I will focus on all that is good in my life!”
Yes.
Oh, the memories behind me.
Oh, the memories waiting to be born today.
I take another sip of coffee.
Outside, the darkness is still unbroken.
Inside, the wee cottage glows with warmth and promise.
And so… I begin this day.
* * * * * * * * * *
“Some memories arrive wrapped in silence, waiting years for the right heart to open them.” ~Unknown
~Wylddane
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