Christmas Eve

When I was five, we moved from Buffalo to a farm in Niagara County. It was a long drive back to my grandmother’s house, but we never missed Christmas Eve. It was a magical night spent rumpusing with our cousins, a meal of state splendor, midnight Mass, and then the long drive home, frequently into the teeth of a squall or blizzard.

Cars back then were never really warm, but we youngsters were stuffed together in the backseat. We’d drift off, awaken, and then fall asleep again. There was just the silent road, the endlessly falling snow, the squeak of tires in the cold, and then each of us back to our own dreams.