When I was a young child Christmas at the Family Farm was a special treat. I was the only grandchild my grandparents saw on a regular basis so I reigned supreme. Gramdpa scanned his acreage every year for just the right tree to cut for decorating. The house smelled of pine, cinnamon, Luzianne coffee, and vegetable soup. I loved all the decorations Grandma pulled out of the old trunk – the cellophane wreath with a red light bulb, handmade ornaments, and especially the bubble lights. I watched those lights for hours. It seemed miraculous that the heat could make them bubble and glow.
We strung popcorn and cranberries, listened to Christmas carols on the radio, and trekked through the snow to tend to the animals. Ben and Blue, Grandpa’s mules, paid no mind to the snow. While the chickens only burrowed into the straw and tried to peck my hands when I “picked” the eggs out from under them.
Christmas dinner lasted practically all day beginning at Grandma’s and ending at Mama Sewell’s. They had adjoining farms but in weather like this, we took the car instead of the path. The best gift was playing with my cousins. I counted the days until school was out again and I came for my summer visit.
Happy memories at the Family Farm. I can only hope my seven grandsons have experiences like this to create happy memories in the future.
