There is something so peaceful about watching the snow fall gently on a Christmas evening.

But since today’s high temperature was 67, there’s no chance of yuletide snow-peeping this year.

Instead, Gary, James, and I sat on the back deck and gathered around the fire pit, transfixed by the flames.

We roasted hot dogs.

We dined on fancier food earlier, and by nightfall a hot dog with relish and mustard just hit the spot. We even FaceTimed to Connecticut for a nice chat with Dad, brother Bill and his family. (It was too dark for them to see us, so we gave them a firepit version of the old perpetual Yule Log on TV.)

Sidebar: Did you know there are two types of hot-dog buns? There’s the kind we see around here, and then there are these:

I described these buns to James the other evening and he didn’t know that a second type of hot-dog rolls existed. It turns out they are New England-style buns, for hot dogs and lobster rolls.

Gary skipped the hot dogs this evening, as always. There’s a poignant story behind this. Back in the mid-1970s, Gary had to drop out of college when his dad, Andrew, had a debilitating stroke. Gary and his mom took over the farm chores, which included milking the cows twice daily, plus feeding them.

Gary’s dad was in a wheelchair during this time (Andrew lived another 3.5 years and passed away on Christmas Eve, 1978, at just 55 years old). To make matters worse, the bull attacked Gary’s mom, Rita. She was laid up for a while, too, with a knee injury.

Gary’s three siblings were either in college or too young to help, so he took on all the milking and feeding chores, plus cooking for his family.

All the poor guy knew how to make were hot dogs.

He boiled a pot of water and dropped in the hot dogs for a few minutes, and that was the meal. Meal after meal.

He still chokes up remembering the kindness of relatives and neighbors who stopped by with casseroles and other food. One woman in particular gave him a hug and whispered appreciation for all that he was shouldering.

Eventually, Gary’s mom was able to cook again, but Gary made a promise to himself that he’d never eat another hot dog. I don’t blame him. For a while, I wouldn’t even bring them into the house, but he convinced me it was fine as long as he didn’t have to eat any.

Since then, Gary’s culinary repertoire has grown to include scrambled eggs, baked chicken, and tuna salad. Oh, and grilled cheese sandwiches (which Cameron proclaims are the best in the world),

I never dreamed I’d blog about hot dogs on Christmas, but here we are. It’s not the shiny lights and pretty bows that make the holiday, it’s the kindness of family and friends. Gary was never able to make it back to engineering school, but he’s turned into one heck of a happy farmer. And I thank God for him every day.

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