Cooking, cleaning, decorating, and wrapping presents took up much of Mom‘s time leading up to Christmas each year.

Oh, and writing notes in 200 or more Christmas cards.

One tradition that Mom practiced annually often happened after the rest of us were asleep on Christmas Eve.

In 1983, she took the time to write about it:

The Call to Christmas

12:30 a.m., the early end of Christmas Eve. We have trimmed the tree and adorned the house and the snow is starting, soft and white than new coconut. I put a hooded jacket over my robe and thick rubbers on my bare feet and go outside.

The moon is a mist in the dark sky. I walk around the house, looking in windows to see the tree in the living room, the angel and Advent wreath on the dining room table. I spy at the front door and see the winter garlands at the stairs, the straw tree in the little hall. My son passes through and waves.

And then around the house, happy with pine and red ribbon, cardinals and grapevine. Upstairs my daystar husband sleeps with shades aloft to see the trees on waking. In the back a light at my son’s window; he opens the window to feel the flakes.

I wish that the wind chimes in the woods at the edge of our yard would ring a round or two in celebration; their sound is breathtaking on the winter air. Only stillness there but then another sound: the clang of our neighbor’s rope against their flagpole, surely no silver bell or trumpet but the next best herald, calling us to Christmas once again.

~ Joan Vayo December 24, 1983

The son referred to in Mom’s writing is my younger brother, Bill.

This next photo always gives me a chuckle, but I couldn’t imagine when I might use it.

Until now:

Christmas calmed down considerably as the four of us grew up and started families of our own. But there was always a tree and always decorations to cherish.

As Christmas Eve fast approaches, I hope you’re able to take a few quiet moments to enjoy the sights and sounds of the season with peace in your heart and a warm drink in your hand.

“The Call to Christmas” © 1983 Joan Vayo. All rights reserved.

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