My Kentucky Christmas

Our feet crunched in the snow as we made our way into the woods behind the house. It was the moment I'd rushed toward since waking up to see the white glow through the organza curtains. It called me to the frost-glazed window to see the snow clinging to the pines bordering the back yard and blanketing the lawn far below.

My mother had sent my brother in search of pine bows to lay on the mantle and garnish the stair rail, and I, of course, followed. The texture of the snow under my boots and the crisp, woodsy scent in the air is a memory I like to wrap up in as I sit in front of the fireplace now, just as we ended the day back then. Mom would meet us at the door--so we didn't "track snow all over the house," and we'd strip off the layers, down to wool socks and flannel and thermal underwear shirts. Then we'd go to our rooms to find dry, warm clothes, while Mom got the hot chocolate ready. My brother would drink it and then plop down in front of the television in the family room, but Mom and I would settle down in front of the stone hearth, and she'd tell me about the history of the stones (like the big one in the front that was once the "salt rock," where Uncle Fate would lay salt out for the cows to, well, lick), and about the old homestead that once stood there, on the site of our home, a new log cabin.

I learned a lot about my ancestors then--about Mary Ota Adams, who died much too young of tuberculosis during the first world war, and John Prichard, who with great faith raised a family by raising the land during the Depression, and Uncle Fate with his Scottish brogue, and my grandfather, the county veterinarian, whose training came in the hallowed halls of barns and stalls and pens. Those days of Christmas, in the last days of the year when the world slowed and all that mattered was our family, are with me still.

My friend Chris Bailey predicts a possibility of snow this Christmas Eve, and though we'll be travelling, and life will be hectic, there will be part of me that will hope to look out my old bedroom window in the days between Christmas and New Year and see the snow clinging to pine needles again. And maybe, before the rest of the household is awake, Mom and I will share a cup of hot chocolate and share stories about who--and whose--we are.