I always pause and envision the winters of my childhood when I see those first white diamonds fall from the sky.

I can still taste the icy snowflakes on my tongue and smell white-tipped cedars on the hillside behind our modest four-room house. I remember the murmur of the water under the ice-covered creek that ran beside the garden, and the thrill of watching my siblings excitedly build snowmen, as they searched for the fluffiest mounds of snow. Then we would scoop up the pure white crystals in one of Mama’s worn cooking pans and beg her to make homemade ice cream.

Sometimes the less carefree memories slip in. The woodpile beside the storage shed would soon be canopied with ice and snow. The water in the well, which was located almost a half-mile away, would become a block of frozen ice. We would allow the well bucket to free-fall to the bottom in order to break the ice and provide an entrance hole to the water. Then we would begin one of several trips in the bone-chilling cold to accumulate enough water to last until the next afternoon, when we would start the trek over again.

The holidays are my fondest memory, especially Christmas. There was always a live cedar tree, which we hand picked from the top of the rocky hillside, after a long excursion to find just the perfect one.

Funny, when we arrived home with the tree, it was much taller than it appeared on the hill. While laughing, we’d begin cutting from the bottom of the trunk upwards in order to heave it though the door. There always seemed to be a sparse side, which we’d turn toward the wall and cover with a mass of silver icicles.

Then came the homemade ornaments. Strings of popcorn, bright red holly berries, and treasures made in school would soon adorn the tree. We did have store bought lights, but there always seemed to be one bulb that was blown. This shut down the entire string, and it refused to cooperate. When my father was finally able to travel to the store to purchase new bulbs, it was worth the wait. The tree was soon glittering in all its glory, and wide-eyed children’s faces were filled with delight. Even the tattered angel on the uppermost limb was beautiful.

Like those glistening lights, the days of my childhood scintillate along the path of the years. With each recurring season, they grow brighter. Sounds of love and laughter intermingle each time I hear the song, “I’ll Be Home For Christmas…”

Copyright © 2007 Barbara Cagle Ray