As a child, I used to read this verse on the cover of the family photo album. Now I would add a line: “old places”—and one old place in particular, our Craigville cottage of which I wrote in A Place Like This.  

Yet we never celebrated Christmas there. 

All those years, at the end of summer, we blithely flew off and deserted the house. Sometimes I was haunted by visions of it standing gaunt and alone in chill storm winds, but I knew it was a summer place only; any winter stay would have been chill and damp indeed. Nonetheless I always felt as though we were discarding this family gathering place so loaded with lore and memory. That place where we made music with friends, lazed on the porch, brought up the kids, celebrated birthdays, and sampled—that is, discussed at length—how many different single malt Scotches? The place where we told all the family stories, many times over.  

Sometimes now, I lie in bed thinking. Well, if we had gone and stayed at the cottage for Christmas, what would it have been like? How would I decorate? This means taking no notice of the absence of heat, water, or light, all of which got turned off every October.  

 But Christmas is magic, isn’t it? All that stuff’s taken care of and my imagination can go right to work with no strings or lumps of coal to get in the way.  The place will feel warm and bright, cozy and welcoming, of course it will! 

When we arrive, a great big lighted Christmas tree will stand ready at the foot of the path up to the porch, and a large wreath hangs from the corner over the path. Bright lights frame the front door, and perhaps a snowman or Santa ushers us in . . . 

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Stepping in at the front door any given summer, you’d find a scene something like this one from 2013. As usual, comfortable clutter reigns. The room’s furnished in goodness-knows-what, and Pete’s cozily settled into a book for the evening. 

So, where to put the tree? No matter what furniture’s on hand or where it’s put, the room’s always crowded, but we must have a tree! Perhaps a table topper? No, Craigville deserves more. Something beautiful, befitting the place it occupies in our hearts. Put it between mantle and bookcase, in front of the slider to the porch; we won’t be going out there in winter anyway.  

Moving on to Pete’s left, behind the sofa whose corner you see, there’s the upright piano and beyond that, the stairs. How I’d love to festoon the banister with evergreens and twinkling white lights! I’d trim the old upright, too, with paper loop chains or long strings of cranberries and popcorn, a pretty old-fashioned custom that I’ve never carried out because it always seemed so laborious.  Or how about cut-out strings of paper dolls or gingerbread men, to stand in for all who’ve played and stayed here over the years? Of course sheet music for White Christmas and a book of carols stand ready on the music rack. 

We’d have to move extra pieces of furniture elsewhere, but that can be accomplished. Then, maybe range chairs around the fireplace or create amphitheater seating with the three mismatched couches? Santa never sits down anyway and pays no attention to stylistic mishmashes like a Victorian settee next to a Lawson sofa, under that awful throw that protects its upholstery.  But we’ll need to bring in a couple more tables for drinks and hors d’oeuvres. 

Hors d’oeuvres, you say? Of course, nothing heavy—dinner lies ahead, on the wonderful old dining room table, with all the leaves in. Roast beef, roast turkey, or fragrant roast pork? Ending with one of Mom’s blueberry pies? I can just see the table with holly and apples and pomegranates and a long row of candles down the middle, including the three hurricane globes, and flames reflecting in all the glasses.  

Hmnnn. . . all those candles and the resultant gleam bring back the memory of a hurricane night feast in 2011, another celebration amid the dark, with just three of us on hand.  

That night, the kitchen was handicapped indeed (no power) but for this fantasy Christmas, of course it’s up and running, and the pantry happily supplies any dishes needed (and then some) and the stove glows with the warmth of cooking and talk and fussing over a great dinner.  

And everyone’s there: Mom and Dad, Jim and Judy, Pete, young Jimmy, Jo and Dean and Jon, Andy and me and our daughters and their husbands and kids, all jammed in. But not to worry, somehow we’ll fit, elbows and burps and silly jokes and all. God bless us all, every one!   

Oh, my, fantasy. Isn’t it lovely? If we can dream about anything, we can dream about Christmas.  

But I’m not just imagining. For so many times, our family, plus friends like Kathy and Carl, and Diana, Ellen and Jacqueline, and our Toynbee family from England and Tomomi Doi from Japan—gathered in the cottage.. Twice we celebrated weddings, also lots of birthdays, and Mom-and-Dad’s fiftieth anniversary. I now think of all those decades of summer as “Christmas in July.” No decorations, true, but oh, we celebrated. Celebrated the great cottage, being together and having a grand time, sharing food and toasts and Four Seas Ice Cream.  

 “Old days, old times, old friends.” Over and over, I relive that great chapter in our lives. We didn’t need Santa or chilly weather or shopping. Craigville was the place and “the gift that keeps on giving.” Every year, we just celebrated six months early. 

In my memory, the light’s still on at the “old place.” 

And to all of you who read this, a Merry Christmas, and good health and happiness in the New Year! May love and joy come to you, wherever you are!