The first day of December

It is the first day of December as I take pen and paper in hand.

The Thanksgiving holiday has come and gone, yet the ambient aura of grandparents, children and grandchildren at the dinner table lingers. It was a good day, each moment abundant with reasons to offer thanks.

Now it is December. I’ve just unplugged the lights on the Christmas tree by the front window. I hauled the decorations down from the garage loft Saturday so Martha could decorate the tree.

A nativity scene given us by Mom reminds us of the Lord’s birth. Martha’s snowmen stand like seasonal sentries in the corners of the living room. A wreath hangs on the front door. Fire flickers in the gas fireplace across the room. Otherwise, it is completely quiet, save the lilting Christmas melodies of Irish minstrels on a CD.

It is the first of December. My house is warm, this recliner as comfortable as a mother’s arms. Now a Breton carol plays softly as a whisper.

In the still of this evening, I ponder the advent of the sacred season, and pray that the upcoming weeks of celebration do not chill the charity which now enfolds me.

I still have some shopping to do, lots of preparations to make before Christmas day. But, it is only the first of December.

As for me, I’ve no need of gifts, though I guess that for others’ sake I’ll have to come up with some sort of list, though there’s not much I want or need.

Thanksgiving all over again would be more than enough, with the company of siblings, children and grandchildren.

Were it possible, I do wish that my brother Russell from New Mexico could be here, but he passed a decade ago. I’d like to see all the folks in South Dakota, too.

It would be nice to see my brother Stephen again. He would have been 66 this month. My daughter Angela, gone 33 years now, would have soon turned 53. Her mother and I shared our first Christmas 52 years ago.

In the quiet of this night, it is the memory of them all, more than the flickering fire, which warms the room.

In less than a week my December bride and I will celebrate 29 years of marriage, and I am again reminded of the blessings of this month. Two of Martha’s three children were born in December, just as was I nigh 77 years ago to a skinny former sailor and his copper-haired postwar bride.

It is the first of December, as I take pen in hand to write, to quietly remember and celebrate all these things, as well as the birth of Christ— warmed by each and every remembrance, on this deep winter’s night.

Copyright 2024, James E. Hamilton; email jhamilton000@centurytel.net