âIt seems to me that I have always wanted to say the same thing in my books: that life is one, that mystery is all around us, that yesterday, today and tomorrow are all spread out in the pattern of eternity, together, and that although love may wear many faces in the incomprehensible panorama of time, in the heart that loves it is always the same.â
Robert NathanÂ
In the Boston region of Humptulips County, Chloe and Emma are tired of waiting for Santa and are probably already up and sneaking a peek at what he might have brought them in the night; here in Snohomish, it is dark and still too early for the quasi-adults to have wakened, and only the eldest of the lot is up and about and entering into his third hour of wakefulness. The imagined laughter and excited whispering in Boston can be heard clearly here in my Snohomish library, and in the background I can hear the cheerful faux grumbling of two caring parents as they realize that sleep on such a morning is not only an unachievable luxury, but a waste of time in the presence of so much unrestrained joy.
In various homes scattered throughout Humptulips County my siblings are probably still asleep and dreaming. Well, not Mike of course; he may have been up longer than I have, but it will be a close call as we are kindred spirits in that regard. Barbara and Frank may have thought about getting up, but are probably lying abed remembering Christmases past and anticipating the arrival of various of my nieces and nephews and their respective children.
In my memory (and, no doubt, in that of my siblings), my parents are here as well. Don, my father, is still playing with Mike’s intended train set as he did every night during the two weeks prior to the Christmas Mike received it many long-gone years ago.  The sound of the train wheels and its lonely whistle came through the floorboards of our old farmhouse each night, but we could never find the damned thing in the daylight – until the Christmas morning when we came downstairs to discover it fully set up and traveling slowly around our Christmas tree. I can still hear it here in my library this morning, a morning infused with the same love of family and childish high spirits that caused Don to expend such a great deal of effort creating a little magic for his children. My mother, Betty, is with him, exhorting him not to tease us in such a way while secretly delighting in his manic enthusiasm for the sustained joke. They are together at the far end of memory, looking my way and standing in front of the large fireplace in the living room on Boyer Avenue, illuminated by the colored lights in the tiny cardboard houses populating the snowy cotton hills extending the length of the mantle and adjoining bookcases behind them.
On Christmas mornings, past and present tenses are always of a piece, and my library becomes a crowded space as family joins in celebration of the season with Winnie-the-Pooh, Eeyore, Tigger and Piglet, Bilbo, Frodo and Gandalf, Tom and Ma Joad, Mr. Whittle and his evening star, Philip Marlowe and Lew Archer, Ebenezer Scrooge and Tiny Tim, and so many others. They are all here, all welcome on such a day as this.
These are just a few of the memories and incipient memories of my family; I wish you the joy, pleasure, and contentment of your own.
